Chance sat in her normal place at the end of the Gryffindor table, solemn but surrounded by her doting entourage of friends. They cooed over her and leaned to offer commiserating touches, clearly enjoying the delicious pathos of her drama. Albus, on the other hand, sat alone in the darkest corner of the Slytherin table, on the opposite side of the Hall, not eating breakfast, nor talking, not doing anything much besides glowering at everything and nothing, his head low between his hunched shoulders.
James decided to approach him anyway, but Albus saw him coming and hurled himself to his feet, dragging his knapsack with him and slinging it angrily over one shoulder, stalking toward the door.
“He’s really upset,” Fiera Hutchins observed to Nolan Beetlebrick, who leaned back to watch as Albus shoved through the double doors.
“That’s what comes of dating outside one’s house,” Beetlebrick agreed sagely, cocking one eye aside at James. “Nothing but betrayal and heartbreak.”
James pretended not to hear. Clearly, for reasons that were entirely his own, Albus had allowed himself to become hopelessly enmeshed with Chance Jackson, and was sincerely, if angrily, bereft about the ending of their relationship. James couldn’t bring himself to understand it in the least. Chance was cute and all, he supposed, but she was hardly worth jumping off a cliff over. Come to think of it, though, neither was Albus.
Returning to his seat at the Gryffindor table, James decided that he could wait just a little longer to learn what Albus knew about Petra’s plan, and whatever part he, Albus, was meant to play in it.
It was fully three weeks after their midnight trip to London on Hagrid’s blockade runner that James was summoned to Merlin’s office on what appeared to be disciplinary charges. He got the message from a smugly gleeful Filch during breakfast on a Thursday morning, just as he was taking his first bite of sausage.
“The headmaster requires your presence at half-past six this evening in his office,” the old caretaker growled from behind him, leaning close in a parody of confidentiality. “Half past six, sharp. And I must say, he didn’t seem especially pleased about it. Dear me, no.” He sucked his teeth thoughtfully and shook his head.
Coldness fell over James as he glanced back at Filch, absorbing this sudden news. Then he turned toward the head table, looking for Merlin himself. Only he wasn’t there. His high chair in the centre of the table was empty, his place cleared.
“What’ll that be about, eh?” Ralph asked quietly as they made their way out of the castle toward Care of Magical Creatures. “Have you been up to something I don’t know about?”
“Haven’t the faintest idea,” James answered worriedly.
“It’s probably that stupid Night Quidditch,” Ralph nodded soberly to himself. “You know he’s bound to put a stop to it. He has to, sooner or later. All the prefects are on the lookout for you lot. Me, too, come to think of it. I don’t want to do it, but responsibilities is responsibilities.”
“It’s not about Night Quidditch,” James snapped irritably.
“And I really wish you’d lay off about it. It’s just a game. It doesn’t hurt anybody.”
“It’s breaking curfew, for starters,” Ralph replied. “And it’s threatening our security nowadays, it is. All of you out there with your glowing Bludgers and Quaffles and such. And now I’m told you’re using loads of those ridiculous sport magic spells you picked up last year at Clutchcudgel. Gravity wells and knucklers and other dotty stuff that’s in no self-respecting spellbook. What if some Muggle campers happen to see all that magic and those flying glowing balls from across the lake?”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” James hissed, rolling his eyes. He was quite proud of the addition of sport magic to Night Quidditch, and still considered himself one of its best practitioners, though Julian Jackson would be a close second. “Nobody’s going to see us, no matter what spells we use. Would you come off it, already?”
“I’m Head Boy, James—”
“As if you’d let me forget that for more than thirty seconds.”
“And I’ve got a future to think about. As a Dolohov, I could have a solid career at the Ministry, or even in the States. But I’ve got to start living up to it now. And sometimes that means putting duty before friendship.”
“Look, Ralph,” James declared, stopping on the grass and turning on his friend. “If this is more of this ‘finding the true Ralph’ stuff, I get it. I really do. But you are dangerously close to crossing a line I don’t think you really mean to cross. It was one thing when Zane was here to help reign you in—”
“Reign me in!?”
“But I’m just one person and you’re full steam ahead into…whatever it is you’re on about. I don’t even know. I want to support you, Ralph. We’ve been mates since forever. But if you think your duty to that stupid badge is more important than your friends, well, all I can say is I guess you’ve finally proved yourself a Slytherin.”
“Whoa,” Graham Warton said, impressed, as he passed the two of them. “The fangs are out now, aren’t they?”
“Give ‘em hell, James!” Ashley Doone called from some distance away, walking backwards to watch. Next to her, Patrick McCoy sniggered.
James rolled his eyes and took a step back.
Ralph stood like a statue for a long moment, his cheeks brick red, his eyes both hurt and defiant. He opened his mouth to reply, but before he could a girl stepped between them, placing a hand on each one’s chest.
“Shake hands and say sorry,” she said quietly. It was Rose. She glanced aside at James, and then at Ralph. Neither boy moved.
“Do it,” she said in the same tone of voice. “You both know you want to. Tensions are high right now and everybody’s at their frayed edge. But you need each other. And I can’t muster the energy to get between you both if you go to war. So shake hands and say sorry.”
James drew a long breath through his nose. Rose was right. And yet a fiercely stubborn urge held him back.
“Sorry,” Ralph said, his eyes lowered but his hand held out.
“Really. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
James blew out the breath he’d been holding and reached to shake Ralph’s hand, briefly but firmly.
“I’m sorry, too, Ralph. I’m just… you know.”
“You’re worried about Merlin’s summons,” Ralph nodded.
“And… everything else. I know.”
To Rose, James muttered, “Since when did you turn into our mum?”
Rose rolled her eyes, bemused and relieved. “Since you both proved you need one.”
The rest of the day went by in a fugue of slowly increasing tension. James had no idea what the summons from Merlin was about.
What he did know was that it was just like the headmaster to make the request first thing in the morning so James had ten long hours to stew over it. His final class of the day, Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall, seemed to stretch into nearly infinite lethargy, each minute taking approximately a year as he struggled, halfheartedly, to change a China teapot into a half dozen teacups. McGonagall herself showed off the technique with frustrating ease, tipping her steaming pot and transforming the spout into a line of six dainty cups, catching each one deftly as it appeared and setting them on the desk, even as the teapot emptied both its water and itself into the final receptacle.