It was somewhat to James Potter's surprise that the first two weeks or so of his fourth year at Hogwarts were extremely quiet and uneventful. Sure, there was the occasional rumor in the halls, but no more than what was usual for Hogwarts. Someone had cursed Coraline Pike, a second-year girl, with a pig's tail. No one could really prove it was a Slytherin, though, or if it was some other Gryffindor pulling a cruel prank. Her brother Isaac, apparently, thought it was the former. Coincidentally, a Slytherin second-year named Eddie Macmillan found himself hung up by his robes on the battlements of the castle a couple of days later. No one could prove it was Isaac Pike – although James got this weird sense that Professor Wenster, who had been tasked with finding the culprit, hadn't tried all that hard.
James, today, tried not to dwell on it. It was Saturday, and he was well-rested despite being up a bit earlier than he normally would have liked on a Saturday. But this was not any ordinary Saturday. Today was tryout Saturday, which meant Freddy was to pick the ten other players that would join him on this year's Gryffindor Quidditch club. There was already to be a spot open because of Greta's departure from the team. But as James would quickly find out, there would be more than one spot that needed to be filled.
"Where's Gemma?" he asked Freddy as several members of the team ate breakfast together in the Great Hall. Gemma Bridge, another fourth year, had been the Keeper for the team last year, and had done a fair job despite her inexperience. Asher Rodney, James's fellow Chaser, was sitting a few seats down and was midway through lifting a forkful of eggs to his mouth when he sat the fork down, his body visibly heaving with a sigh.
"She's done," Freddy said somberly, as if he didn't want to dwell on this conversation too long.
"What do you mean, 'done'?" asked James. Gemma hadn't said much of anything to James since the Quidditch season ended last year. He knew from a conversation he'd had earlier in the week that Kenneth Bourne was no longer with the team. He'd been promoted to Prefect and, unlike Greta had done, didn't think he could handle the Quidditch schedule, Prefect duties, and his O.W.L. classes. The news about Gemma, though, was certainly news to James.
"She's not playing anymore," Asher Rodney said, a bit loudly, from down the table.
Freddy closed his eyes patiently. "Asher…"
"She can't grip well with her right hand anymore," Rodney said. "She doesn't want to risk breaking it again and not being able to hold a wand properly. So she's out."
Rodney was noticeably glaring at James, and the latter couldn't understand why. Sure, Gemma had suffered an awful injury in the final match last year, taking a Bludger clean off the wrist and having to take a Portkey to St. Mungo's to get the injury sorted out, but that hadn't had much to do with James.
"Why are you giving him that look?" asked Freddy, seemingly reading James's mind. "It's not his fault."
"No?" Rodney asked. Going back to his plate, he said, "She only ever gave Quidditch a try because she thought it'd impress Potter."
He went back to his food. James also went back to his, feeling guilty. Gemma had been nursing a crush on James for a while, which made things awkward indeed when he had to turn her down to the Valentine's Day Social the year before because he'd already agreed to go with Serra (completely different story, James thought as he watched Murphy scarf down potatoes opposite him at the table).
He couldn't have told her why he didn't feel the same way back then, either. Most boys noticed her best friend Madison Peakes first, but Gemma was a pretty girl. She had blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, and black hair that she'd cut short, but was now back down to her shoulders. She was friendly, yet tough, and probably would have been very pleasant to talk to if she hadn't been so awkward around James to begin with.
He had been a bit dense, he had to admit to himself now, to fail to realize that she had feelings for him.
"So what you're telling me," Sylvia Thomas remarked, looking around at all of her teammates, who all happened to be male, "is that I'm the only girl on the team."
"For right now," Freddy conceded. "We still don't know what tryouts will look like. I already know one first year girl that's probably coming out."
"Who's that?" asked Sylvia.
"Athena," Freddy said. Then, as if the last name were extremely important, he added, "Athena Wood."
Scorpius's eyebrows both jumped.
"Wood, you said?" he repeated.
"Thought you'd recognize that name," Freddy said.
James recognized it, too; a man named Wood had been captain for several of James's Quidditch-playing family members during their student years. After a short career as a Keeper for Puddlemere United, he jumped into managing Quidditch clubs. Most recently, he had been the manager for the Appleby Arrows, a former punchline of the British and Irish League that had seen its fortunes turn around somewhat under his leadership.
Wood had been invited to Harry's birthday party this past summer, but was unable to attend because of being away in Lithuania for team business. Apparently, he'd unearthed a talented Beater that he was attempting to have transferred to Appleby from the tiny six-team league that Lithuania shared with Latvia and Estonia. Wood and his wife had "a couple of little girls," according to James's father. "I think the oldest one's about your age, Lily. Maybe you'll meet her when you go to Hogwarts."
Of course, James thought a bit sadly, everyone had assumed back then that the two girls would both end up in Gryffindor just like their parents had been…
James had seen precious little of Lily in the last couple of weeks, which he found had bothered him several degrees less when he was at Hogwarts and she at home for about four months at a time. What he had seen of her, though, she seemed alright. She even appeared to have made friends with Dathan's little sister and another girl in her year. James didn't fully trust them yet, though. The boys in Albus's year both seemed quite alright after he started – until one of them decided to take out his anger on Albus's face.
