James grinned. 'Thanks, Dad.'
'Don't forget what we talked about the other night, though. Remember?'
James remembered. 'I won't be saving the world single-handedly.' I'll have at least Zane's help, he thought, but didn't say, and maybe Ted's, too, now that Ralph's abandoned me.
Harry hugged his son, and James hugged him back. They grinned at each other, Harry with his hands on James' shoulders, and then he stood, leading James over to the fireplace.
'Tell Mum I'm doing good and eating my vegetables,' James instructed his dad.
'And are you?' Harry asked, raising one eyebrow.
'Well, yes and no,' James said, a bit uncomfortable as everyone looked at him.
'Make it true and I'll tell her,' Harry said, removing his glasses and tucking them into his robe.
Moments later, the room was empty but for James, Headmistress McGonagall, and Neville.
'Professor Longbottom,' the Headmistress said, 'I suspect it'd be best for me to inform you of all that has happened these past twenty hours.'
'You mean regarding the campus intruder, Madam?' Neville asked.
The Headmistress looked markedly taken aback. 'I see. Perhaps I might simply be repeating myself, then. Do tell me what you've already heard, Professor.'
'Merely that, Madam. Word amongst the students is that a man was seen or captured on the Quidditch pitch yesterday. The common theory is that he was a representative of the gambling community either reporting on or influencing the match. Pure rubbish, of course, but I assume it's better to let tongues wag and inflate the tale to something ridiculous than to deny anything.'
'Mr. Potter would no doubt agree with you,' the Headmistress said pointedly. 'Although, since I will be requiring your services in increasing the security of the grounds, I should explain to you precisely what did occur. James, you are free to wait a moment, aren't you? I shall not detain the professor for long, and he will accompany you down to the corridor.' Without waiting for a reply, she turned back to Neville, launching into a detailed account of the previous night.
James knew the whole story, of course, but still felt he was meant to wait near the door, as far from earshot as possible. It was uncomfortable and vaguely annoying. He felt rather proprietary about the intruder, having been the first to see him, and having been the one to point him out on the Quidditch pitch. It was just like adults to deny something a kid said, then, when it proved true, to completely take over and dismiss the kid. He realized that this was another part of why he hadn't yet told any adults about his suspicions concerning the Slytherin-Merlin plot. He felt even stronger now about keeping that his secret, at least until he could prove something substantial.
James crossed his arms and hovered near the door, turning to look back at Neville, who was seated in front of the Headmistress' desk, and McGonagall, who was pacing slightly behind it as she spoke.
'What are you up to, Potter?' a low voice drawled behind James, making him jump. He spun around wildly, eyes wide. The voice cut him off before he could respond. 'Don't ask who I am and don't waste my time with a load of pointless lies. You know exactly who I am. And I know, even more than your own father, that you are up to something.'
It was, of course, the portrait of Severus Snape. The dark eyes probed James coldly, the mouth turned down into a knowing sneer.
'I'm…,' James began, and then stopped, feeling very strongly that if he lied, the portrait would know. 'I'm not going to tell.'
'A more honest answer than any ever provided by your father, at least,' Snape drawled, keeping his voice low enough not to attract the attention of McGonagall or Neville. 'It's a pity I'm not still alive to be headmaster or I'd find ways of getting the tale from you, one way… or another.'
'Well,' James whispered, feeling a little braver now that shock had worn off, 'I guess it's a good thing you aren't headmaster anymore, then.' He thought it might be a bit too much to say
'Don't try the smart tactic with me, Potter,' the portrait said, but more tiredly than angrily. 'You, unlike your father, know well enough now that I was as devoted to Albus Dumbledore and the downfall of Voldemort as was he. Your father believed it was up to him to win battles entirely on his own. He was foolish and destructive. Don't think I didn't see that very same look in your eye not five minutes ago.'
James couldn't think what to say. He just met the portrait's dark gaze and frowned stubbornly.
Snape sighed theatrically. 'Have it your way, then. Like Potter, like son. Never learning the lessons of the past. But know this: I will be watching you, as I did your father. If your unnamed suspicions are, against all probability, accurate, be assured that I will be working toward the same end as you. Try, Potter, not to make the same mistakes as your father. Try not to leave others to pay the consequences for your arrogance.'
That last stung James to the core. He assumed Snape would leave his portrait frame after a salvo like that, confident of having had the last word, but he didn't. He stayed, that same penetrating stare on his face, reading James like a book. Still, there wasn't anything specifically malicious in that gaze, despite the pointed words.
'Yeah,' James finally found the voice to say. 'Well, I'll keep that in mind.' It was a lame response and he knew it. He was only eleven, after all.
'James?' Neville said behind him. James turned and looked up at the professor. 'Sounds like you had an exciting night last night. I'm curious about the vines that attacked you. Maybe you could tell me more about them sometime, yes?'
'Sure,' James said, his lips feeling numb. When he turned back toward the door, following Neville out, the portrait of Snape was still occupied. The eyes followed him darkly as he left the room.
As James became more familiar with the routine of school, time seemed to slip past almost without his noticing. Zane continued to excel at Quidditch, and James continued to feel an uncomfortable mix of emotions about Zane's success. He still felt the stab of jealousy when he heard the crowd cheer for one of Zane's well-hit Bludgers, but he couldn't help smiling at how much the boy loved the sport, how he delighted in each match, in the teamwork and camaraderie. Also, James was growing increasingly confident of his own broom skills. He practiced with Zane on the Quidditch pitch many evenings, asking Zane for tips on technique. Zane, for his part, was always enthusiastic and supportive, telling James that he'd definitely make the Gryffindor team next year.
'Then I'll have to stop practicing with you and giving you pointers, you know,' Zane said, flying next to James and calling over the roar of the air. 'It'd be like consorting with the enemy.' As usual, James couldn't tell if Zane was joking or not.
