James Potter And The Crimson Thread by George Norman Lippert

Author:George Norman Lippert
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2013-08-12T00:00:00+00:00

Happy Christmas, James!

I’m certain these new dress robes will come in handy

over your holiday with the Vandergriffs. Those old ones are

too horrid even to serve as hand-me-downs for Albus. Do us

all a favour and donate them to Mr. Filch to use as rags.

Much love!

Mum

Bleakly amused, he read the note again, and then allowed it to fall from his fingers to the floor. Without looking at the new dress robes, he pushed the box aside and flopped onto his bed, unsure if he felt more like laughing or crying.

Some small part of his mind (probably the part that belonged to his mother) scolded him for blowing off Cameron, whose only crime was thinking much too highly of James than he surely deserved. Another part of his mind (this one likely belonging to his father) halfheartedly reminded him that he did indeed have a stack of homework to do. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to address either voice. Instead, he thought only of Ralph battling Professor Odin-Vann, and the increasing flash and sizzle of their furious duel. Ralph truly disliked the young professor. But why? Was there something more to it than distrust?

Further, what could explain Odin-Vann’s suddenly expert dueling abilities? Surely James hadn’t imagined the professor’s earlier impotence. He recalled very well their first Charms class, when Odin-Vann had seemed unable to so much as magic his own chalkboard clean while everyone was staring at him.

Dolohov, he thought to himself, lying crooked on his bed, one leg kicked off and sprawled to the floor. Ralph Dolohov. Get used to it…

He didn’t know when he fell asleep. It fell over him like a black cloak, dropping him into dreamless oblivion with no transition whatsoever. He didn’t dream.

He traveled.

“James,” a young woman said, her voice bemused and surprised in equal measure, though muted with solemnity.

James opened his eyes. He stood in a small space that was simultaneously enclosed yet open to the outdoors. Breeze lifted his hair and tugged at his untucked shirt. His feet stood on old wooden planks, rough with peeling white paint. From all around came the unmistakable shush and gurgle of waves. James had been here before, in another dream.

Only this wasn’t a dream, anymore than it had been the last time he had visited this place. It was the gazebo on Petra’s grandparents’ farm, overlooking the secluded woodland lake in which Izzy Morganstern, Petra’s stepsister, had almost drowned at Petra’s own hand.

Izzy was there now. She lay sleeping on one of the two benches built into the gazebo’s hexagonal railing. Across from her, pale in the last shreds of sunset, sat Petra. A heavy book was open on her lap, but she was looking up at him, a weary, affectionate smile on her face.

“Is this really you?” James asked, his voice unconsciously hushed beneath the gentle lap of the waves.

Petra shrugged. “As real as I get these days.”

“So I’m not dreaming,” he confirmed, looking around at the ruddy shimmering water, the distant wood filled with purple dusk and chirring crickets.

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