James had rather disliked Stephan Vaisey since that moment. The fact that he was extremely vocal in his hatred toward Slytherin House didn't help matters much. If, hypothetically, James were to start working to bring peace between the Houses, blokes like him were a liability…
"Oi! Heads up!" someone at the table yelled. It was a good thing James looked, too, because in the next moment something quite large landed on the table and bounced, upending a couple of mostly empty plates and goblets and sending a shower of food bits everywhere as half the team ducked for cover.
"Hell was that?" Sylvia uttered.
"God, you'd think the owls would know better than to do that with the larger ones. This thing's almost the size of the table," Freddy remarked in frustration. He was exaggerating, of course – but the paper-wrapped package was quite long, and seemed to be considerably thicker at one end. It almost looked like…
"A broom…" Desmond McLaggen, who was sitting to Freddy's left, said. "It's a broom. Can't you tell by the shape?"
"Anyone order a broom?" Freddy asked. Everyone else on the team shook their heads.
Scorpius tilted his head in recognition, then reached for the large package. From its side he pulled what appeared to be a sealed, furled scroll. He broke the seal and, before a suddenly silent group of acquaintances, read the letter at barely over a mutter…
"Our dear son,
What you did last year with my old Nimbus meant so much to me, and I will remember it until the day I die. Your mother and I are so proud of you, and of the man you are becoming."
He stopped for a moment and swallowed hard.
"You know better than I do that we cannot move forward if we continue to hold on to the past. The future of our family should not ride on a derelict broom made last generation. You have proven your skills, now go and win. 'Blood and glory.'"
"'Blood and glory'?" Sylvia queried.
"The Malfoy family motto," Scorpius answered. "Or a version of it, anyway. The original was in French. That's where the first Malfoys came from, centuries ago."
"D.L.M." Sylvia read from the letter she had taken from Scorpius.
"My dad's initials," Scorpius explained.
"So this broom's yours," Sylvia deduced so cleverly.
"I guess so…" Scorpius said, not sounding very happy for someone who just got a new broom, James thought. Very businesslike, he grabbed the package containing the broom off the table and announced, "I'll be at the practice pitch."
And off he went, broom in hand still unwrapped.
"He never changes," Sylvia chuckled, shaking her head. "Can't even get a smile out of him."
"So, what do you think he got?" Freddy asked, sounding genuinely curious – and why not? An upgrade to Scorpius's broom made the whole team better. Scorpius was already nigh unstoppable as a Seeker with his father's Nimbus Two Thousand and One, which (despite the model number) was made when James's dad was at school in the nineties, and had to be well over a quarter century old.
"Shadowfax. Has to be," McLaggen guessed. "His parents' money?"
"Might not be that easy," Sylvia said. "There are places, Scorpius said, that just won't sell to his father – even after all this time. Also, the Shadowfax is fast but it's too delicate for high-level Quidditch. That's why Ireland got steamrollered last World Cup."
"Hey!" Murphy, who was at the table as well, cried indignantly.
"It's true, isn't it?" Sylvia asked, a bit smugly. Murphy deflated. "My guess is Firebolt model – probably a Firebolt Supreme, like Krum rode five years ago. Or maybe the Vintage Reissue, he's always liked that one… either way, beats a manky old Nimbus any day of the week."
"What are you riding this year?" asked McLaggen.
"My dad's old Fourteen, like last year," Sylvia answered, sounding disappointed. James didn't know why. Cleansweep Fourteens were good brooms, even now at about seven or eight years old. "My dad wanted to get me an XV but the school told him he couldn't."
That was a bit stupid, thought James, but it made some degree of sense. Sylvia's father refereed the school's Quidditch league, so there were probably rules in place that prevented him from giving any one team in the league an unfair advantage.
"I never understood why they went from Twelve straight to Fourteen…" remarked McLaggen.
"Because thirteen's bad luck," Sylvia answered, badly concealing a tone of 'how do you not know this already?'
McLaggen, though, scoffed. "Bad luck. Who believes that?"
"Enough people that they thought it would hurt sales," Freddy said. "You'd be surprised the sort of measures businesses take to avoid losing money. Besides, it's not like Cleansweep actually used model numbers in order. Back in my parents' day, they skipped most of the even ones for some reason. I think the XV is actually the ninth or tenth broom they've put out."
Freddy glanced toward the entrance of the Great Hall.
"Is that…?" he muttered. Then, he raised his voice: "Gemma – Hey, Gemma!"
Gemma Bridge, it just so happened, had just arrived. She was carrying a red-bound book, and opened her mouth in a yawn as she approached.
"You here by yourself?" asked Cecil Brookstanton. James rolled his eyes without even bothering to try to stop himself. After three years, the reaction to his fellow fourth year opening his mouth to say anything had become a reflex. "Where's Madison?"
"I don't know," Gemma asked, sounding uncomfortable. "She was gone when I woke up."
"Well, don't eat by yourself," Freddy insisted.
"That's alright," Gemma declined. "I'm not part of the team anymore."
"Says who?" Freddy asked, almost as if daring anyone else at the table to disagree with him. No one did, of course. "You helped us win the Cup last year – so there's room for you here as long as I'm Captain. Besides… if I sent you away, Rodney'd never let me hear the end of it."
A couple of the other boys laughed.
James finally turned to look around – which proved to be a mistake, because Gemma caught sight of him. Right at that moment, the book she had been carrying slipped from her hands. She swore in dismay and bent down to grab it, but was beaten there by Asher Rodney.
"Here," he said, handing the book to Gemma. Gemma muttered something – either to him, herself, or no one in particular – and passed by Asher and the entire Quidditch team to a spot further down the table. Asher stood there shocked for a couple of moments, and then exchanged glances with Freddy.
