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The most unnerving thing about McGonagall’s office, James decides at once, is the portraits on the walls. Some are sleeping – or pretending to be – but others have their painted eyes fixed on him, intrigued, clearly eager to discover the wrongdoing that has brought him to the Headmistress’ office.
The largest portrait, directly behind the desk, is of a silver-haired wizard with a long, crooked nose and half-moon glasses. He meets James’ gaze and winks, ever so slightly, but it’s oddly reassuring. This whole experience is highly disconcerting. It’s not like it’s the first time he’s ever been in trouble, but he’s never been summoned here before. When he arrived, bearing the note from Professor Armstrong, Professor McGonagall took it from him and indicated, wordlessly, that he should sit. It’s deeply unsettling, waiting here; her mouth grows thinner and thinner as she reads the note in silence.
Eventually, she looks up, adjusts her spectacles, and says, “Explain yourself.”
James is thrown. “I – er –”
“Muggle duelling?” she snaps, rapping her knuckles on the parchment. “In front of half the school? What on Earth possessed you to make such an example of yourself?”
He opens his mouth to say that it wasn’t his fault, he was provoked – and then stops. It doesn’t matter that Barkley deserved it – he, James, is not a snitch.
“Well?”
“I overreacted,” he mumbles. “It won’t happen again.”
“To what?”
“Just … something that was said. It’s not important.”
Oops. Wrong thing to say. Her mouth, if possible, gets even thinner. “I will be the judge of that, thank you, Mr Potter,” she says. “What was said that made you so very angry? Now, if you please,” she adds impatiently, when he hesitates. “I haven’t all day.”
James, recognising swiftly that he doesn’t have much choice in the matter, swallows hard. “It was something … about my dad,” he admits.
Staring at his knees, he doesn’t see McGonagall’s dark eyes flash.
“Tell me precisely what was said.”
“That he – my dad – hasn’t earned anything he’s got.” Anger boils in his stomach as he remembers the words, and Barkley’s jeering tone … “That he just got lucky, and he’s nothing special, just famous for no reason.”
There’s an indignant cry of protest from one of the portraits; another one shakes his fist furiously. James, warmed by this display of loyalty to his dad, glances quickly at Professor Dumbledore’s portrait. The old wizard raises his painted silvery eyebrows back at him.
“I see,” says McGonagall brusquely, and James drags his gaze back to her. He thinks her expression might have softened ever so slightly, but she still doesn’t look pleased.
“Listen to me very carefully, Mr Potter,” she says. “I cannot, and will not, condone my students attacking each other. You will be punished for your actions.”
James’ heart sinks, though he doesn’t know what he expected. He nods resignedly.
“You simply cannot go around brawling like an animal every time somebody insults a member of your family. Understanding that you may feel the need to defend them does not make it excusable. You must exercise self-restraint. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal,” says James, then wishes he hadn’t. The severe mouth twitches at the corners.
“Good. I should be extremely displeased to see you in here again.”
A knock on the door interrupts his (not entirely confident) assurance that she won’t.
“Ah,” says McGonagall. “I believe there’s someone else who would like to talk to you.” He frowns as she calls for whoever it is to enter, and the door swings open, to reveal -
“Dad?” James says in disbelief, staring. His father smiles at him, and despite himself, James feels his nose prickle, because he misses his family, misses not seeing them every day, and he’d forgotten the way his dad stands with his hands in his pockets, a faintly quizzical smile on his lips, everything about his presence reassuring: it’s OK, here I am.
“You came up here because I’m in trouble?” he demands.
“No - I was here anyway to talk to the seventh years. Professor, may I have a word with James alone?”
“You may,” says McGonagall, and James goggles at her; he’s never seen her smile properly, not like she’s smiling at his dad right now. “Mr Potter, I will be in touch with details of your detention.”
He resists the urge to say he’ll look forward to it as he gets up. His dad ushers him down the spiral staircase, waiting until they reach the corridor below before he speaks.
“So,” he says, as casually as if discussing Quidditch, “you punched someone in the face, hm?”
“I’d like to make a case for the fact that his face punched me in the fist,” James tries.
“Denied,” says Dad at once, his eyes creasing in amusement. “Want to tell me why?”
“Er … no?”
“Try again.”
James heaves a sigh. “Fine. It was something about you, and it was stupid, and I blew up and punched him. And I know, I should have just let him insult you –”
“Well, yes,” says his dad mildly. “Look, James, I appreciate your loyalty, but you don’t need to defend me, not when it’ll only get you in trouble.”
“But –”
“Besides, I’ve had far worse said about me than … what was it? That I’m nothing special?”
James’ head whips around to stare at him. “Wha – you know? How? I only just told McGonagall -”
“Oh, I know everything,” Dad shrugs. James wrinkles his nose.
“Daaad …”
“All right, I ran into Neville on my way up here. He told me the whole story. I think you may find your detention is with him, so make sure you pretend you’ve had a rotten time, OK? And,” he adds, stern now, “don’t go thinking you’ll get that every time. I can understand you reacting the way you did - though I don’t want it to happen again – but any other misdemeanours you might get into will be punished fairly, and you’ll accept that.”
“I know,” James says, “they already have been.” His dad raises his eyebrows at that, and he hurries on: “But … what am I s’posed to do, when someone’s saying stuff about you?”
“Walk away. Don’t rise to it. Listen to me, James – I don’t take any of it personally, so neither should you. I am sorry that you’re put in this position, but that means I’m all the more keen that it doesn’t get you into trouble. I know it isn’t easy, but you’ve got to try, all right?” He stops, glances down at James, and adds gently, “For me?”
“Urghhhh,” James groans, as the impact of those two words hits him like a metaphorical Bludger of emotional guilt trip. “Why did you have to say that?”
“Because I know that’ll work more effectively than shouting.” Dad’s eyes twinkle. “For what it’s worth, aside from the occasional wrongdoing, you seem to be doing very well here and I’m exceptionally proud of that. I’m just asking this one thing of you.”
“Stand back and shut up,” James says dully.
“No. Pick your battles,” says his dad. “I would say it’s always worth defending people who can’t stick up for themselves. Just – try and keep the punching to a minimum.”
“What about Bat-Bogey Hexes?”
“I think I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“Mum wouldn’t have taught me that spell if she didn’t want me to use it,” James reasons. He pauses. “Are you going to tell her about this?”
“What do you think?” says Dad good-humouredly. “Don’t worry. She’ll understand. You might get a letter with a few cross words, but we’re your parents – that’s our job. And I think you’ve learnt your lesson, so it’s OK. Now, how do you fancy having a bit of lunch with me in the kitchens? Or are you too cool for me now?”
“Probably,” James says, though he honestly doesn’t think anybody is cooler than his dad. “But I could make an exception for today.”
“Cheeky.” Dad ruffles his hair. “By the way, I saw Teddy, and he wasn’t too happy with you.”
“Why not?!”
“Well, he mentioned something about you turning his badge red and gold …”