James flopped back into the grass, clutching his right arm next to him. The crowd began to break apart as Ridcully appeared, pushing his way through. The Headmistress and Professors Franklyn and Jackson were right behind him. James heard Tabitha Corsica talking loudly to her teammates as she headed back toward the pitch. "People think that because it's Muggle-made, it must be a lesser broom, you see. But the magic of this is stronger than anything you'd find in a standard Thunderstreak, even one with the ExtraGestural Enhancement option. This broom knows who its mistress is. All I had to do was summon it. Mr. Potter could hardly have known that, though. In a way, I feel sorry for him. He was just doing what he knew to do."

        McGonagall squatted down next to James, her face grave and full of consternation. "Really, Potter. I just don't know quite what to say."

        "Broken ulna, Madam," Franklyn said, peering at James' arm through a strange device comprised of different sized lenses and brass rings. He folded it neatly and slipped it into his inner robe pocket. "I'd suggest the hospital wing for now and questions later. We have much more to attend to at the moment."

        "Quite right," the Headmistress agreed, not taking her gaze from James. "Especially since I expect that Miss Sacarhina and Mr. Recreant will be here within the next few hours. I must say, Potter, I am extremely surprised at you. To attempt something so puerile at such a time." She stood, brushing herself off. "Very well, then. Mr. Jackson, would you escort Mr. Potter to the hospital wing, please? And if you would be so kind as to instruct Madam Curio that Mr. Potter is to be kept there overnight," she fixed James with a steely stare as Jackson pulled him to his feet, "I want to know exactly where to find him when I wish to question him. And no visitors."

        "Rest assured, Madam Headmistress," Jackson answered, leading James back toward the castle.

        They walked the first five minutes in silence, then, when they entered the courtyard and the noise of the pitch died away, Jackson said, "I haven't quite pegged you yet, Potter."

        The pain in James' arm had receded to a dull throb, though it was still rather distracting. "Excuse me, sir?"

        "I mean that I haven't figured you out, yet," Jackson said in a conversational voice. "You obviously know far more than a boy your age should, and somehow, I don't think that is merely because you are the son of the Ministry's Head Auror. First, you attempt to steal my case, and then tonight, you orchestrate this preposterous charade to steal Miss Corsica's broom. And despite what everyone else might think, Potter," he glanced aside at James as they entered the main hall, his dark brows lowering, "I know that you did not steal it in order to give the Ravenclaws a better chance in the tournament."

        James cleared his throat. "I don't know what you're talking about."

        Jackson wasn't paying him any attention. "It doesn't matter, Potter. Whatever you think you know, whatever it is you are up to, after tonight, it won't matter one iota."

James' heart skipped a beat, and then began to pound hard in his chest. "Why?" he asked, his lips strangely numb. "What's tonight?"

        Jackson ignored him. He opened one of the leaded glass doors into the hospital wing and held it for James. The room was long and high, lined with crisply made beds. Madam Curio, who for rather obvious reasons, was not a Quidditch fan, was seated at her desk in the rear corner listening to classical music on her wireless.

        "Madam Curio, you probably know Mr. Potter, here," Jackson said, pressing James toward her. "He has somehow managed to break his arm at the Quidditch match despite the fact that he himself is not actually on either of the teams."

        Madam Curio stood and approached James, shaking her head. "Hooligans. I'll never understand what it is about that sport that turns otherwise proper individuals into Neanderthals. What do we have here, then?" She lifted James' arm gingerly, feeling for the break. He hissed through his teeth when she found it. She clucked her tongue. "Nasty fracture, sure enough. Could have been worse, though, I'm sure. We'll have you fixed up in no time."

        "Also," Jackson said, "I've been instructed by the Headmistress to ask you to keep Mr. Potter here for the evening, Madam."

        Curio didn't look up from her inspection of James' arm. "The Skele-Gro will take at least until tomorrow morning to complete its work, anyway. Still, this is minor enough. I might have sent him to his rooms with a splint."

        "The Headmistress wishes to question Mr. Potter, Madam. She desires that he be kept under supervision until then. It seems, I am afraid, that Mr. Potter is suspected to be involved in a very serious plot that could put this school at risk. I shouldn't say more, but if you chose to post some sentries at the doors to keep visitors out and Mr. Potter in, at least until tomorrow morning, I wouldn't think that was overdoing it."

        "She didn't say any such thing!" James exclaimed, but he knew that his protest wouldn't help. In fact, the louder he protested, the worse it would probably look.

        Curio gasped and straightened up. "Does this have anything to do with the intrusion of that horrible man on the premises yesterday? I've heard that he's some sort of Muggle newsperson, and that he's still here! It does, doesn't it?" She covered her mouth with her hand and looked from Jackson to James.

        "Again, I really shouldn't say any more, Madam," Jackson replied. "Besides, Mr. Potter may end up being entirely exonerated. We shall see in time. At any rate." Jackson looked down at James and there was the faintest suggestion of a smile on one corner of his lips. "Until tomorrow morning, then, James."

        He turned and stalked out of the room, closing the door carefully behind him.

17.Night of the Returning

To her credit, Madam Curio didn't let Professor Jackson's accusations influence her treatment of James. She examined the fracture for several minutes, poking and pinching, and then carefully splinted it. She fell into a harsh but pedantic diatribe about the woes of Quidditch injuries, but it sounded to James like something she'd said a hundred times before. Her mind was elsewhere, and James didn't need to guess what was preoccupying her. The invasion of Martin Prescott into the school had caused a wave of speculation and anxiety. His identity as a Muggle news reporter, and the fact that he was being kept in the Alma Aleron's quarters had fed a load of rumors. There was a cloud of unease over the entire school, not alleviated by the Headmistress' announcement that Ministry officials were arriving to deal with Mr. Prescott. As Madam Curio measured the Skele-Gro dosage, James caught her glancing at him suspiciously, looking him up and down. Somebody had to have let the interloper in, after all. Why not this first-year son of the Head Auror? James knew that some people--those who believed the lies of the Progressive Element--would expect him to pull just such a stunt. Earlier that day, he'd heard a voice from a cluster of students saying, "It makes sense, doesn't it? The whole Auror line is that the Law of Secrecy is our only protection from the supposed Muggle witch-hunters. So what do they do? They allow this guy to sneak in and scare us all into thinking Muggles are hiding out in the forest, behind every bush with a torch and a pyre, ready to burn us all at the stake. It's preposterous. I say let him do his story. That'll show those Ministry power-mongers what for."