"Go on," Freddy said. "Just don't be late for the tryouts. Ten o'clock sharp."
With a half-nod, Asher went after Gemma. James turned down to look at his cooling plate rather guiltily.
"I'm confused…" Freddy commented. "Are they actually dating or not?"
"Beats me," McLaggen said. "Say, while we're on the subject, I heard an interesting rumor…"
"Yes," Freddy interrupted him a bit impatiently. "Greta and I are seeing each other."
"Really?" asked Sylvia. "I've never seen you two together."
"Because we're trying not to draw attention to it right now," Freddy replied, somewhat through his teeth, as if he wanted to get off the subject.
"Why? You two make an alright couple," Sylvia remarked.
"It looks weird. I don't want people to start asking questions," Freddy said. "I'm Gryffindor's Quidditch Captain, and my cousin Dominique's a Prefect now, too. If people start thinking that's only because I started dating Greta…"
He trailed off. James wasn't about to add to the conversation either way, but he had heard the whispers over the last couple of weeks. Eamonn Temple, who was the sixth year Prefect, was reportedly not terribly happy with Dominique being made a Prefect. He seemed to think the Weasleys got preferential treatment because Neville Longbottom was close with the family. James understood the accusation on one layer, but he disagreed. If anything, James thought, the fact that Neville was friends with James's parents made him harder on James than he was on everyone else.
Unable to resist indulging his curiosity any further, James glanced down the Gryffindor table to where Gemma Bridge and Asher Rodney had taken seats next to each other far away from anyone else. A metallic clink echoed through the Great Hall for a moment as Gemma dropped a fork. After a feeble and pointless reach for it, she buried her face in her hands.
James looked down at his food again, biting his lip. "She only ever gave Quidditch a try because she thought it'd impress Potter." That was the way things went, wasn't it? One way or another, James always wound up getting someone hurt.
"Hey," Murphy called, and James looked up. "It's not your fault. Stuff happens."
Yet his best friend's attempt at encouragement was undermined somewhat; in looking at his face, James also saw the small scar he had under his right eye. It was a relic from their fight with Morris-Beal-as-Garrick-Claudius the year before. And all it did, really, was provide more evidence to prove his point.
Murphy was different, though, at least that was what James tried to tell himself. He had warrior in his blood. There had been a Murphy in either the Auror Office or Hit Wizard force for three generations, and Richard Murphy planned on being part of the fourth.
That was what had bonded them in the first place, the warrior's blood. Their fathers had fought together after a fashion – in separate fronts, but the same battle. Harry Potter was an Auror trainee about the same time as Patrick Murphy, who was several years older, had risen to the rank of Captain with the Hit Wizards in Belfast. In (relative) peace time, it was the Aurors who specialized in capturing dangerous practitioners of Dark Magic, and the Hit Wizards who were responsible for policing general crime in wizard communities. After the war, though, those two roles bled together. A lot of Hit Wizard squadrons had someone with some Auror training in the ranks, just in case…
Potter and Murphy had been allies in the fight twenty years ago. Now their sons hoped to continue that friendship. Even so, James could not help but wonder if Murphy was perhaps wasting himself on a fight that he had not chosen. He seemed perfectly content sharing a piece of whatever glory or danger James came into. That bothered James. He didn't deserve a friend like Murphy, and he knew it. More importantly, Murphy deserved better than to consign himself constantly to James's shadow. Not that it was very difficult, of course. Potters and Weasleys tended to cast large shadows anywhere they walked. They even had (James stole another glance at Gemma and Asher) the luxury of having members of the opposite sex fall for them and not even noticing.
"He's too quiet," James said, apropos to nothing.
"Who?" Murphy asked.
James glanced at the rest of his team, most of whom were talking and laughing merrily.
"Malcolm," James answered. Murphy couldn't hide the 'should have seen that coming' grimace on his lips. "I mean, it's been two weeks, and no moves."
"Well, nothing big's happened yet, either," Murphy replied. With a smirk, he suggested, "Maybe he's not as eager now that he knows there are eyes on him?"
James scoffed. "With his ego? The day he cares about our opinion is the day hell freezes over."
Murphy gave a sad smile, and a nod of concession. "Have you heard from her yet?"
"No," James replied tersely. "Nothing. Not a damn thing."
Murphy sighed. "Can't run forever, mate."
"You're one to talk," James replied, a bit needled by Murphy's attempt at advice. "We've already had a couple of double periods with Ravenclaw, and you haven't managed even a 'hello' to Serra. You know I ran into her at King's Cross? You were the first thing she asked about. Not me. Not even Brynne, with everything she'd gone through…"
"You've told me," Murphy replied. "Once. A day. Every day."
"And I'm going to keep telling you until you get the point," James said stubbornly. "What the hell happened with you two, anyway?"
"It'd take too long to explain, alright? Can we just drop it?" Murphy said, more tersely than he usually spoke.
James decided to honor his wishes. Murphy hardly ever got that angry.
The tryouts were nothing unusual. There were a couple of quite skilled flyers, as well as a few people that looked like they had never hopped on a broom a day in their lives. Gemma was invited to the tryouts – Freddy had wanted an outside observer to help him take notes – but she declined. One first year showed up, but apparently he wasn't allowed to try out for whatever reason. It almost caused a huge row, but Freddy took the boy aside and must have explained something satisfactory to him, because he walked away without further incident.
