Millie tilted her head ironically, her eyes meeting his again. “I’m jealous of Rose Weasley because I’d rather be the one standing beside you when the next adventure starts. And I’d never tell you how you’d ruin anything. Except perhaps me for any other boys.”
James’ frown turned quizzical. He blinked at her sparkling blue gaze. She seemed barely inches from him in the shadows of the entrance hall. He could smell her shampoo and a hint of perfume. “What… do you mean?”
In a whisper, she said, “Do I need to get out the Hufflepuppet Pals and have them spell it out for you?”
And then she leaned forward slightly, raising her chin to his, and kissed him. It was a light kiss, more playful than romantic, on the corner of his mouth. But the sudden sensation of her lips on his, both warm and soft, teasing and sensual all at once, exploded in his mind and body like magical fireworks, blotting out every other thought. He stood dazed as she took a step back from him, smiling faintly.
“Go read your note and attend to your detention,” she prodded him. “But do tell me what you’re up to later, if you are willing. I want to be a part of it. In whatever way I can. If you’ll let me.”
Behind her, the Great Hall doors pushed open again, disgorging a group of Ravenclaws, all chattering noisily. The lunchtime crowd inside was rising, gathering their books and knapsacks, preparing to return to classes. Millie turned to thread back inside, probably to retrieve her own books. She was lost in the crowd after only a few paces.
James didn’t move. He could still feel the spot on the corner of his mouth where Millie had kissed him. It tingled like magic.
Fleetingly, helplessly, he wondered if magic had been involved somehow.
Had she used some illicitly charmed lip-gloss to stun him? Was it even now freezing him to the spot, turning him into a human statue of awestruck surprise?
He glanced down at himself. He could move, after all.
Clumsily, he turned around, hefted his knapsack again, and hurried across the entrance hall toward the staircase, remembering the note in his robes, and Odin-Vann’s supposed detention. Suddenly, all of it seemed slightly less important. Perhaps even a little fun. He would read whatever the young professor had written, and probably with Rose’s help (or Millie’s? The thought suddenly tantalized him immensely) he would do whatever was required.
Millie Vandergriff, he mused, had indeed worked magic on him.
But it wasn’t the sort of magic they taught in Charms class, or even Defence Against the Dark Arts. It was the oldest magic in a very old human book. And apparently, happily, there was no defence against that kind of magic at all.
7. – The tryout he didn’t miss
James finally opened and read the note in the minutes before his afternoon Divination class, waiting alone next to the ladder that led up to Professor Trelawney’s perfumed and poufed classroom. He could hear the professor moving above, rearranging things and humming tunelessly to herself, emitting a faint jingle from her omnipresent bangles, beads, and bracelets.
He broke the seal and unrolled the scroll between his hands.
The words were handwritten and scribbled, as if the writer had been either careless or in a hurry.
Detention tonight, 9 PM. Amphitheater.
A surge of relief washed over James, despite the note’s banality.
A dreadful suspicion had come upon him as he traversed the halls to the North Tower. This evening, he’d recalled, was the Quidditch tryouts.
As Deirdre and Graham had pointedly reminded him on First Night, James had been rather cursed over the years with being unable to attend the tryouts—or failing miserably when he did. With that in mind, he had become grimly certain that the detention from Odin-Vann (and whatever unavoidable mission it entailed) would conflict with his final Quidditch tryout, completing his perfect record of misses and failures.
Odin-Vann’s nine o’clock detention, however, was happily past the time of the scheduled tryouts. He might go to the pitch distracted by what was to come later that evening, but at least he would go to the pitch, and that was what mattered.
He wondered for a moment why Odin-Vann had chosen the amphitheater. Probably it was because the large outdoor space would be completely deserted, as it usually was when night descended. If anyone was still lingering around (it was, if nothing else, a rather popular snogging spot, James knew) Odin-Vann could dismiss the surprised loiterers.
In Divination class, Rose sat next to James and scribbled notes, none of which, James knew, had much to do with divination. Professor Trelawney burbled on before her fireplace, tossing pinches of spices and powdered tinctures into the flames to create bursts of colorful sparks, inviting the students to “summon a trancelike state of receptiveness to the Fire Omens”.
James felt, as he usually did in Trelawney’s class, most receptive of all to a nap. He shuffled the scattering of Octocards on the small table before him, and then became aware of Rose glaring at him. He glanced at her and she darted her eyes toward her notes, which she nudged slightly toward him.
Written at the bottom in her neat, small handwriting, was: Amphitheater tonight?
James gave a small nod.
Rose used her quill to scribble out her note, and then added two more words: No Ralph??
James had observed the same thing, of course. He shrugged and shook his head.
Rose absorbed this with no change in expression. Dutifully, she scribbled out that note as well.
James allowed his gaze to drift over the room until he spied Ralph seated next to Trenton Bloch on a pair of burgundy poufs. Ralph looked ridiculous and uncomfortable, of course, balancing his gangly body on the cushion, which seemed ready to burst beneath him. His book was balanced on his knees, but the boy was paying it no attention.
His eyes were half-lidded, drooping as James watched. The Head Boy badge glimmered silver on his robes, catching the light of the fire and the bursts of colorful sparks.
Maybe that was what was behind Ralph’s suspicions about Odin-Vann, and the professor’s exclusion of him from tonight’s so-called detention. Perhaps Ralph’s position as Head Boy made him seem just a bit too institutional to be trusted with what was likely to be an extremely secret assignment.
James regretted Ralph’s exclusion. And yet he reminded himself that Ralph had, as recently as First Night, expressed his deepest desire to stay out of any unexpected adventures during his final year.
Later that evening, James wolfed his dinner as quickly as possible, then ran upstairs to his dormitory to change into jeans and a sweatshirt against the cool of the evening. Grabbing his Thunderstreak from under his bed, he clutched the broom against his shoulder and tramped down the steps, taking two at a time.
He was determined to arrive at the pitch early, and at this, for the first time ever, he succeeded.