G. Lippert - James Potter and the Hall of the Elders' Crossing

"Come on," Zane whispered, startling James out of his reading. "I'm gonna sneak out early so I can get in some practice time on the broom. Want to come along? I could use a Potter for good luck."

James decided it would be good to swallow his pride and tag along with Zane. He even thought he might spend a little practice time on a broom himself. He folded the newspaper again and stuffed it into his backpack.

"Think you can show me how to do that hard stop and spin I saw you pulling in Basic Broom class today?" James asked Zane as they pounded up the stairs to change out of their robes.

"Sure, mate," Zane agreed confidently. "Just don't show it to Ralph until he can keep his broom under him while he's floating still."

James felt an ugly pang at the mention of Ralph's name, but he pushed it away. Minutes later, changed into jeans and tee shirts, the two of them ran exuberantly out into the sunlight of the afternoon, heading toward the Quidditch pitch.

James spent the afternoon on the pitch with Zane, practicing his broom-handling a little, but mostly just watching the Ravenclaw and Gryffindor teams assemble and run drills. When Zane joined his team to grab some quick dinner and get into their gear, James accompanied Ted and the Gryffindors back to the common room as they changed and headed down to dinner themselves. The atmosphere before the first match of the season was always charged with excitement. The Great Hall was raucous with good-natured teasing, shouts and impromptu outbursts of House anthems. During dessert, Noah, Ted, Petra, and Sabrina, all dressed in their Quidditch jerseys, lined up along the front of the Gryffindor table, arms linked and grinning like they were about to perform a show tune. In unison, they stomped their feet on the stone floor, garnering the room's attention, then launched into a roughly choreographed but enthusiastic Irish jig, singing a tune Damien had written for them earlier that day:

Ohhh, we Gryffindors like to make jokes and have fun,

But the Quidditch pitch with us will be overrun,

And we hope that the Ravenclaws know that they're done,

When the lion team drops down on them like a ton.

Ohhh, the game can be tough and the body checks harsh,

And you might find your Seeker's been tossed in the marsh,

But we Gryffindors with our goodwill are not sparse,

So we'll warn you before we kick you in the—

The last words were drowned out by the mingled roars and cheers of the Gryffindors and the boos and catcalls of the Ravenclaws. The Gremlins bowed deeply, grinning, obviously pleased with themselves, and then joined their teammates as they ran out to the Quidditch pitch for final preparations.

The first and last matches of the Quidditch season, as James knew, were always the best attended. At the end of the year, during final tournaments, everyone knew that, whichever teams were playing, they'd be exciting matches. At the beginning of the year, though, people were excited and hopeful for their own House teams. Most matches saw the grandstands filled with students and teachers, decked out in their team colors and waving flags and banners. As James entered the pitch, he was delighted to see and hear the enthusiastic crowd. Students milled and shouted to each other as they filed into their seats. The teachers mostly sat at the tops of the sections dedicated to their houses. As James climbed the stairs into the Gryffindor section, he saw his dad seated near the press box, flanked by the Ministry officials on his right and the Alma Aleron delegation on his left. Harry saw James and waved him up, smiling broadly. As James reached him, Harry orchestrated a complicated rearrangement of the seating that, while only freeing a single seat for James, required nearly everyone in the group to move. James mumbled apologies, but didn't really mind seeing the look of annoyance on Ms. Sacarhina's face, masked thinly by her omnipresent plastic smile.

"As I was saying, yes, we do have Quidditch in the States," Professor Franklyn said to Harry, his voice carrying over the dull roar of the assembling crowd, "but for some reason, it isn't quite as popular as sports like swivenhodge, grungeball or broomstick gauntlet. Our World Cup team shows some promise this year, though, or so I am told. I tend to remain skeptical."

James glanced around at the Americans, curious to see who was in attendance and what they seemed to think of the match so far. Madame Delacroix was seated on the end of the row, her face expressionless and her hands folded tightly on her lap so that they looked unpleasantly like a ball of brown knuckles. Professor Jackson glanced at James and nodded in greeting. James saw that his black leather case, with its inexplicable cargo, was sitting between his feet, securely closed this time. Professor Franklyn was dressed in what passed for his dress robes, with a high white collar and a frilly ascot at his throat, and his square spectacles which caught the light cheerfully as he looked around the grandstands.

"Where's Ralph?" Harry asked James. "I thought I'd see him with you tonight."

James shrugged noncommittally, avoiding his dad's eyes.

"Ah! Here we are," Franklyn announced, sitting up and craning to watch.

The Gryffindor team streaked out of the broad doorway at the base of their grandstand, their red cloaks snapping behind each flyer like a flag.

"The Gryffindor squadron, led by Captain Justin Kennely, is first to take the pitch," Damien Damascus' voice rang out stoutly from the press box.

The team pulled into a corkscrew formation that tightened as it rose, and then yanked their brooms to a halt as the players formed a large letter 'G' right in front of the Gryffindor section of the grandstands. Then the shape dissolved as the players broke formation, dodging around one another in a dizzying bout of aerial acrobatics, and reformed into the letter 'P'. All the players sat up straight on their brooms, faced Harry and James, and saluted, grinning broadly. The Gryffindor grandstand applauded wildly, deafeningly, and James saw dozens of smiling and shouting faces turning to view Harry's reaction. He waved and nodded curtly, half standing to receive the accolade.

"You'd think the Queen was in attendance," James heard Harry mutter as he sat back down.

"And now, here come the Ravenclaws," Damien called, his voice echoing around the pitch. "Headed by Captain Gennifer Tellus, fresh from last year's tournament victory."

The Ravenclaw team burst from the opposite side of the grandstand like fireworks, each flyer pulling off into a different direction, weaving through each other and tossing a Quaffle from player to player with speed that defied the eye. After several seconds of spiraling wildly and apparently randomly around the grandstands, the Ravenclaws streaked simultaneously into the center of the pitch, pulled to a sudden stop, then spun on their broomsticks to face the crowd in all directions. Each player raised their right arm, and Gennifer, in the center, held the Quaffle over her head. There was wild cheering from the Ravenclaw grandstand, and cheers of appreciation and respect from the rest.

Finally, Gennifer and Justin flew into position in the center of the pitch, nodding greetings as the teams took up formation behind their captains. Beneath them, standing in the center-mark of the pitch in his official's tunic, Cabriel Ridcully held the Quaffle under his arm, his foot resting on the Quidditch trunk.

"I want to see a clean match," he called up to the players. "Captains, ready? Players in formation? Annnnd…" He hefted the Quaffle in his massive palm, arm outstretched. "Quaffle in play!"