Freddy's decisions on the open roster spots were quick, as he had said there would be. Everyone rode as a formality, but it was an open secret that Freddy wasn't planning on doing much messing with a team that had won a championship the year before and was returning all but two of its members.
As James observed the bulletin board early Sunday morning and found the posting of the roster, it confirmed much of what he already knew or suspected. Sylvia was now going to be playing Chaser on the first line alongside James and Asher Rodney instead of coming off the bench. The team wasn't any worse for it; Sylvia was a very good flier.
Somewhat to James's chagrin, Gemma's vacated Keeper position on the first line had been filled by Cecil Brookstanton. His backup was to be one of the team's newcomers. Athena Wood, a brunette first year that was tall for her age, had tried out for the team just as Freddy had predicted. She was a shade better overall than anyone could have guessed, though. Her favorite position was Seeker and she was fair in that tryout – much to James's relief, as it meant that perhaps he would never be called on if Scorpius went down in a match. She had a knowledge of the Keeper position far beyond her years. And while her Bludger aim needed a bit of work, she knew the basics of the Beater position enough to play there if things ever got dire.
Alphonse Gold, who had made the team last year, had encouraged his friend to try out. Dorian Cresswell flew well but was inexperienced. Freddy decided to try him at Chaser for the time being.
Also joining the reserve team was Coraline Pike. To Freddy's slight and very private disappointment, the pig's tail she had received days earlier did not join her.
All in all, James had seen teams of far worse flyers assembled. But if Ravenclaw returned most of their team from the year before, as expected, things weren't going to get any easier.
"Oi," a voice called, its apparent owner tapping James on the right shoulder. He looked that way and saw no one. When he whirled back around to his left, he caught sight of the back of Murphy's head.
"Took you long enough," James said, and he went to follow his friend.
"…So where's Croyle been?" he asked after a while as they started down and around Hogwarts's chaotic main staircases. James made another mental note that today was Sunday – the path down the stairs to the Great Hall was slightly different than it was on Saturday. James had no idea why the founders of Hogwarts had decided such a thing was necessary. The professors theorized – or, at least, they liked to tell their students – that it was supposed to be a lesson in attention to detail. James simply found it frustrating.
After three years, the only thing James remembered about the stairwell was which particular steps weren't actually steps. He'd twisted his ankle horribly the first week of his first year putting it through a vanishing stair. Of course, he'd suffered far worse injuries before and since, but the incident had, to put it mildly, scared the hell out of him.
"No idea. He's still seeing Starr, isn't he?" asked Murphy in response. Starr Reynolds was a very pretty fifth-year girl that was the Muggleborn daughter of a well-known Muggle actress and her partner. Murphy had a terrible crush on her their first year. Of course, he was barely twelve then, so all he ever did was elbow James when they passed by her in the hallway and comment about how pretty she was, and how she was going to be his first kiss one day. James only ever blushed and pretended Murphy hadn't said anything. Three years ago, he found the idea of ever kissing a girl terrifying.
Not much had changed. The reasons were just different.
Three years… that seemed like an eternity ago, really. He could hardly remember many details about his first year except that everybody wanted to talk to him in the first couple of weeks. Cole Murphy, Richard's brother, tried to get him to go out for the Quidditch team. So did about a half dozen other people – but James wasn't so inclined at that point.
Murphy muttered a swear as they reached a landing. James's eyes tuned in to some sort of groan.
"Isn't that your cousin, mate?" Murphy asked, elbowing James and pointing down to the next landing. James looked and, indeed, a young boy with auburn curls for hair was seated against one of the railings and appeared to be examining his ankle.
"Damn. Hugo!" James exclaimed, accelerating.
"Fourth from the bottom!" Murphy called – which was good, because James was just reaching the fifth step from the bottom. His heart jolted and he managed to skip over the danger spot. By the time he reached the bottom of the flight, Hugo was pulling himself up to his feet.
"Bottom. I thought it was fourth from the top," he groaned wearily, leaning against the rail for support. He then used a word or two that James was sure he had learned from Uncle Ron.
"Rose didn't tell you?" James asked. That wouldn't have been like her, James thought. She was a repository of information, all too eager to let you know how much she knew. That said, she loved her brother more than anything and would have wanted him to be as prepared for coming to Hogwarts as possible.
"Of course she did. I just didn't remember it out of all the five hundred other things she told me," Hugo groused. "So stupid…"
That made more sense. One of Rose's weaknesses was that she had no concept of other's people's attention spans, and couldn't gauge when someone had reached the end of their capacity to absorb information. In a way, James thought as he failed to suppress a snicker, that made her a lot like Professor Binns…
"It happens," James said, trying to help Hugo up. "You alright?"
"I think everything's still attached," Hugo sighed.
"What are you doing out here by yourself, anyway?" asked James. "You know we're not supposed to walk the halls on our own anymore."
"Well, nobody in my room would get out of bed," Hugo deadpanned. "I'm hungry. How long was I supposed to wait?"
"You could have come down with the girls," Murphy remarked.
"Are you joking?" Hugo scoffed. "They scare me. Coral's already hit me in the forehead with a Bouncing Bulb in Herbology. Whoever that substitute is for Mr. Neville never said anything either. Farley or something—"
"Whoa – a Bouncing Bulb? She threw a Bouncing Bulb at you? Is she half-giant?" James asked. Bouncing Bulbs were a plant early-year students handled in Herbology. Fully matured, though, they could grow large enough to fill a doorway.
