"What is going on up there?" a raspy voice called, vibrating with rage. James scrambled to his feet, being careful not to step on any of the broken glass with his bare feet. Gingerly, he edged as close to the hole as he could and peered down. It was hard to tell how high the window was. There was no noise from the night except the hiss of the wind in the treetops.

        Mrs. Norris the cat streaked up a nearby staircase, her orange eyes baleful as she flicked her gaze over the window, the broken glass, and then James. Mr. Filch followed, puffing and cursing as he climbed.

"Oh," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "It's the Potter boy. Why, oh, why am I not surprised?"

         "What were you thinking, Potter, chasing an unidentified individual, through the castle, at night, alone?" Headmistress McGonagall was standing behind her desk, leaning on it with both arms, ramrod straight. Her eyes were incredulous, her face scowling.

        "I--" James began, but she raised one hand, stopping him.

        "Don't answer. I've no patience for it this morning." She sighed and stood up straight, pushing up her glasses and pinching the bridge of her nose. "I've heard enough Potter explanations throughout the years to know the general shape of them, anyway."

        Filch stood nearby, the jut of his jaw and the glint of his eye showing his pleasure at catching the latest Potter troublemaker so quickly. Mrs. Norris purred in his arms like a small, furry engine. James risked a look around the Headmistress' office. The room was still dim with very early morning shadows. The portraits of all the previous headmasters and headmistresses dozed in their frames. James could just see the portrait of his brother's namesake, Albus Dumbledore. Dumbledore was seated, his chin on his chest and his hat lowered over his eyes. His lips moved as he snored silently.

        McGonagall lowered herself into her chair. "Mr. Potter, you, of all people, cannot tell me that you are not aware that there are rules against students wandering the school grounds at night."

        "No," James said quickly. "Er, yes, I do know about the rules. But the ghost--"

        McGonagall raised her hand again. "Yes, the ghost, I know." Everything except her actual words expressed doubt about that part of his story. "But Mr. Potter, you understand that even if a ghost appears in a student's bed chamber, that does not give said student a free pass to break whatever rules he deems temporarily inconvenient."

        Mr. Filch stirred, seeming to decide that now was the time to press the point as he saw it. "He destroyed the Heracles window, Headmistress. Priceless bit of glasswork. We'll not find a replacement to match it, I'll wager." He sneered down at James as he finished.

"Windows are one thing, Mr. Filch," McGonagall said, not looking at him, "but intruders on school grounds are quite another. I presume you've already arranged an inspection of the campus, beginning with the area outside the Heracles window?"

        "Yes, ma'am, and we've found nothing. The Venus Rose Gardens are immediately below that window. They're a bit of a mess, broken glass everywhere, but there's no sign of any intruder. We've only got this boy's word that there ever was such an intruder, Headmistress."

        "Yes," McGonagall replied. "And unfortunately, in this case, that is a word I am inclined to trust. Someone obviously went through that window, unless you are suggesting that Mr. Potter himself came in through it."

Filch ground his teeth and glared at James as if he wanted very much to suggest such a possibility.

        "But he was in the Potions room, ma'am!" James insisted. "He broke some vials! They must still be there. And he broke in through a window not far from there. I saw it. The ghost led me there."

        McGonagall studied James carefully. "Mr. Potter, I believe that you saw someone, but the likelihood of that person actually having broken onto the school grounds from outside is extremely small. You are aware that Hogwarts is protected by the best security measures and Anti-Magic spells available. No witch or wizard, regardless of their skills, can possibly get into these halls unless they are supposed to be here."

        "That's just it, ma'am," James said earnestly. "I don't think he was a wizard. I think he was a Muggle!"

        He'd expected gasps of surprise from the Headmistress and Filch, but there were none. The Headmistress merely gazed at him, her expression unchanging. Filch glanced from her to James and back, then let out his breath in a nasty little laugh.

        "You've got to hand it to 'em, Headmistress. They get a little more creative every year."

        "James," McGonagall said, her voice softer, "the unplottable nature of the school, as well as the innumerable Disillusionment Charms that blanket the grounds, make it truly impossible for any Muggle, no matter how persistent, to ever find their way in. You know that, don't you?"

        James sighed and tried not to roll his eyes. "Yes. But that doesn't change what I saw. It was a Muggle, ma'am. He used a crowbar. And a penlight. Not a wand."

        McGonagall read his face for a long moment, and then turned businesslike. "Well, Mr. Potter, if you are correct, then we have a situation on our hands that certainly needs remedying. You may trust that we will look into the matter. However, in the meantime, there is still the issue of breaking curfew, as well as the damaged window. Under the circumstances, I won't blame you for the latter, but you must still face the consequences for the former. You will serve two hours of detention with Mr. Filch this Saturday night."

        "But--" James began, then Filch's hand descended heavily onto his shoulder.

        "I'll take care of the lad, Headmistress," he growled. "It's not too late to save 'em when you catch 'em early. Is it, young lad?"

        "Potter," McGonagall said, apparently having already moved on to other matters, "take Mr. Filch up to the Potions closet and the other broken window, won't you? Let's try to get things cleaned up before classes if we can. Good morning, gentlemen."

        James stood miserably and Filch guided him to the door with the great, callused hand on his shoulder.

        "Come along, my lad. We've got mischief to rectify, haven't we?"

        On the way out, James saw that one of the headmaster portraits was not sleeping. The eyes of that headmaster were black, like the lanky hair that framed the white face. Severus Snape studied James coldly, only his eyes moving to follow as Filch marched him from the room.