James felt very alone that night at dinner. He sat across from Rose but didn’t say much. She didn’t need him to. Having made up with Scorpius again, she was in much better spirits and talked to the blonde boy incessantly about her classes, the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend, the many books that she was reading, and general school gossip (including, of course, Albus’ ongoing relationship with Chance Jackson, which had not been remotely diminished by the intervening holidays). For his own part, Scorpius merely ate and nodded in a bored manner, letting Rose’s words wash over him like waves on a beach. The sight of it made James angry, fueling his already sour mood. He was embarrassed for his cousin, since anyone could see that Scorpius was just a manipulative little berk toying with her emotions like a kneazle with a mouse. She knew better to put up with him, and yet somehow continued to put up with him anyway. He opened his mouth to say something, and then thought better of it, knowing it was no use.
“Something stuck in your craw, Potter?” Scorpius interrupted Rose’s monologue, raising a sly eyebrow.
James shook his head. “Have another roll,” he said, throwing the one on his own plate at Scorpius’ chest. The blond boy caught it, not taking his eyes from James.
Standing and grabbing his knapsack, James escaped before Scorpius could offer another word. If he didn’t get away, James would likely be drawn into a row. About what, he didn’t even know. He was simply in that sort of mood. And Scorpius was just the sort of person to sense a person’s short fuse, and deliberately light it.
He went up to the common room, avoiding eye contact with everyone along the way. This tactic failed him as he entered the portrait hole and encountered Cameron Creevey in the common room.
“Hey James,” the boy called, hopping up from a table near the window. “My mates and I have to write essays about a famous wizard for Wizlit and I was hoping to do mine on your dad! Can I interview you for it?”
James was shaking his head even before Cameron finished speaking. “Sorry, Cam. I’ve got too much homework myself. I’m just going to camp out in the corner and bury myself in it.” He unslung his knapsack and gestured with it toward an empty table across the room.
“Oh,” Cameron deflated, and then perked up again. “I can come sit with you! I won’t interview you or anything. I’ll just ask you questions as they come up. You’ll hardly know I’m there!”
“Cam, honestly,” James sighed, letting his knapsack dangle against his leg. “You already know more about my dad than I ever will.”
“Nah,” Cameron grinned and blushed crimson, as if he’d been given the highest compliment imaginable. “Let me just grab my things!
I’ll come and join you right now.”
James closed his eyes helplessly and reached to rub them with his free hand. Cameron dashed away. Papers rattled and books slammed shut as he hastily gathered his things.
“You know what, Cam?” James said, dropping his hand from his eyes. “I just remembered. I need… my…” He gestured weakly toward the boys’ dormitory stairs. “Things. From my trunk, upstairs. I’ll just…” He was too annoyed and tired to attempt a more imaginative excuse.
Cameron frowned at him from the nearby table, his things half-stuffed into his bag. “Oh. Well, why don’t I go set up over at our table, and I’ll just wait for you. Sound good?”
James nodded dismally. Turning on his heel, he stumped to the dormitory door and climbed up the spiral stairs into darkness.
A box was under his bed, just visible behind his trunk. With a start, he remembered: it was his Christmas gift from home, delivered by Kreacher before the holidays. James had never opened it.
Eager for a happy distraction, he heaved out the colourfully wrapped box, stripped away the ribbons and paper, and tugged off the lid, flinging it aside.
A note sat atop a mass of neatly folded black cloth. James picked it up and read his mother’s neat handwriting:
Happy Christmas, James!
I’m certain these new dress robes will come in handy over your holiday with the Vandergriffs. Those old ones are too horrid even to serve as hand-me-downs for Albus. Do us all a favour and donate them to Mr. Filch to use as rags.
Much love!
Mum
Bleakly amused, he read the note again, and then allowed it to fall from his fingers to the floor. Without looking at the new dress robes, he pushed the box aside and flopped onto his bed, unsure if he felt more like laughing or crying.
Some small part of his mind (probably the part that belonged to his mother) scolded him for blowing off Cameron, whose only crime was thinking much too highly of James than he surely deserved.
Another part of his mind (this one likely belonging to his father) halfheartedly reminded him that he did indeed have a stack of homework to do. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to address either voice. Instead, he thought only of Ralph battling Professor Odin-Vann, and the increasing flash and sizzle of their furious duel. Ralph truly disliked the young professor. But why? Was there something more to it than distrust?
Further, what could explain Odin-Vann’s suddenly expert dueling abilities? Surely James hadn’t imagined the professor’s earlier impotence. He recalled very well their first Charms class, when Odin-Vann had seemed unable to so much as magic his own chalkboard clean while everyone was staring at him.
Dolohov, he thought to himself, lying crooked on his bed, one leg kicked off and sprawled to the floor. Ralph Dolohov. Get used to it…
He didn’t know when he fell asleep. It fell over him like a black cloak, dropping him into dreamless oblivion with no transition whatsoever. He didn’t dream.
He traveled.
“James,” a young woman said, her voice bemused and surprised in equal measure, though muted with solemnity.
James opened his eyes. He stood in a small space that was simultaneously enclosed yet open to the outdoors. Breeze lifted his hair and tugged at his untucked shirt. His feet stood on old wooden planks, rough with peeling white paint. From all around came the unmistakable shush and gurgle of waves. James had been here before, in another dream.
Only this wasn’t a dream, anymore than it had been the last time he had visited this place. It was the gazebo on Petra’s grandparents’ farm, overlooking the secluded woodland lake in which Izzy Morganstern, Petra’s stepsister, had almost drowned at Petra’s own hand.
Izzy was there now. She lay sleeping on one of the two benches built into the gazebo’s hexagonal railing. Across from her, pale in the last shreds of sunset, sat Petra. A heavy book was open on her lap, but she was looking up at him, a weary, affectionate smile on her face.
“Is this really you?” James asked, his voice unconsciously hushed beneath the gentle lap of the waves.