"No, one of the small ones," Hugo sighed. "We were re-potting them."
James grimaced. "Well – stick around with us until we get to the Great Hall," he suggested. "If Wenster catches you out here by yourself he's gonna get his knickers in a wad."
Hugo, somewhat reluctantly, agreed. So the three of them went down toward the Great Hall together. James assumed Albus and Rose weren't awake yet. James felt a bit awkward. He should have known Hugo well enough, he thought. Hugo and Rose were at the House most of the time before James first came to school. But then, that was just it. He hadn't seen much of Hugo since he had started at Hogwarts – probably a handful of times a year for each year. Maybe he didn't know Hugo as well as he thought he did. Not anymore.
A sprinkling of students was filing into the Great Hall for breakfast but the castle was still relatively quiet. Most students understandably slept in on Sunday morning – particularly a Sunday morning this early in the year. In most classes, the first tests weren't for at least another week. Other than that, there was nothing much else to do. He did believe one or two of the Houses had tryouts for their Quidditch teams. James had once had the thought to strongly discourage Lily from trying out now that she was in Slytherin. Their father said she had the makings of a good Seeker. She flew well enough – she had already passed her flying course, he was prepared to bet – but was never quite as interested in Quidditch as James was. James didn't want to have to play against her – much less as a member of Slytherin. Those matches always got tense and nasty. Half the team probably wouldn't be willing to hurt her, which was a problem. The other half of the team would just call it competition and do what they needed to do to win, which was also worrisome.
She'd never had a conversation about James about trying out. But then, a nasty little voice in James's head said, she never said she wasn't trying out, either…
James was so lost in thought, that even when someone or something barreled into his chest at full speed, it didn't register immediately. He only truly noticed when whatever it was extended long appendages around his back and began squeezing the life out of him.
"Ouch," he grunted. "What's—?"
He looked down and a mane of ginger hair was sprouting out of his chest.
"Lily?"
Hugo must have been halfway across the threshold of the Great Hall, but he immediately whirled around and came back out. "Lily?"
Lily, resting her ear on James's ribs for a moment, turned her head. In the next instant, she had released James and wrapped herself so tightly around Hugo, James thought she was going to crush him.
"Are they treating you alright?" Hugo asked immediately.
"Yes," Lily answered, as if wondering why this would even be a question. Hugo was afraid for Lily. If he had known about Slytherins what James knew about them, he would have known better. Most Slytherins, for all their reputation for individuality, wouldn't let any real harm come to somebody that had been Sorted into their House. In that very real sense, they and Gryffindors were not terribly different. "Why wouldn't –"
"Potter!"
James turned around looking for the voice. So did Lily.
A well put-together youth with a familiar face barged into the area. James took a step back to avoid his mass, but recognized the boy's face instantly from a previous Quidditch matchup. Here, though, he was in the black Hogwarts robes and wearing a green-and-silver badge.
Also, James was obviously an afterthought.
"What do you think you're doing?" the large boy asked Lily, acting like Hugo (who had stepped in front of her) wasn't even there. Instantly, James's instincts took over.
"I could ask you that same question," James replied, stepping in front of both of his family members. Murphy wasn't asked to follow, even wordlessly, but he did.
By a funny coincidence, the large boy they were confronting was also named James. But his surname was Bellamy, and he served as a Slytherin Prefect – given a loose definition of the word 'served.' Bellamy's eyes scanned those of the four younger students, obviously looking for any sign of weakness.
"You're not supposed to be out here alone, princess," Bellamy said. The nickname didn't seem remotely affectionate; James wondered whether that was a bad or a good thing. "Much less with these…"
"They're my family, you idiot," Lily said. James couldn't resist smirking. At the very least, the two or three weeks she'd spent in Slytherin House hadn't broken her spirit at all.
"Doesn't matter," Bellamy snarled, taking Lily's cheek about as well as you'd expect. "Rules are rules. You've got no business wandering the halls on your own in the first place. Go on. Now, before I decide to dock you points."
Lily shot an apologetic look at James and Hugo and slipped into the Great Hall.
Bellamy turned back to James.
"They set our match all the way out in May," he said. "Try your best to stay in one piece until then."
And he went into the Great Hall as well.
"Who was that?" asked Hugo. "James?"
James jolted – he'd become fixated on what he thought was a form disappearing down the descending staircase that he knew went down in the general direction of Slytherin's dormitories.
"One of Slytherin's Prefects," Murphy answered glibly. "You can usually tell a Prefect by the badge and the stick they have permanently shoved up their arse."
Hugo frowned. "My cousin Dominique is a Prefect."
"I said 'usually', not 'always,'" remarked Murphy, starting into the Great Hall. Hugo followed him, and James brought up the rear, but not without looking over his shoulder at the staircase again.
It's early… my eyes are probably playing tricks on me.
The Hall was relatively empty. Only a handful of Gryffindors were at the Gryffindor table toward the windows. James briefly contemplated sitting at another table just for the hell of it. But given that Murphy and Hugo were already headed toward the House table, he knew it would only serve to irritate someone. Professor Sinistra, who was currently the only teacher at the staff table, would have to stand up and say something, and she didn't look to be in the mood for any funny business. In fact, she didn't look to be in the mood for much of anything except maybe a mattress and a pillow. She tried to eat a bite of food but her open mouth turned into a badly concealed yawn. James, like many students, wondered whether Sinistra, either naturally or because of her odd schedule as the Astronomy professor, slept all day like owls did.
