Arianna sat with her own parents, Lily and Graham Warton—a union that James could not begin to understand even to this day, a decade after it had been announced to the world via a surprise wedding in Hogsmeade. It seemed to work for them, if occasionally tumultuously, judging by the number of times that Lily showed up at her parents’ old house in Marble Arch “needing to talk”!
More familiar faces dotted the assembled crowd. James saw Scorpius and Nastasia halfway around the bowl of the amphitheatre, him watching with stoic boredom, her peering down at the parchment in her own lap, scribbling things with her finger. Her hair was no longer pink. Today, it was a sort of aquamarine at the crown of her head, fading to a bright acid green at its flouncy, pixie tips. It would probably be neon blue by the time they arrived at the reception. They were not a happy couple, quite. And yet they were somehow perfect for each other, James thought, sharing their time between her residence in Muggle New York city, where she was a freelance writer and “professional malcontent”, and wizarding Diagon Alley, where Scorpius had followed in his father’s footsteps at Gringotts bank.
Their own three children, Wentz, Beckett, and Urie, were apparently at their London flat in the charge of their house elf nanny.
Hagrid was also in attendance, of course, near the front, his broad back and now-grey bushy hair blocking at least three full seats behind him. Elsewhere, James spied Gennifer Tellus and Noah Metzker, Uncle George and Ted Lupin, Lucy and her grown sister Molly, and of course, the couple whose firstborn son they were there to celebrate, Damian and Sabrina Damascus. They sat near the front, on the row opposite Hagrid, beaming with fierce joy as their son, young Damian Junior, crossed the stage and accepted his enormous rolled diploma from headmaster Longbottom, who shook the boy’s hand firmly and smiled. There was, James saw, a stiffness in Neville’s smile, a certain admonitory brittleness at the edges.
Damian Junior ignored this. He tucked his diploma under one arm, turned to the crowd, and raised both fists to his head. He jammed his extended thumbs into his ears and stuck out his pinkies, waggling them energetically.
“Gremlin salute!” his father cried from the audience, jumping to his feet and returning the gesture, his square face positively brick red with pride.
Gennifer Tellus hooted and jumped up as well, as did Ted Lupin, Noah Metzker, and a few of the other original Gremlins. Zane was on his feet, joining in the gesture even before Cheshire knew what was happening. The crowd murmured with mixed laughter and annoyance. Cheshire yanked Zane frantically by his coattail, pulling him back down into his seat.
James wanted to join in, but reluctantly chose not to. It would likely be considered unseemly for an incoming headmaster. Besides, he had never been particular good at Gremlinery.
On the stage, Neville rolled his eyes and shook his head, drawing a weary hand to his brow.
Later that night, the white tent was once again erected on the lawn overlooking the lake. Most of the families had gone home, but Ralph, Rose, Scorpius, and Albus had stayed behind, ostensibly to serve as chaperones, although James well knew that they were mostly there for their own nostalgic reasons.
The group divided their time between halfhearted patrols around the tent for illicit consumption of firewhiskey and a largish round table near the tent entrance, where they congregated and reminisced and caught up on each other’s new lives.
Ralph, like Scorpius, had followed in his father’s footsteps, becoming the official technical security liaison to the Ministry of Magic.
He alone had been responsible for the complete and comprehensive update of the Rules of Secrecy, which encompassed everything from Artificial Stupidity hexes for Muggle GPS devices to new official terminology of the ages-old Vow of Secrecy that all magical citizens took upon coming of age. Thanks to him, the wizarding world was, if not more secure than ever, certainly no less secure than it had been back when James himself was a first year and a lone Muggle reporter had forced himself, via pure bloody-minded determination, through the unplottable boundary of the Forbidden Forest and into Hogwarts School.
Rose had become a partner in Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, opening its first American location in New Amsterdam to much fanfare and unexpected success. She was now negotiating store franchises in locations all across both America and the UK, while juggling the more prosaic responsibilities of taking care of their younger son, Ivan Arthur, while Volkiev trained to assume command of the Harrier Corps from the soon-retiring Viktor Krum.
Zane had become a writer of fiction stories, partnering with the Muggle detective, Marshall Paris, for a series of novels based on his completely bizarre and inexplicable adventures. His first novel, “Bullets are Forever”, had not been a bestseller, but it had been popular enough to gain the attention of a huge wizarding publishing firm in New Amsterdam. His latest book, “X Equals Revenge”, was the fifth in the Marshall Paris series, slated for release during the upcoming Christmas season.
“That’s the key,” Zane said conspiratorially. “I could publish my grocery list, and if it came out on the first of November, it would sell like lemonade at Hades’ gates. It’s all a racket! But a racket that works in my favor, so I don’t complain one tiny bit.”
James knew there was more to Zane’s success than mere release dates, but appreciated his old friend’s tactful self-deprecation.
Albus, of course, didn’t talk much about what he was doing. As chief deputy Auror, second only to their dad, there wasn’t much he was allowed to talk about, at any rate. Instead, Rose asked him about his wife, Fiera. Albus responded happily, talking about her and their daughter, Fiona Constance, with the deliberate detail of a man avoiding other, more sensitive topics.
Altogether, they offered up the typical middle-aged laments, obligatory and blithe. They were all living pretty much exactly the lives that they had hoped and dreamed of, even if, in actual practice, those lives were rather more prosaic and bland than they might ever have expected.
The gathering toasted James’ new position, clinking various glasses of butterbeer, blackcurrant wine, and one firewhiskey (Albus, of course). They lamented the continued lack of a Gryffindor house ghost, ever since Nearly Headless Nick had made it into the Headless Hunt, well over two decades earlier.
When the party was over, or at least winding down to its final dregs, James abandoned the tent and made his way to the empty Gryffindor common room.
Not much had changed. There were a few newer chairs and tables. The sofa beneath the window had been replaced with one that was, while still threadbare and sagging, not quite as threadbare and sagging as the one that he remembered. The bust of Godric Gryffindor, chipped and battered, stood on the mantel, just begging to be used in one more game of Winkles and Augers.
James’ old bed up in the boys’ tower had long since been refinished, the words WHINY POTTER GIT expunged permanently from its headboard. This was probably a good thing, considering his new position. And yet he felt a certain wistful sadness about it.