“But,” Odin-Vann said, as if reluctantly clarifying some small but important point, “Your dad’s mum died to summon that deep magic. It was her death that created the bond of protection, or so the story goes. You…” he cleared his throat a little awkwardly. “You… didn’t die for Petra.” He shook his head and shrugged a little in confusion.
James sighed again, deeply. “That’s what I told my dad. He didn’t have any answers for me. Just said that because I was willing to trade places with her… that must have been enough. The deep magic caused the cord of her powers to appear, connecting us, letting me pull her back up. I didn’t die. But somehow… being willing to was enough.” Suddenly, to James’ own ears, it sounded weak and unsatisfying. But clearly it had happened, hadn’t it? The Deep Magic had saved Petra, had permanently connected them, just like his dad and Voldemort, even if James hadn’t needed to die to make it happen.
At least… not yet.
The thought chilled him suddenly, deeply, all the way to the bone.
Odin-Vann seemed to dismiss the topic with another shrug.
“Well, I imagine you’ve convalesced enough to stand now, James. I would expect no more trouble from our three young friends, Edgecombe, Heathrow, and Ogden. At least, not about this. I have known young people like them in my life, though, and they do always find new ways to spread their particular brand of viciousness.”
Rose began to climb to her feet and shot a glance at the door, clearly remembering the trio of poisonous first-years. “I almost hope they cross my path again. I owe them more than a stunning. I can’t begin to imagine what their gripe is.”
“Ah,” Odin-Vann said, rising and tugging James to his feet, “Therein lies your mistake, Miss Weasley. You assume people like Edgecombe have a specific gripe. Clearly it has not occurred to you that some people like to harm others simply for the pure, unadulterated power and pleasure of it. They may invent excuses to satisfy the diminished shreds of their consciences, but they are merely that: excuses.
Beneath the lies they tell themselves, they fear you. They know you are better than they. And they hate it. This is the source of their guile. My advice is: don’t engage them any further. You will only frustrate yourself trying to appeal to some buried sense of common decency. None such exists. Some poisoned apples are poison all the way to the core.”
There was a coolness in the way that Odin-Vann spoke of Edgecombe and his cronies. James wondered if the man had had his own encounters with petty bullies, and then realized that the answer was obvious. It was in the way the Professor seemed unable to perform magic when under stress, despite his impressive skills and knowledge.
He was a man who had once been a boy, a boy who had likely been teased mercilessly about his impotence under pressure, which would only have made matters exponentially worse.
As the professor bid them goodnight and relocked the classroom door, James didn’t know if he felt sorrier for the boy Odin-Vann had once been, or angrier at the bullies people like Edgecombe always were.
Mostly, he was just weak with relief that the evening was over, the disaster had been undone and averted, and thankful that Rose, for once, didn’t seem to feel the need to discuss any of it with him as they walked and wended their way back along the dark corridors toward Gryffindor tower. She merely nursed a thoughtful frown, mulling her own thoughts, and James was glad.
Together, they clambered wearily through the portrait hole. Five minutes later, James was on his bed, barely half undressed, sleeping the sleep of complete exhaustion, not even aware that he was wearing two pairs of magically identical underpants, and that both of his socks were inside out.
10. – Hagrid’s letter
The first snow fell on Hogwarts even before the autumn leaves had fully abandoned the trees. The flakes fringed the remaining leaves with sparkling beards, and then cloaked the entire forest with fluffy brilliance. James awoke on the last day of November with grey brightness glaring from the window next to his bed. He sat up blearily, rubbing his eyes, only to find that it was not, in fact, breakfast time, but barely dawn. Outside, the snow had converted the world to a blanket of unnatural brightness, fooling even the birds in the forest, who sang and twittered in the muffling distance.
James was about to flop back onto his bed again when a shape moved silently nearby, accompanied by the stir of coals in the stove at the centre of the room. He was not alarmed, recognizing at once that it was the house elf assigned to Gryffindor tower. He had seen the tiny imp on only a few occasions over the years, but felt comfortable enough with it to whisper a good morning.
Surprised, the elf stiffened so that its shoulders hunched up next to its ears. Its head turned to look back at James with one enormous, crystal-ball-like eye. The iris was mossy green, surrounding a huge black pupil. James could clearly see the reflection of the open stove door reflected in the elf’s eyeball.
“Sorry, Master Potter,” the elf whispered back, hiding the squeak of its voice. It was a male, James was quite sure, his ears pointed like bat’s wings and large enough to serve as an umbrella in the event of rain.
Like most of the other Hogwarts house elves, this one wore a cloth napkin like a small toga. The napkin was embroidered with the Hogwarts crest. “Piggen didn’t mean to wake Master Potter, sir.”
“Piggen,” James yawned hugely, so that his jaw cracked. “That’s really your name? Piggen?”
“Piggentottenwuggahooliguffin, sir,” the elf answered obediently, still in a thin whisper. “Son of Tottenwuggahooliguffinoogersham.”
“Piggen it is, then,” James stretched and flopped so that his head was at the foot of his bed. Arms crossed over his footboard, he studied the elf by the stove. “It’s my last year, Piggen. Just thought maybe I should introduce myself while I still have a chance.”
The elf’s eyes widened and he took a step backward on his huge, bare feet. “No introduction needed, Master Potter, sir. Piggen is happy never to be noticed as he stokes the fire and collects the laundry and dusts and sweeps and cleans the bathroom—”
“My aunt Hermione wouldn’t let me come home for Christmas dinner if she knew I’d had a chance to introduce myself to you and passed it up.” James smiled ruefully.
“Ahh,” the elf blinked, “Miss Granger, the founder of the Ess Pee Eee Double-you. We has her school picture hanging on the wall in our rooms, sir. We’re very indebted to Miss Hermione Granger. She’s the reason we has a coalition agreement with the school, making certain only elves do elf work, you see. The master of our guild, Dufferwunkin, has a term for it. He calls it jobsek-yurready. He says jobsek-yerready is very important for us elves.”
“Jobsek…” James squinted. “You mean job security? I don’t think that’s quite what Aunt Hermione had in mind when she started SPEW.”