Murphy and Hugo had stopped at the Gryffindor table, in front of another Gryffindor who had been eating by himself. James only saw the back of his head from here, but with a sinking of his stomach, quickly realized who it was. Why did Murphy stop there, of all places?
"It's nothing personal, Weasley," Eamonn Temple mumbled through a mouthful of half-eaten food before swallowing. "I've just got to talk to Murphy in private. Just eat down the table a bit. Oh. Potter. I figured you'd be along sooner or later. Take a seat."
James was immediately suspicious. Eamonn Temple, the Gryffindor sixth year Prefect and a burly, sour sort, didn't like him. James knew that already.
Hugo, after getting a semi-glare from Temple, sulked away. Apparently, ten feet wasn't enough, judging by Temple's exaggerated waving motion. By the time Hugo sat down, he was nearly too far away for James to see.
"Take a seat, lads," Temple repeated.
"We were just going to—" James tried to utter, rather diplomatically, he thought, but Temple interrupted.
"I wasn't asking. And I'm not talking on behalf of myself. Wenster wanted me to track the both of you down," he said. "Trust me, if it were up to me, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
James exchanged a glance with Murphy, who looked just as unsure and suspicious as he did. Nevertheless, the both of them sat down. Temple ate one more bite of his potatoes. He chewed with cloying deliberation, as if he was in no particular hurry to start this dialogue. Finally, though, he swallowed and started speaking.
"I heard through the grapevine that you two are talented duelists, for what that's worth nowadays," Temple said. Glancing at James, he added, "I suppose you'd have had to inherit something from your father. You don't look too much like him. Eyes aren't quite right."
"Oh, really?" James couldn't resist taking a dig. "Never heard that before."
Temple's nose wrinkled.
"I'm going to pretend you didn't just do that. We've got bigger issues here," Temple deadpanned. "But, of course, I don't have to tell you two that. So… what was it like?"
James just stared at Temple, in disbelief that someone with a soul could ask such a question. But the stocky boy gave a chuckle and a half-smile.
"Sorry. I was just curious, was all," he said. "You're both fourth years this year, right? Either one of you thought about going out for Prefect? I hear Longbottom, sorry sod that he is, is close with both your families."
James and Murphy exchanged glances again. Temple, whatever he was working his way around to asking, was a fool for showing his hand that early. But then, James thought, he's never exactly been subtle or clever…
"Murphy, you'd like to work in Magical Law Enforcement, right?" Temple asked. "Like your… well, your whole family, almost."
"What do you want from us?" James finally asked.
"Simple," Temple said. "Physical and magical attacks on Gryffindor students here at Hogwarts are more frequent and more severe than they've been in twenty years. A lot of us can take care of ourselves, of course, but some of our younger students – your lad Weasley over there, for instance – can't. There are only five of us Prefects this year, and some of us can't be bothered to ensure our House's safety."
Murphy's lips tightened, but James could see them twitching in the general direction of a disgusted curl.
"Professor Wenster has given me permission to… deputize a few skilled, trusted Gryffindors as a sort of patrol," Temple explained. "Break up fights in the halls, what have you."
"Why hasn't he asked us directly?" asked Murphy. "We both take Transfiguration from him. Same time, in fact."
"Unlike others, Professor Wenster doesn't have any time or desire to try to recapture his lost adolescent years," Temple said rather smugly. James frowned. "He's too busy actually teaching. His curriculum's very exacting, you know."
Temple, James thought, would have started at Hogwarts a couple of years before Neville Longbottom was promoted to Head of Gryffindor House. So he would have remembered Wenster's headship. It was obvious he thought very highly of Wenster, and not so highly of Neville. James wondered whether that said more about Temple, or about Professor Wenster.
"Also," Temple added, with surprising bluntness, "he's old. It's difficult enough policing the students and teaching at the same time. Some of our younger Heads of House can still bring it off, but Longbottom's chosen not to be here—"
"He had a kid, Temple," James interrupted, finally having had enough. "Or do you not read the Daily Prophet at all?"
James, of course, hadn't found out via the Prophet; Neville had sent an owl directly to the Potters that afternoon, before the wizarding paper ever made any sort of official announcement.
"Did he actually give birth to the baby? Because if he did, he's got way more secrets than most of us even think he does," Temple chuckled cynically. "He could be here if he wanted. But he chooses not to. The reasons don't matter to me. I'm not even upset about it. He'd never approve something like this. Wenster's still got his balls, though, old as he is…"
"Oh, really?" James bit back. "Where was he was Voldemort was raising hell all over Britain?"
"Teaching in America. I thought he's mentioned that before when asked," Temple said. "Or maybe he doesn't even answer the question anymore. You can only repeat yourself so many times before you get sick of it. But enough about that. He wants you two to join this force. I think he recognizes your toughness after that incident last year with… what was his name?"
James wasn't taking this bait. To say one name would be a lie. To say the other would make him look like a liar. He stayed silent.
"Speaking of 'names'," Murphy asked. "Does this 'force' of yours or Wenster's have one?"
"Professor Wenster's not the type for window dressing like that," Temple replied. "If I was going to pick one, though, I'd call it the Tower Guard."
"Tower… Guard," James repeated appraisingly.
"We guard the tower – Gryffindor Tower, that is – and all of its inhabitants," Temple explained. "Pretty simple, really."
"Maybe I'm just being overly suspicious here, but…" James started. "…it sounds like an excuse to start fights."
