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

"I address equals, young man," the wizard said. "I command the likes of you. Begone, ruffian."

There was a smattering of laughter from the crowding students, but there was also a growing sense of nervousness. Nobody was ever amazed at the moving paintings. This man was either a nutter of a wizard, or he was… well, it was unthinkable. A Muggle could not get into Hogwarts. The students formed a large circle around him, as if he was a mildly dangerous animal.

"The students have hemmed me in," Martin said, turning around, his eyes rather wild. "I'm going to attempt to break through, however. I must move further in."

As Martin proceeded, the perimeter of students broke apart easily, following him. There was a murmuring now. Nervous chatter followed the man, and he began to raise his voice.

"I'm entering a large chamber. Quite high. I've been here before, but late at night, in the dark. Yes, this is the hall of moving staircases. Very treacherous. Remarkable mechanics at work here, and yet no sound of machinery at all."

"What's he saying about machinery?" someone in the crowding students called. "Who is this bloke anyway? What's he doing here?" There was a chorus of confused responses.

Martin pushed on, turning past the staircases, almost shouting now. "My presence is beginning to cause some resistance. I may be stopped at any moment. I… I am bypassing the stairs."

Martin turned a corner and found himself in the midst of a group of students playing Winkles and Augers in a bright alcove. He stopped suddenly and recoiled as the auger, an old Quaffle, stopped three inches from his face, floating and turning slowly.

"Oi, what're you thinking just walking right into the middle of the sodding match, you?" one of the players called, yanking his wand up and retrieving the Quaffle. "Dangerous, that is. You need to watch yourself."

"Flying… things!" Martin squeaked, straightening himself and smoothing his shirt frantically. "I… wands. Actual magical wands and levitating objects! This is perfectly remarkable! I've never seen…!"

"Hey now," another of the Winkles and Augers players said sharply. "Who is this? What's he going on about?"

Someone else yelled, "Who let him in? He's a Muggle! Got to be!"

"It's the man from the Quidditch pitch! The intruder!"

The crowd began to yell and jostle. Martin ducked past the Winkles and Augers players, losing some of the pursuing crowd. "I'm pressing in further still. Corridors leading everywhere. Here is… er, as far as I can tell, it is a hall of classrooms. I'm entering the first one…"

He burst into the first classroom on his right, followed by a stream of confused, yelling students. The room was long and recessed. The students attending the class turned in their seats, seeking the source of the interruption.

"Relatively normal, it seems, on the surface, at least," Martin yelled over the growing din, scanning the room. "Students, textbooks, a teacher of some kind, who… who, who, whooo…"

Again, Martin's voice rose and he seemed to be losing control of it. His eyes boggled and he ran out of breath. His mouth continued to work, making hoarse raspy sounds. At the front of the class, the ghostly Professor Binns, whose grasp on the temporal realm was tentative at best, had not yet noticed the interruption. He droned on, his voice high and chiming, like wind in a bottle. The professor finally noticed the gasping form of Martin J. Prescott and stopped, frowning. "Who is this individual, might I ask?" Binns said, peering over his ghostly spectacles.

Martin finally dragged a great gulp of air. "A ghooooossst!" he declared tremulously, pointing at Binns. He began to totter. Just as the students near the doorway were shoved roughly aside by the advancing figures of Professor Longbottom and Headmistress McGonagall, flanked by Ted and Sabrina, Martin fell over in a dead faint. He landed hard across two desks at the rear of the room. The students occupying the desks threw their hands up, lunging to get out of the way. A bottle of ink fell to the floor and shattered.

Headmistress McGonagall approached the man swiftly and stopped a few feet away. "Can anyone please inform me who this man is," she said in a strident voice, "and what he is doing fainting dead away in my school?"

James Potter shouldered his way to the front of the crowd. He looked at the man collapsed across the desks. He sighed deeply and said, "I think I can, ma'am."

Fifteen minutes later, James, McGonagall, Neville Longbottom, and Benjamin Franklyn bustled into the Headmistress' office, with Martin Prescott stumbling between them. Martin had regained consciousness halfway to the office, and had instantly shrieked in horror at the realization that he was being levitated along the corridor by Neville. Neville, in turn, had been so startled by Martin's shriek that he'd nearly dropped him, but had recovered in time to lower the man fairly gently to the floor. Apart from James' explanation that the intruder was the very same man he'd accidentally knocked through the stained-glass window and later seen on the Quidditch pitch, the trip to the Headmistress' office had progressed with very little conversation. Once the door to her office had closed behind them, McGonagall spoke up.

"I only want to know who you are, why you are here, and most importantly, how you managed to gain entry," she said furiously, stalking behind her desk but remaining upright. "Once we have resolved that, you will be removed forthwith, and with nary a glimmer of any memory of what you have seen, I can promise you that. Now speak."

Martin swallowed and glanced around at the assembly. He saw James and grimaced, remembering the shattering glass and the sickly fall afterward. He took a deep breath. "First of all, my name is Martin J. Prescott. I work for a news program called Inside View. A nd second of all," he said, returning his gaze to the Headmistress, "I have been injured upon these grounds. I don't wish to make a legal matter of it, but you must be aware that it is entirely within my rights to pursue compensation for those injuries. And somehow, I don't get the impression that this domicile is insured, exactly."

"How dare you?" McGonagall exclaimed, leaning over her desk and meeting Martin's eyes. "You break into this castle, trespass where you have neither the right nor the understanding to carry yourself…" She shook her head, and then went on in a lower voice. "I will not be baited by threats. You are obviously of Muggle origin, so I will practice a modicum of patience with you. Answer my questions willingly or I will be more than happy to resort to more straightforward means of interrogation."

"Ah," Martin said, trying to sound confident despite the fact that he was trembling visibly. "You must mean something along the lines of this." He reached into his shirt pocket and produced a small vial. James recognized it as the one he had seen in this man's hand when he'd encountered him in the Potions closet. "Yes. I see by your faces that you know what this is. Took me a time to figure it out. Veritaserum, indeed. I put two drops into a coworker's tea and I couldn't get him to shut up for an hour. I learned things about him I hope I live to forget, I'll tell you."

"You tested an unknown potion on an unsuspecting person?" Franklyn interrupted.

"Well, I had to know what it did, didn't I? I figured two drops wouldn't hurt anyone." He shrugged and lifted the bottle again, looking at the light through it. "Truth serum. If it was dangerous, you'd hardly have kept it right there on the shelf where just anyone could get to it."

McGonagall's face was white with fury. "In these halls, we rely on discipline and respect rather than cages and keys. Your friend is fortunate indeed that you didn't happen upon a vial of Narglespike or tharff sap."