meaningless coincidence? What if it was a sign of a new dark plot? What if the Slytherin who had made that profile was part of a plot to facilitate the predicted return of Merlinus Ambrosius, who would lead a final war against the Muggle world?
James closed the book slowly and gritted his teeth. Somehow, the moment he thought of it, it seemed completely true. That explained why a Slytherin would use a name that even his Head of House thought was a joke. The Slytherin knew it wasn't, and would soon be victorious in a plot that would prove it. James' heart pounded as he sat and thought furiously. Who could he tell? Zane and Ralph, of course. They might have already thought of it. His dad? James decided that he couldn't. Not yet, at least. James was old enough to know that most adults wouldn't believe such a story from a kid even if the kid could provide pictures that proved it.
James didn't know exactly what he could do to stop such a plot, but he knew what he had to do next. He had to find out which Slytherin it was that had taken Ralph's GameDeck. He had to find the Slytherin that used the name Austramaddux.
With that in mind, James bolted from the greenhouse as soon as class was over, forgetting entirely that tonight was the night his dad, Harry Potter, was arriving for his meeting with the Americans.
As James ran across the grounds, he became aware of the noise of a crowd. He slowed, listening. Shouts and chants mingled with the babble of raucous, excited voices. As he turned the corner into the courtyard, the noise became much louder. A mob of students roiled around the courtyard, gathering from all directions even as James watched. Most were simply curious to see what the commotion was about, but there was a very active group in the center, marching, chanting slogans, some holding large, hand-painted signs and banners. James saw one of the banners as he approached crowd, and his heart sank. It read 'End Ministry Auror Fascism'. Another sign waved and poked at the sky: 'Tell the TRUTH, Harry Potter!'
James circled around the group, trying to stay inconspicuous. Near the steps of the main hall, Tabitha Corsica was being interviewed by a woman with garish purple cat's-eye glasses and an overly-attentive expression. With growing unease, James recognized her as Rita Skeeter, lead investigative reporter for the
As he passed, Tabitha glanced sideways at him and made a slight shrug and smile, as if to say so sorry
Just as James was about to climb the steps into the main hall, the Headmistress appeared, striding purposefully into the sunlight with a very grim expression on her face. She placed her wand to her throat and spoke from the top step, her voice echoing all around the courtyard, cutting through the noise of the crowd.
'I won't ask what the meaning of this is, as I find it disappointingly obvious,' she said sternly, and James, who had known Minerva McGonagall in a peripheral way for most of his life, thought he had never seen her so enraged. Her face was deathly pale, with livid red high on her cheeks. Her voice, still ringing around the courtyard, was controlled but steely with conviction. 'Far be it from me to disabuse you of the right to maintain whatever ill- founded and preposterous notions many of you might have picked up, but let me assure you, regardless of what you might choose to believe, it is not the policy of this school to allow students to insult esteemed guests.'
The signs sagged, but did not lower completely. James saw that Rita Skeeter was staring up at the Headmistress with a look of hungry excitement on her face, her Quick-Quotes Quill scribbling wildly on a pad of parchment. McGonagall sighed, gathering her composure. 'There are proper avenues for expression of disagreement, as you all know. This… display… is neither necessary nor appropriate. I expect you all, therefore, to disperse immediately with the knowledge that you have most certainly…,' she allowed her gaze to fall upon Rita Skeeter, 'made your point.'
'Madam Headmistress?' a voice called, and James didn't need to turn to know that it was Tabitha Corsica. There was a pregnant silence as the entire courtyard held its breath. James could hear Rita Skeeter's quill scratching avidly.
McGonagall paused, studying Tabitha meaningfully. 'Yes, Miss Corsica?'
'I couldn't agree with you more, ma'am,' Corsica said smoothly, her beautiful voice echoing around the courtyard. 'And for my own part, I hope that we can all choose to pursue these issues in a more reasonable and relevant manner, as you suggest. Might it be too soon to propose that we make this the subject of the first All- School Topical Debate? That would allow us to approach this sensitive issue respectfully and thoroughly, in the manner I'm sure you'd agree it deserves.'
McGonagall's jaw was like iron as she stared down at Corsica. The pause was so long that Tabitha actually looked away. She glanced around the courtyard, her composure faltering slightly. The QuickQuotes Quill had caught up to the proceedings. It hovered over the parchment, waiting.
'I appreciate your suggestion, Miss Corsica,' McGonagall said flatly, 'but this is neither the time nor the place for discussion of the debate team calendar, as you can surely imagine. And now,' she let her gaze sweep over the courtyard critically, 'I consider the matter closed. Anyone who wishes to continue this discussion may do so much more comfortably in the privacy of their rooms. I'd advise you to be off now, before I send Mr. Filch out to take a census.'
The crowd began to break up. McGonagall saw James, and her expression changed. 'Come along, Potter,' she said, beckoning impatiently. James climbed the steps and followed her back into the shadow of the Hall. McGonagall was muttering angrily, her tartan robes swishing as she stalked into a side corridor. She seemed to expect James to follow, so he did.
'Ridiculous rabble-rousing propagandists,' she fumed, still leading James into what he recognized as the staff offices. 'James, I'm sorry you had to witness that. But I'm even sorrier that such an ugly bit of rumor- mongering has found a foothold within these walls.'
McGonagall turned and opened a door without breaking stride. James found himself entering a large room full of couches and chairs, small tables and bookshelves, all arranged haphazardly around an enormous marble fireplace. And there, standing to greet him with a crooked smile was his dad. James grinned and ran past McGonagall.
'James,' Harry Potter said delightedly, pulling the boy into a rough hug and ruffling his hair. 'My boy. I'm so glad to see you, son. How's school?'
James shrugged, smiling happily but feeling suddenly shy. There were several other people present he didn't recognize, all of them looking at him as he stood with his father.
'You all know my boy, James,' Harry said, squeezing James' shoulder. 'James, these are some representatives from the Ministry who've come along with me. You remember Titus Hardcastle, don't you? And this is Mr. Recreant and Miss Sacarhina. They both work for the Department of Ambassadorial Relations.'
James shook hands dutifully. He did remember Titus Hardcastle when he looked at him, although he hadn't seen him for a long time. Hardcastle, one of his dad's head Aurors, was squat and thick, with a square head and very tough, weathered features. Mr. Recreant was tall and thin, dressed rather fussily in pinstriped robes and a black derby. His handshake was quick and loose, rather like holding a dead starfish. Miss Sacarhina, however, didn't shake hands. She smiled hugely at James and squatted down to his level, examining him up and down.
'I see so much of your parents in you, young man,' she said, tilting her head and affecting a conspiratorial manner. 'Such promise and potential. I do hope you'll be joining us for the evening.'
In answer, James looked up at his dad. Harry smiled and put both hands on James' shoulders. 'We're having dinner tonight with the Alma Alerons. Do you want to come along? Apparently, we're having true American food,