"You've got this all wrong, Potter. You wouldn't be getting an excuse to start fights," Temple said, raising his eyebrows. "You'd be getting the authority to finish them if needed. Right down your alley, isn't it?"
Murphy glanced at James. Temple noticed.
"Is that a 'no'?" asked Temple.
James opened his mouth almost immediately – but Murphy cut across him. "We'll think about it."
"Good answer," Temple said, swinging his legs out from under the table. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a House full of students to protect."
And he jumped up from the Gryffindor table and departed, not bothering to clean or move any of his dirtied dishes. He probably figured that the Hogwarts house-elves ('castle-elves?') would magic them down into the kitchen and take care of them. He was right, of course; James still thought it was a bit boorish. At least stack your plates neatly…
"'We'll think about it?'" James turned to Murphy. "It's pretty obvious he's trying to rope us into something we don't want any part of."
"If we turned him down flat, how do you think he would take that?" asked Murphy. "And how would Wenster take that? If he's the one that put this together."
"He probably isn't." James pointed out something he thought should have been obvious.
"He might be," Murphy argued. "My uncle, Roderick, was here at school when Wenster came back, so he remembers all about him. Uncle Rod said Wenster didn't take long to start stirring the pot after McGonagall hired him to replace her as Transfiguration Professor. Wenster said that every current and former member of House Slytherin should be investigated and questioned for connection to Death Eaters. A few parents and school governors called for him to be sacked, but a lot of them were in support of him. None of them or their children were Slytherins, of course."
James frowned. "My dad did say not to get on his bad side."
Murphy's nose wrinkled. "So we might be better in than out. But we don't know yet."
Murphy glanced down the table.
"We should probably join Hugo," he said. "I don't think your brother's coming any time soon."
James nodded in agreement, and the two stood.
Brynne
Green firelight blazed warmly, hissing and barking every so often as embers leapt, flashed and disappeared. A particularly loud crackle prompted her eyes to snap open alertly, leaning back a bit further than she had been. It was still only early autumn, but today, the Slytherin common room was oddly cold – and not just in a metaphorical sense.
Ironically, with her eyes open, she saw a vision of the iciest glare staring back at her. She tried not to flinch at the vision of the face that she had seen in her summer nightmares. She was not afraid anymore. He was half a world away, and not her immediate concern.
Her concern was what he had left behind in his wake – right here.
"You shouldn't get too close. Those flames will scorch your face off if you're not careful."
Brynne looked up and across the oblong table. There, sitting in another armchair, was another young girl. Her eyes were as green as the flames, but one was almost completely obscured by dangling ringlets and curls of jet black. She was presently drumming her fingers against the armrest of the chair.
"Kadric's taking his time," the raven-haired girl said cryptically. "I hope nothing's happened."
"He'll be fine," Brynne reassured… herself, really. "He's become good at not being seen."
"Hmm," the other girl uttered noncommittally. With as close to a half-smile as she ever got, she added, "You know…"
Brynne had nearly started daydreaming again. "What is it, Lena?"
"I'm not sure I should be the one telling you this, but…" Lena started. "Girl to girl… I think Kadric fancies you."
Brynne shook her head. "I doubt it. We don't know each other that well."
"What's his angle, then?" Lena asked. "If you don't know each other that well, how can you ask him to do something and… he just does it? I know why I'm here. And I think I know why you're here."
"Maybe he's just better than either one of us," Brynne replied.
"What's that mean?" Lena queried. "Because he doesn't get anything out of it? I mean… I'm not a bad person for wanting to see people I care about, am I?"
Lena was surprisingly emotional. As she opened her eyes to stare into the fire again, Brynne could see them gleaming.
"We're going to fix this," Brynne tried to reassure herself. Again. "I promise we will."
"So you have a plan, then?" Lena asked. Brynne bit her lip patiently. Lena, from what Brynne knew of her, was always to the point. Sometimes brutally to the point.
"No," Brynne admitted.
"Promises, but no plan," Lena sighed. Looking down at her knees, she recalled, "You know, Steph promised me we'd be friends forever. That was another world, though. That was back when he actually believed that sort of thing."
"His parents split up, didn't they?" asked Brynne.
Lena nodded somberly. "He was seven. And as much as he wanted to go with his father, his father wouldn't take him. I think that hurt him worse than the divorce."
The way Brynne had always heard it, divorces were rare in the wizard world. Because wizarding society was so small and tightly knit, it was somewhat difficult to keep such things quiet. It was also difficult to find eligible candidates for a spouse once one got past a certain age. Wizards (particularly those that married other wizards) typically married young. A few married right out of Hogwarts, but most others still did so by their mid-twenties. Sometimes careerists took the plunge a bit later, but it was exceedingly rare to find a suitable life partner once you hit about thirty or so. Not unless you were marrying a widow or widower – and not many were able to stomach the exercise of trying to convince someone to love again. When you were dealing with someone who had lost their mate, that's usually what was involved.
Not to mention any children.
Brynne wondered if Flynn Lester had left the Orchard. He seemed to be leaning toward staying, at least for a while, when she had seen him last.
Her Aunt Flora wouldn't admit it to her verbally, but she found the man interesting. And Flynn fancied Aunt Flora – Brynne knew because Flynn had told his nephew, Rowan, and Rowan had told her.
"Wouldn't that be a strange family," she had mused on more than one occasion. Her, her aunt, Flynn, and Rowan, too…
"What's so funny?" Lena's voice cut into Brynne's daydream again.
