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.
Beneath a sky dimming from azure to purple, a stiff breeze buffeted the grass of the pitch, which was already filling with students.
Like James, most carried their brooms slung over their shoulders, while others bobbed on them low over the grass, congregating in excited airborne knots. The house grandstands were filling with observers, some hooting and calling cheerfully to each other. In the Gryffindor grandstand, James saw Professor McGonagall sidling into a seat next to Neville Longbottom, who saw James’ look and nodded at him encouragingly.
With a practiced flip, James dropped his broom forward, allowing it to dip and bob up next to him. He caught it, threw a leg over it, and kicked upwards, letting it carry him into the cool air.
Spying Graham Warton and the Gryffindor group gathering in the shadow of the burgundy grandstand, James piloted over to join them, making a long lazy arc around the goal rings.
“First-years,” Graham called out, raising a hand to his mouth.
“Here’s your chance. Grab a broom, get it in the air, and let’s see if you can lap the pitch.”
The first-years tryout, James knew, was mostly just tradition, ever since his own dad had earned a spot on the team at the age of eleven. In truth, it was extremely unlikely that any of the youngest students would earn a place on the team, unless they were almost supernaturally talented.
Sanjay Yadev was among the few first-years who made the attempt, and the look of stubborn determination on his face was both inspiring and a little comical. The boy kicked off and succeeded in completing a single, swift lap about the pitch, easily overshadowing the other three.
“Not bad,” Graham called with a nod. “Now let’s see you dodge a Bludger.”
One of the leather balls was trapped under Graham’s foot, straining and wriggling frantically to get loose. Graham raised his foot and the ball squirted into the air. Graham used the bat in his hand to give the Bludger a directing whallop, aiming it for Sanjay where he slewed to a halt in mid-air, suddenly wide-eyed.
The Bludger angled up at the boy, emitting a low whistle as it spun.
Flustered, Sanjay seemed to attempt both a left and right feint at the same time, yelped in sudden terror, and then turned away, throwing both arms up around his head. The Bludger struck the tail of his broom, sending the boy into a spin. Secretly, James gave Sanjay credit for not being thrown from his broom entirely.
The gathered Gryffindors broke into laughing applause as Sanjay recovered and drifted down to the pitch, his cheeks burning in embarrassment.
“Next year, Yadev,” Graham called encouragingly. “You’ve got the control. Now you just need to get bruised a little. Have your sisters pelt you with apples all next summer. Get used to things flying at your head at deadly speed. You do that and maybe we’ll have a spot for you.”
James felt his chest tighten, knowing that his turn was now up.
He glanced around and noticed that, apart from him, almost everyone waiting had been on last year’s team. Lily swooped alongside him on her trusty old Shuriken and gave him a sideways smile.
“You’re here, at least,” she commented with mock surprise.
“That’s a victory, whether you make the team or not.”
“Thanks,” James muttered, tightening his grip on his broom.
“Don’t worry about it, big brother,” she said, lowering her voice.
“You’ll do fine. I’ll let you have a free goal if you like?”
James was tempted for a moment, but shook his head. “No. I need to own this. Don’t do me any favours.”
Lily nodded and leaned forward, propelling up toward the goals so fast that her cloak snapped behind her like a flag.
James sucked in a deep breath, held it, and launched upwards as well, joining the swirl of players overhead and doing his
best to tune out the observers from the stands and the confusion of the other teams as they conducted their own tryouts all around.
As the ground fell away and the evening wind buffeted through his hair, the tension in James’ chest was slowly replaced by a sort of eager serenity. He knew what he was doing, after all. Lily was right: he had made it to the pitch. Strangely enough, the most difficult challenge was already over. All he had to do now was show what he knew. And despite a late affinity to broom-riding (it was no skrim, after all), he now knew quite a lot.
As the evening sky compressed from azure to deep indigo, James performed his laps, each one faster than the other, flashing past the goal rings as Lily applauded and cheered him on. He dodged and feinted as Graham swatted Bludgers at him, and much to James’ surprise and relief not a single one made contact. He took three shots at goal as Deirdre tossed Quaffles up to him. One missed, another bounced off Lily’s broom handle as she spun to swat it away, and the third sailed through clean, neatly threading between her outstretched hands.
