James sighed to himself, impatient with the topic of magical security after his interview with Rita Skeeter. Deep down, he didn’t believe things were as bad as the newspapers and tabloids made them out to be, although he had an inkling that this might be false hope. His dad didn’t talk of it much, not because there wasn’t anything to say, James suspected, but because he didn’t want to worry his family. This was rather worrying in itself, of course, but it was a bland worry, without specifics, and easier to forget.
“Did you hear about Damian Damascus and Sabrina Hildegard?” Rose suddenly asked, turning on her seat to look at James and Graham. “They dated all summer and just announced their engagement to be married. Can you believe it? Married!”
“You’re joking,” Graham accused flatly.
Rose shook her head. “Not a bit. Saw the invitation myself.
Came by post just a few days ago. It’s horklump and hemlock themed.”
Graham rolled his eyes grudgingly. “Well, that’s definitely Damien and Sabrina.”
“Not really all that surprising when you think about it,” Morgan sighed. “I mean sure, Sabrina’s got a few points on him in the beauty department, but they were like mortar and pestle all through school.
I’m surprised it never occurred to them before that they were meant to be.”
“But,” James finally spoke up, “they’re not old enough to be married! I mean, are they?”
Ashley shrugged. “They’re adults, now, at least technically.
Damien’s started himself a nice little alchemical practice in Puddlemere, and Sabrina’s studying for her curse-breaker certification. Plenty of people get married young. It’s romantic, I think.”
James’ mind reeled at the idea. To him, Damien and Sabrina were still fellow mates and Gremlins, albeit graduated now. It didn’t seem possible that they were already so far along in their grown-up lives that they were making lifelong commitments and career choices.
Shortly, the conversation drifted on to other topics, including James’ interview with Rita Skeeter. He told them briefly about it, assuring them that it was no big deal, and would probably barely warrant a few inches on the back page of the Daily Prophet, which he sincerely hoped, but didn’t quite believe.
Soon enough the carriage squeaked to a halt in the main courtyard below the open front doors. James clambered out, along with the rest of the older students along the line of black carriages, and followed Graham and Ashley up the steps. Professor McGonagall stood watching next to the open doors, her face as imperious and grim as always, a parchment unrolled in her right hand. She peered at it critically, glancing up over her spectacles as the students passed, one by one.
“Mr. Potter,” she said briskly, flicking her gaze at him, then those with him. “Misses Patonia and Doone. And you, too, Mr.
Warton. Please make your way to the antechamber behind the Great Hall, and be quick about it.”
“What,” Graham hesitated. “Are we in trouble already?”
“Not if you do as I say,” the professor answered curtly. “And you as well, Mr. Deedle.” She nodded to Ralph as he clumped up the steps to join them. “And no stopping at your tables along the way. I don’t want to see any biscuit crumbs on the floor of the antechamber when I arrive.” She eyed Ralph pointedly. “Now hurry on, and take any other seventh-years with you, should you see any.” With that she dismissed them, returning her attention to the parchment in her hand.
Rose looked mildly affronted. “Well then,” she huffed lightly.
“Seventh-years only, it seems. See you later then, I guess.”
“I wonder what this is all about?” James muttered as they stepped into the shadow of the main entrance, heading toward the glow of the Great Hall and the clatter of gathering students.
“No idea,” Ralph shrugged. “Do you think she’d know if I ate a biscuit on the way, like? I’m dead starved.”
“I wouldn’t risk it if it was me and my house on the line,”
Graham proclaimed, clapping Ralph on the shoulder. “But it isn’t, so I say go for it, Mr. Slytherin.”
Ralph didn’t, but as he passed the tables laden with freshly baked snacks and waiting plates and silverware, it seemed to be a very close thing. Overhead, as always, the hundreds of floating candles made a constellation of tiny flames, bright against the darkening sky that appeared magically imprinted on the rafters and vaulted ceilings. The massive and ornate rose window at the head of the hall glowed with sunset hues, spreading its diffuse light over the gathering, chattering, laughing students.
As James threaded through them, making his way along the Gryffindor table toward the front of the hall, it occurred to him that perhaps he’d been looking at his return to school from the wrong perspective entirely. This wasn’t merely the last chapter of his Hogwarts career, after all. It was the beginning of one final hurrah, a year filled with whole weeks and months and seasons of new adventures and challenges, untold new experiences, familiar faces and lifetime memories just waiting to be made. It didn’t make the melancholy doldrums that he’d felt on the train go away, but it did balance them against the heady anticipation of the year yet to come. The current of time would carry him forward into his future whether he wished it or not. He might as well embrace the journey and enjoy the ride.
James, Ralph and the rest of the seventh-years climbed the steps to the dais in a scattered line, skirted the head table where a few teachers were just beginning to gather and take their seats, and passed through the heavy wooden door on the right side. James had been in the antechamber only a few times before, but remembered it well. During his first year, it had been the sight of Merlin’s interview with Ralph’s father, wherein their true magical heritage as Dolohovs had come to light. The room looked exactly the same now as it had then: a collection of chairs and sofas scattered somewhat haphazardly around a large hearth, currently unlit and gray with cold ash. Paintings of various pastoral scenes and miscellaneous portraits surrounded the walls, packed between the pillars that supported the arcade ceiling. James recognized one of the paintings from the sketches in Ralph’s antique potions book: a crowded scene representing the coronation of the first wizarding king, Kreagle. In the far corner of the scene, a dark-robed figure leaned against a wall, smoking a long pipe and ignoring the festivities. The figure looked at James as he passed, its eyes distant but watchful. It was Severus Snape, of course, in one of his many disguised portrait forms, keeping an eye on the myriad corners and recesses of the school.
“Anyone know what this is all about?” Trenton Bloch asked, throwing himself into a high-backed chair and kicking one knee up over the upholstered arm.
“S’tradition, isn’t it?” replied Julian Jackson, the captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, seating herself on an ottoman before the cold hearth and smoothing her skirt primly. “Every year, McGonagall gathers the seventh-years for a little secret pep talk or something, although they’re forbidden to speak of it afterward.”
“I never noticed that before,” Ralph commented, frowning.
“Face it, Ralph,” Deirdre Finnegan offered lightly, “What you don’t notice could fill the great hall from floor to ceiling.”
Behind her, Kevin Murdock snorted a laugh.