She hadn't even noticed she was smiling or laughing. "Nothing."
Lena gave her one of those looks. Brynne had seen it a million times before from dozens of different people. You're strange and sometimes I don't know why I hang around you.
The sound of pattering steps cut the conversation short.
Brynne looked toward the entrance to the common room.
"Everything go alright?"
Kadric Howell didn't say anything in reply; instead, he walked to the larger couch and leaned over it. He was sandy-haired and had a long, pensive face.
"I saw Lily Potter," Howell finally said. Brynne's eyebrows jumped. "She was on her way to the Great Hall to eat."
"She shouldn't be wandering around alone like that," Lena immediately remarked. "Did you make sure she made it where she was going?"
"Of course I did," Howell replied, as if a bit insulted. "She almost got there."
"'Almost?'" Brynne's eyes flashed.
"Without getting caught, I mean. She ran into James… and I think one of the Weasleys. The youngest one, that just got Sorted this year. But then Bellamy got to her…"
Kadric Howell sighed.
Brynne groaned. "Ambrose is a clever man, but some of his decisions on Prefects…"
She shook her head.
"You should go out yourself, when you get old enough," Howell suggested.
"Me, a Prefect?" Brynne scoffed at the idea. "No one in their right mind…"
"The other options are Amara Zabini and Marsha Flint," Howell pointed out.
Brynne's face fell into a grimace. "I don't think even Ambrose is blind enough to put a badge on either of those two. God. Anyway… we know Bellamy's going to be trouble. So is Pucey. So that leaves Farris and Boyd in seventh year –"
"Just Farris," Howell interrupted. "You think Boyd's going to help us?"
"He should," Brynne answered firmly. "He's Head Boy, after all. He's got to be neutral."
"I wouldn't hold my breath," Howell answered. "Especially if Flitwick wants him to enforce the new rules. Actually, I don't know if any Prefects should be in on this at all. If someone rats us out to the Headmaster…"
"I don't think Flitwick wants things the way they are," Brynne said. "He's too… well, nice for that. I'm sure he'd like to see nothing more than everyone getting along. But he has to try to keep the school safe. It's his job as Headmaster."
"Well, someone should tell him to start doing it."
Brynne didn't need to look immediately. She recognized the voice – and even if she hadn't, Lena's sudden glare gave it away. Lena Urquhart only ever glared at one person like that.
"Any news on Macmillan? Anyone know who did it?"
When Brynne and Phillip Bletchley reunited at King's Cross after nearly three months apart, it became rather obvious that the latter had spent the lion's share of that time stewing over their treatment by Flitwick toward the end of last year. Brynne still couldn't dislike him. Actually, she regarded him with a sense of pity.
So did their mutual friend, Tellius Nott, judging by the current expression on his face.
"Of course not." Phillip answered his own question, scoffing bitterly. "Because instead of handling the situation himself, he had the Head of Gryffindor, who everyone knows hates House Slytherin, investigate his own house. How hard do you think Wenster tried to find anything, hm? And, if that weren't enough…"
Phillip's nostrils flared.
"I heard a rumor," Phillip said. "The Gryffindors are putting some sort of gangs together to give us a hard time."
Finally, Tellius Nott spoke up. "That's not what they said, Phillip. They want to band together for self-defence."
"We take a class called 'Defence,' Tellius," Phillip retorted. "But anyone with half of half of a brain knows what it's really for."
Tellius grimaced and began to follow Phillip back toward the dormitories, shaking his head as he went.
"Phillip."
Brynne spoke; Phillip stopped.
"You're better than this. I hope you know that."
Phillip swallowed for a moment. "Not good enough, obviously."
And he walked off, leaving Tellius there with Brynne and the others. Tellius fiddled with his glasses and seemed to be contemplating saying something. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it and turned away.
After four or five paces, though, he apparently changed his mind.
"You're making this worse."
"Stop it," Brynne choked out. "I don't expect you to understand. He wasn't in the room with us."
"He would have been, if you'd given him half a bloody chance," Tellius said loudly. Then he took a sigh, obviously trying to calm himself. "You're basically going to take on the Headmaster of Hogwarts for a bloke that won't look you in the eye anymore—"
"That's not the reason," Brynne interrupted. Then, swallowing hard, she said, "That's not the only reason. If you'd been listening to me at all for the last two years, you'd know that."
Tellius frowned, and then looked at his shoes for a moment.
"Tellius," Brynne finally said. She was pleading, she supposed, but she wished it hadn't come out sounding so desperate. "You don't have to…"
Tellius looked up again, and his gaze was hardened. "Someone has to."
And he walked away.
The sorrow of it all literally made her head spin, and she leaned against the back of the chair to keep from toppling.
Part of her always sort of knew it would come to this. She knew what it could mean if she took this path. That didn't lessen the pain. But she had to keep going. Not just for herself. For Lena and Kadric, so they could be with their friends and family.
"If I could make a suggestion here…" Kadric, it was obvious, was still terrified of her. Brynne wished he wasn't. "You look like you could use a bite to eat. And I'm pretty sure Lily's in the Great Hall on her own. We shouldn't just leave her there."
Brynne shut her eyes tight, blinked the wetness back out of them, and put on a smile for their sake.
"You're right. Let's go eat."
She and her new friends had united over loss. They were all separated from loved ones – and, one could argue, separated from their true selves – because of the current state of things.
That was the worst sort of specter. And Brynne Walter had long ago determined to fight it until it disappeared.