Finally, since James was trying out for Seeker, Graham released a Snitch, letting it swoop and circle up into the night sky, darting like a golden dragonfly in the dying light. James chased it, knowing that he had bare seconds before the tiny winged ball was lost amongst the rest of the swirling players from all four teams. He ducked and slalomed through Slytherins and Ravenclaws, who called out in annoyance at his passage. He barely avoided colliding mid-air with Julien Jackson, dropping beneath her like a stone before rocketing up again, swooping to meet the snitch as it streaked past her shoulder.
Dimly, James realized that someone was tracking alongside him, mirroring him like a shadow.
“Should I let you have this?” a familiar voice called, straining to keep pace but teasingly jovial. “Or do I take it now and save you from future embarrassments?”
James could think of no response as his brother careened along next to him, nearly shoulder to shoulder, also tracking the Snitch.
The golden ball dipped and angled downward like a missile.
James dove, driving his broom straight down after it, committed to catching it even if it meant cratering himself in the pitch below. Albus whooped and lunged to follow.
James reached, straining, nearly climbing off the end of his broom, and felt the wings of the Snitch beating against his fingers. Next to him, Albus broke off the chase as the ground swam dreadfully up beneath.
At the last possible second, James snapped his fist closed on the Snitch and threw himself backwards on his broom, yanking it upright with all his strength. The force of the arrested motion made him feel as heavy as a boulder. His legs unhinged beneath him and his shoes nearly sprang from his feet before the unforgiving ground of the pitch flung up to meet them, smacking them back onto his feet. His heels thudded down, but rather than crashing, James’ feet skated along the earth, kicking up rooster-tails of dirt and torn grass, before swooping back into the air, slowing as gravity reluctantly gave him up.
He was panting, his hair wild and fluttering, his eyes as wide and glassy as crystal balls. The Snitch was held in his fist so tightly that James wondered if he’d need to pry his fingers loose one at a time.
Dimly, he became aware of the sound of cheering and laughter.
“I thought for sure you were going to smash yourself flat as a dinner plate!” Deirdre cried, swooping alongside James and clapping him on the back. “That was the most recklessly brilliant flying I’ve seen in forever!”
The rest of the team gathered around as James drifted to a landing near the Gryffindor grandstand. He could still scarcely believe that he had succeeded in catching the Snitch. As his feet touched the grass again, he forced his fist open, revealing the tarnished golden ball and its furled wings.
A woman’s rather shrill voice spoke up from the nearby grandstand stairs. “I don’t know whether I am more impressed by your resolve or concerned for your lack of self-preservation,” Professor McGonagall commented, “But allow me to remind you, Mr. Potter. It is only a game.”
James nodded at the professor faintly as she eyed him and then turned to leave, following the rest as they streamed happily out into the night.
A hand plucked the Snitch from James’ palm. “As much as I hate to say it,” Graham said, throwing an arm around James’ shoulders.
“McGonagall’s right. Brilliant flying is one thing. But if you go and kill yourself first time out, we’d be in dire straits for a Seeker the rest of the season, wouldn’t we?”
James glanced aside at Graham, and saw that, despite the boy’s apparent concerns, he was grinning with barely concealed excitement.
Somewhat breathlessly, James asked, “So, do I make the team?”
Graham turned suddenly businesslike and gave a shrug, stepping away to slot the Snitch into its place in the Quidditch trunk. “I’ll write up the roster tonight and make the official announcement sometime tomorrow. Lots to consider. But you made a good showing. A very good showing indeed.”
James wanted to press Graham for an answer now, but sensed that it would be futile. Either the boy was enjoying stretching out the suspense, or he truly didn’t know whether James would make the team or not. Either way, there was no point in trying to winkle an answer out of him now.
“Nice one, James!” Lily said, bumping James with her shoulder as she passed, drawing him along with her. “For a moment there, I thought I was going to end up an only child. Frankly, I could see an upside to it.”
