Book 1 - James Potter and the Hall of Elders' Crossing

He was on his way up to the common room when he decided to make a side trip. He was curious
about something.
The trophy case was lit with a series of lanterns, so that the cups, plaques, and statues each glinted
brightly. James walked slowly along, looking in at the team photos of decades-past Quidditch teams, their
uniforms outdated, but their smiles and expressions of hearty invincibility eternally unchanged. There were
gold and bronze trophies, antique Snitches, game Bludgers strapped down with leather belts, but still wiggling
slightly as he passed.
James stopped near the end and looked in at the Triwizard Tournament display. His dad smiled the
same uncomfortable smile, looking impossibly young and unruly. James leaned in and looked at the picture
on the other side of the Triwizard Cup, the one of Cedric Diggory. The boy in the picture was handsome,
guileless, with the same expression on his face that James had seen in the old Quidditch team photos, that
expression of perpetual youth and seamless confidence. James studied the photo. The expression was what
had kept him from making the connection the first time he’d seen the picture.
“It was you, wasn’t it,” James whispered to the picture. It wasn’t really a question.
The boy in the picture smiled his smile, nodding slightly, as if in agreement.
James hadn’t expected an answer, but as he started to straighten up, something changed on the
plaque below the Triwizard Cup. The engraved words sank into the silver plaque, then, after a moment, new
words surfaced. They spelled out slowly, silently.
James Potter
Harry’s son
A shiver thrilled down James’ back. He nodded. “Yes,” he whispered.
The words sank back into nothing. Several seconds went by, and then more words drifted up.
How long
Has it been
James didn’t understand the question at first. He shook his head slightly. “I… I’m sorry. How long
has it been since what?”
The letters receded and spelled again, slowly, as if they took great effort.
Since I died
James swallowed. “I don’t know, exactly. Seventeen or eighteen years, I think.”
The letters faded out very slowly. No more formed for almost a minute. Then:
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