"You know, I know your father. Met him when he was a student here and not yet the famous Auror that he is now, of course." Slughorn nodded knowingly, winking, as if Harry Potter had not, in fact, been enormously famous even before he'd become Head Auror. "He's mentioned me, no doubt. Very close we were at the time. Of course, I've lost track of him in the years since, what with my teaching, pottering about, turning into an old man, and his getting married, developing his illustrious career, and making fine young men like yourself." Slughorn punched James playfully on the shoulder. "I look forward to catching up with him a bit during his visit next week. Do tell him to look me up, won't you?"

        "I will, sir," James said, rubbing his shoulder.

        "Good, good. Well, I'll leave you boys to your studies, then. Carry on, er, lads," Slughorn said, glancing at Ralph and Zane with no apparent recognition, despite the fact that he and Ralph had spoken that very morning.

        "Oh. Uh, Professor Slughorn? Could I ask you a question?" It was Zane.

Slughorn glanced back, eyebrows raised. "Why, certainly, er, Mr.?"

        "Walker, sir. It was your Potions One class, I believe. You mentioned someone named Austramaddux?"

        "Ah, yes, Mr. Walker. Wednesday afternoon, was it? Now I recall." Slughorn glanced distractedly toward the front desk. "Yes, not really potions-related, but his name did come up. Austramaddux was a historian and Seer from the distant past. His writings are considered, well, apocryphal at best. I believe I was making a little joke, Mr. Walker."

        "Oh. Well, thank you, sir," Zane replied.

        "Never a problem, my boy," Slughorn assured him, glancing around the library. "And now, I must return to my duties. I'll not distract you further."

        "That was quite a coincidence," Ralph whispered, leaning over the desk as Slughorn drifted away.

        "Not really," Zane reasoned. "He mentioned Austramaddux in class as a joke. I remember now. It seemed to be a reference to a source that isn't all that trustworthy or is a little loopy. The way we'd refer to a tabloid or a conspiracy theory or something. Slughorn's head of Slytherin House, so he probably uses that same reference among your guys. They'd know it. That's why the one that made off with your GameDeck knew the name."

        "I suppose," Ralph said doubtfully.

        "But why?" James asked. "Why use a name that means 'don't trust me, I'm a loon'?"

        "Who knows what dopiness lurks in the hearts of Slytherins?" Zane said dismissively.

        "It just doesn't make sense," James insisted. "Slytherins are usually all about image. They love all that cloak and dagger stuff, with the dragons' heads and secret passwords. I just don't get why one of them would use a name that their own Head of House treats like a joke."

        "Whatever," Ralph said. "I have actual homework to do, so if you two don't mind…"

        They all spent the next half hour working on their homework. When it was time to pack up, Zane turned to James. "Quidditch tryouts tonight, right?"

        "Mine, yeah. Yours, too?"

        Zane nodded. "Looks like we'll be sharing the field. Good luck, mate." Zane shook James' hand.

        James felt surprisingly touched. "Thanks! You too."

        "Of course, you'll rip it up out there," Zane pronounced airily. "I'll be lucky to stay on top of a broom. How long have you been flying, anyway?"

        "I only ever flew a toy broom around the house when I was little," said James. "The laws used to be pretty loose about brooms. There were underage height and distance restrictions, but pretty much anyone of any age could take one up as long as they were careful not to be seen by any Muggles. Then, back around the time Dad got his honorary diploma from Hogwarts, some teenagers got drunk on Firewhisky and tried to play Quidditch in Trafalgar Square. Since then, the laws have been tightened up. Now it's almost like getting a Muggle driver's license. We have to take flight lessons and get certified before we can fly legally. Some wizarding families will still let their kids go up on a broom in the backyard and stuff, just to practice. But my dad being an Auror…"

        "Both your dad and your mom were big-time Quidditch players, though, right?" Zane asked, nudging James with an elbow and grinning. "Even if you don't even know which end of a broom is up, you'll still be killer on it when you hit the field. Metaphorically, of course."

        James smiled uncomfortably.

        They headed to their classes. James couldn't help feeling nervous. He'd nearly forgotten all about Quidditch tryouts. The knowledge that he'd be out there in a few hours, getting on one of the team brooms for the first time and trying to be one of the few first years to make the Gryffindor team left him feeling vaguely sick. He thought of the Snitch he'd grown up playing with, his famous Dad's famous first Snitch. Back then, he'd never doubted his future. The way Uncle Ron talked about it, it was almost James' birthright to be on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team his first year, and James had never questioned it. But now that it was imminent, he was afraid. The fears he had felt during the Sorting ceremony all came back. But that had turned out all right, he reminded himself. He'd been so worried about it, he'd almost talked the Sorting Hat into sending him to Slytherin House with Ralph, and he knew now what a mistake that would've been. The key was to relax. Quidditch, like being a Gryffindor, was in his blood. He had to just let it happen and not worry.

        By dinner, he had to admit his plan wasn't working. He could barely eat.

        "That's right, Potter," Noah nodded, seeing James' untouched plate. "The less you eat, the less you'll have to throw up when you're in the air. Of course, some of us see a little well-aimed sick as a great defensive technique. You've had your first broom lesson with Professor Ridcully, right?"

        James drooped and rolled his eyes, "No. I haven't. First class is on Monday."

Noah looked serious for a moment, and then shrugged. "Eh, you'll do fine. Brooms are easy. Lean forward to go, pull back to stop. Lean and roll into turns. Piece of cake."

        "Yeah," Ted agreed. "And all the rain and wind out there will only make it easier. You probably won't even be able to see the ground, what with the fog. Easier to trust your guts."

        "Just as long as you keep them on the inside," somebody called from further down the table. There was a chorus of laughter. James dropped his head onto his folded arms.