The rest of the team gathered around jovially as the crowd poured away from the pitch and toward the glow of the castle. Many hands clapped James on the back and ruffled his sweaty hair, many voices congratulated him on an amazing, if manic, performance.
And as James joined in, laughing, glad to be, at least for the moment, absorbed into the camaraderie of the team, he thought to himself that he probably owed Albus a secret thanks. Whether his brother had intended it or not, his teasing attempt to steal the Snitch had been all the impetus James needed to risk life and limb to win it.
If James indeed made the team, he would do so on his own grit, determination, and merit. But there was no question that it would be Albus’ brotherly rivalry that had sealed the deal.
Back at the common room, the evening’s festivities were in full swing, what with tomorrow being Saturday and everyone’s minds full of Quidditch and weekend cheer. James tried to adopt an air of dejected surliness as he eventually stowed his broom, ran a comb through his wild hair, and made his way toward the portrait hole for his “detention”.
Rose met him there, looking equally morose. But as the pair finally ducked through, leaving behind the raucousness and warm glow of the common room, their moods changed completely. They darted breathlessly through the halls and down the stairs, wending their way to the far corner of the castle and the arches to the outdoor amphitheater.
When they finally reached it, the huge doors were unlocked, leading out to a moon-filled natural depression lined with stone seats, all descending and arcing around the stage at the bottom. James had participated in several events here, not the least of which being his own performance as Treus in the Muggle Studies production of the wizarding classic, The Triumvirate. Unlike any of those times, however, the amphitheater was eerily empty now, silent and drifted sparsely with the first autumn leaves. Clouds scrubbed the starry sky, occasionally blotting the full moon and casting the amphitheater, and the forest beyond, into inky shadow.
Donofrio Odin-Vann arrived shortly after nine, finding James and Rose waiting in the back row, huddled in the nighttime chill.
“Right,” he said in a hushed voice, glancing around to assure that they really were as alone as they felt. The only light was the silver moon-glow and a narrow band of gold that fell from the open doors of the castle. “I apologize for the ruse that I was forced to use to bring you here. Ostensibly, you shall be cleaning the aisles tonight, scooping up old candy wrappers and programs. But in truth, we have a much more important matter
to attend to.”
“Without Ralph,” Rose said, standing and brushing herself off.
Odin-Vann blinked at her as if he didn’t immediately know of whom she spoke. “Oh. Yes. Without Mr. Deedle. We only need the three of us this time. Inviting any more would be to increase the risk of being noticed.” He paused and looked from Rose to James. “You don’t think I deliberately excluded him because of his words the other night, do you?”
James stood as well, brushing dead leaves from his jeans. “Well.
The thought had crossed our minds.”
“I trust the three of you as much as any single one,” Odin-Vann said briskly. “Which is, I must admit, exactly as far as necessity demands, and little further. This is indeed dangerous business, as Mr.
Deedle was very correct to point out. Feel free to tell him of tonight’s mission if you feel so inclined. I won’t prevent you, and it probably will be best for him to be kept up to speed in case of future developments.
But believe me, his lack of involvement tonight is purely pragmatic.”
“So what’s going on?” Rose asked, hushing her own voice but unable to hide her anticipation.
“Right,” Odin-Vann said again, glancing around at the rows of dark, empty seats. James realized that the man was nearly crackling with nervous energy. “Tonight, we help Petra accomplish the first and most vital component of her plan to replace the Crimson Thread.”
The familiar sinking sensation fell over James again—the mingled hope and reluctance he felt every time he considered Petra’s mission. “What part is that?”
Odin-Vann looked at him directly. “We have to collect the symbolic Crimson Thread that was left in the World Between the Worlds. Without it, Petra cannot fully assume her role as Morgan.”
Rose blinked rapidly up at the professor. “We have to go through the Nexus Curtain? We have to visit the place where Morgan, the evil Petra, and Judith hid out and planned their W.U.L.F. attack on Uncle Harry and Titus Hardcastle?” Her tone was even more hushed, bursting with equal parts trepidation and heady excitement.