Next to Merlin, albeit a step back, a blocky man in dark brown coat and beret nodded approvingly. He was the captain of the watch, apparently, a Mr. Hawtrey. James guessed that he, like many of the watch themselves, were retired wizards who had volunteered for this service, and showed, more than anything, the sort of dutiful zealotry that comes mostly from age and boredom.
A watchtower was quickly and economically erected along the shore of the lake and rounds were established throughout every hour of the day. The men of the watch were mostly amiable duffers often distracted from their duties by the temptation to tell tales, to anyone who would listen, of their own long-ago days at Hogwarts.
“Back in my time,” one of them regaled James one day between classes, tapping him in the chest, “If we spoke out of turn, it was the tongue-screw we got!” He chuffed wheezing laughter at this. “We had real discipline back then! Not this namby-pamby drivel they coddle you lot with now.”
The man’s partner, much taller than him, with thin hair slicked black with pomade, nodded and narrowed one eye. “Argus Filch was a resident apprentice here in those days. Head-in-the-clouds Filch we called him. Always writing poetry and painting pictures, he was.”
“All he could do, since a wand was no good in the poor sod’s hand.”
“Hush! I don’t think we’re s’posed to talk about that,” the taller man chastised. “Filch may be a hopeless dreamer, but he’s got to command respect somehow…!”
James tried to back away without the men noticing. Ralph tugged his elbow as the two seemed to fall into a small squabble.
A few of the watchmen, however, were unrelenting in their grim dedication. They stalked the corridors and grounds with eyes of flint, apparently feeling empowered to enforce student rules, and even invent new ones in the name of security. One of these men, a gangly Welshman of about forty with the constipated face and rigid posture of a born rule-follower, ordered students back from a late spring wade in the lake, chastising them for crossing the boundary of the school. The same man, whose name James learned was Royston Brimble, insisted loudly that Hogsmeade weekends should be curtailed until further notice (a suggestion that Merlin, fortunately, did not so much as honour with a reply). Later, he called for the abandonment and “removal or demolition” of Hagrid’s hut on the grounds that it was “an eyesore and a superfluous extra domicile, needlessly complicating the scope of watch duties.”
At this recommendation, Hagrid simply smiled with all of his teeth, clapped the man on the shoulder hard enough to buckle his knees, and said, “Good luck with that, Mr. Brimble.”
A short time later, fortunately, Brimble was seen beneath the watchtower being spoken to very carefully by Mr. Hawtrey in his natty brown beret. Brimble abandoned the matters of Hogsmeade weekends and Hagrid’s hut, but continued to order and reprimand students at every possible opportunity, always with blazing eyes and specks of white spittle in the corners of his mouth.
A sign-up sheet for student volunteers to the watch was posted in the entrance hall. STAY UP LATE FOR A GOOD CAUSE! The heading ran. After a week, there were only three names on the parchment.
James was annoyed yet unsurprised to see that the names were Edgar Edgecombe, Polly Heathrow, and Quincy Ogden.
When he saw the three again, they sported small silver badges on their robes, carefully polished and prominently displayed. The badges were tiny shields with the letters J.W. stamped onto them.
“Junior Watch,” Edgecombe said, tapping his badge importantly as he waited outside a classroom watching others walk past, his eyes narrowed. “Counts as credit for Muggle studies, it does. Gets me out of Grenadine’s stupid class.”
“Curious, that,” Sanjay Yadev commented from nearby, “I’ve found Miss Grenadine’s class to be a lot less stupid without you three in it.”
Several others laughed (including James, passing on his way to Transfiguration) but Polly Heathrow glared at Sanjay, pushing up to her full height.
“We’ve been instructed to report any of a whole list of suspicious behaviours,” she said in her high, nasal voice. “Disrespecting authority is number twelve. You just might want to tread careful before you end up on any ‘official watch lists’.”
James turned when he heard this, but Rose caught his elbow even as he did. “Leave her be,” she muttered. “You don’t have time to start anything. And besides, Sanjay is quick enough to fight his own battles.”
Indeed, behind them, Sanjay spoke up, “Does the list include being three proper little gits? If so, I may need to do some reporting of my own.”
Ogden moved to confront Sanjay, but at that moment James’ line of sight was obscured by passing students. Somewhat regrettably, he turned back and hurried on to his own class. Rose was right that Sanjay was clearly capable of handling himself. And at least the trio of little bullies had turned their attention to someone other than him.
As classes progressed, James confronted for the first time, and with great unwillingness, the reality that final N.E.W.T. examinations were, in fact, going to happen, no matter how hard he pretended otherwise. With the enthusiasm of a man going to the gallows, he began to devote himself to studying and preparation, thankful for the spontaneous study groups that began to gather in the library most evenings. Graham, Deirdre, Ralph, Fiera Hutchins, Fiona Fourcompass, and Trenton Bloch were almost always there. Often, they would be joined by other seventh years, including Nolan Beetlebrick, Julian Jackson, Ashley Doone, Patrick McCoy, Millie, and George Muldoon, creating a large and occasionally boisterous gathering that often, James noticed with some degree of relief, bordered on the edge of becoming a football scrum (when they argued vigourously about a debatable technique) or a kitchen raiding party (when the argument was over and everyone was feeling restless and peckish). The evening librarian eventually gave up trying to contain and quiet the group. Long-accustomed to the ebbs and flows of school life, she simply herded the students into a large bay-window area far from the main floor. Here, window seats were covered in cushions and pillows, high curtains and shelves baffled extra noise, and the rugs probably still bore the biscuit crumbs and soda stains of decades-past study sessions.
One Monday morning, with the late spring sun blazing down from the rafters of the Great Hall, James finally found the time and determination to confront Albus about his interactions with Petra, if for no other reason than to prove to his brother that he now knew about her plans, too. His intention was sidetracked, however, when he arrived in the Great Hall and learned that Albus’ relationship with Chance Jackson had been ended that weekend, by her choice.