James hissed and yanked his hand away, burning his fingers with hot tea for what felt like the thousandth time, but producing no teacups from the pot in his hand.
“It’s a matter of confidence, students,” McGonagall instructed grimly, scrutinizing them over her spectacles. “Pour as if you fully expect the cup to appear. Any hesitation at all will spoil the magic.”
James shook his head and lifted the teapot again, even as it bubbled and steamed, magically refilling itself. He sucked his red fingers, then held out his hand once more, preparing to catch the teacup as it formed from the tilting spout, and knowing that it would never happen. This, he mused, was the tricky thing about confidence: the more you tried to force it to happen, the more elusive it was.
Finally, dinnertime came and went. James barely noticed it, being far too focused on the appointment afterward. But then, somehow, time seemed to catch up to him, snapping forward with cruel elasticity, and he found himself walking toward the rising spiral stairs of the headmaster’s office, caught once again on the miserable knife edge between wanting to get it over with as soon as possible and wanting to run away as fast as he could.
“Potter,” the Gargoyle guard said in its gravel voice, nodding him onward toward the stairs.
James paused. “Aren’t you going to ask me for the password?”
“Do you know the password?” the gargoyle asked, raising a suspicious marble eyebrow.
“Um,” James admitted reluctantly, “No, I don’t.”
The gargoyle nodded again, as if satisfied. “But I know you, and that’s what counts. Passwords can be forgotten or stolen. New times call for new measures. Now, go on up. He’s expecting you.”
James swallowed hard and turned to the gently rising steps.
Effortlessly, they lifted him and carried him up, around, into darkness, and then into the mellower, golden light of the headmaster’s antechamber. The large office door stood open, casting a bar of firelight out onto the waiting bench and the wall of miscellaneous portraits, paintings, and plaques.
James approached the door, feeling twice as heavy as normal.
It’s just Merlin, he told himself. I’m most of the reason he even exists in this time and place and isn’t still floating around in the Void of disapparation. I’m part of the reason he was given the post of headmaster. He helped me rid the school of that loony Muggle reporter, and I helped him rid the world of the Gatekeeper. We go back together. We’re friends…
And yet James knew that what Merlin called friendship and what he called friendship were likely two extremely different things. As different as the two worlds, a thousand years apart, that formed them both.
As always, the headmaster’s office was crowded to the point of claustrophobia, filled with trunks and crates, bookshelves and tables, tools, talismans, and enormous oddities of every imagining, including (but hardly limited to) the gigantic stuffed alligator that hung from the ceiling, its glassy black eyes staring down and its hundreds of teeth bared in an uncomfortably jolly grin.
“Come in, James, and do close the door,” Merlin said easily, not looking up from his desk, where he seemed to be writing something with one hand, consulting a large book with the other. “It seems to be a customary expectation of the age that I offer you a seat. But frankly I prefer for you to remain standing. Thus, I shall leave the option to your good judgment.”
James moved cautiously to a space equidistant from the hearth on his left and the desk in front. The stone floor was warm. The air of the office was heavy with the sleepy scent of candle wax, old leather, and, unexpectedly, cocoa. James glanced down. A silver tray sat perched on the edge of Merlin’s desk, nearly pushed off by a haphazard pile of books. On the tray, a large stoneware mug of hot chocolate steamed gently. As James watched, Merlin reached without looking, scooped the mug into his hand, and sipped a deep draught, finally leaning back in his chair as he did so.
“Ahh,” he said, half-closing his eyes. “You know, James, I’ve gone in and out, to and fro in this new world. I’ve seen, smelled, and tasted its million strange discoveries. And I don’t care what the politicians, priests, and poets say: hot chocolate is the pinnacle of your era. Perhaps any era.” He breathed the mug’s rich steam, sipped again at its contents, and then, reluctantly, set the cocoa aside on its tray.
Returning his gaze to James, a speculative look in his eyes, he said, “You’re probably wondering why I’ve summoned you here.”
“Well,” James said, his voice dry, “Yeah. I mean, yes sir. I assumed…” He stopped and cleared his throat nervously. “I assumed that I was in trouble, like.”
“Oh, but you are, Mr. Potter,” the headmaster nodded somberly, and drew a little sigh. “As headmaster of this school, I would be bereft in my duties if I did not correct aberrant behaviour by the accepted means. I know it’s been a month, but do forgive me. I’m a busy man.”
“But,” James blinked, sincerely baffled, “but you said on the boat that there wouldn’t be any punishment for the whole dragon-in-London thing!”
“Oh, I truly doubt I said anything that direct. I prize nuance, Mr. Potter. But you are, in essence, correct. There is no discipline to be meted out for your failure to control the events of that night. Your lesson, one might hope, has been learned.”
Behind James, somebody gave a light, peremptory cough. He turned quickly, in time to see the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, unusually awake and alert. Dumbledore folded his hands on his lap and looked past James, staring politely into the middle distance.
“Yes,” Merlin said, drawing attention back to himself. “And yet there is the small matter of your being out of bed past the accepted time.
For that, I’m afraid I must deduct, let me think… perhaps five house points.
At the headmaster’s words, James fancied he could hear the tiny clink and clatter of rubies emptying from the Gryffindor vial, far below.
He knew he was imagining it.
“Um,” he said after a long, hopeful pause, “is that all, sir?”
“No, James,” Merlin said, and his fa?ade of unassailable authority seemed to evaporate, as if it was a robe the huge man put on and took off whenever it suited him. “It is not. And yet, for the life of me, I find myself so often at a very unaccustomed loss for how to proceed with you.” He picked up his cocoa again but did not drink it, merely regarded James through ribbons of rising steam.
James’ previous nervousness rushed back, and doubled. He gulped. “Should I be, er, sorry, sir?”
“Where do you think she keeps it?” the huge man asked, his voice so calm and quiet that it was almost a lion’s purr. “Has she told you? Has she, perhaps, shown you?”
A thrill of exquisite fear coursed from the crown of James’ head to the soles of his feet, shaking him where he stood. And he knew: Merlin was reading him like a book. Merlin knew everything. Merlin couldn’t be fooled.
He heard his own voice ask, almost automatically, “Where she keeps what, sir?”