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After two wars in two generations, Hogwarts had known 17 years of peace. 16 years of first-years had sat under the Sorting Hat, turned matchsticks into needles, and taken their first round of exams in an ordinary fashion, or as ordinary a fashion as possible at a school for witchcraft and wizardry. In the seventeenth year, eleven-year-old James Sirius Potter was sorted into Gryffindor.
“Mr. Potter, what precisely are you doing?” Professor Neville Longbottom asked, resisting the urge to rub his temples. It was only 10 o’clock in the morning, a beautiful September morning, but Neville was developing a headache.
“Well, sir, I am…I am looking for a lost item,” James replied.
“Outside of Ravenclaw Tower? Don’t you think it more likely that, given you are in Gryffindor, whatever you have lost is in the vicinity of Gryffindor Tower?”
“Yes, sir, only, well, Aunt Luna says that sometimes things have a habit of disappearing at Hogwarts, and I thought I ought to be thorough with this, um, item.” James stammered a bit at the end. A muffled shriek and the sounds of a scuffle emitted from the direction of what Neville knew to be the entrance to the Ravenclaw common room.
“And what is it that you lost, Mr. Potter,” Neville asked resignedly.
“The funny thing about that, sir, is I was only…” but James was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a burly sixth year carrying a wriggling schoolbag at the top of the spiral staircase.
“Oh, hullo Professor!” the boy said cheerfully, picking his way carefully down the stairs as the bag swung to and fro.
“Good morning, Mr. Belby. What is in that bag?”
“A niffler, sir, juvenile by the looks of her. Wrecked Antigone’s model of the Outer Hebrides — those moonstones she’s charming to reflect the weather on the islands, I think the niffler liked the shine on them. She’s not very happy, I did tell the third years that Care of Magical Creatures projects were not to be brought into the Common Room.” Edward Belby delivered this monologue without breath or seeming to notice the commotion coming from the wriggling bag.
“Thank you, Mr. Belby, but in this case I don’t think it was a third year. You can leave the niffler with me,” Neville said, waving his wand to seal the bag as Edward handed it over, “I’ll see your bag returned once I’ve dealt with the niffler. You may continue on to class.”
“Yes sir, see you this afternoon.”
Neville turned back to James, who at this point was twisting the edge of his robes into a knot. “Is this your niffler, Potter?”
“No sir.” James abandoned his effort at misdirection in favor of honesty.
“Whose niffler is it?”
“Hagrid’s, sir.”
“Did Hagrid give you the niffler?” Neville asked, hoping the answer was no. Hagrid had a soft spot for all the Weasley and Potter children, and had known both of James’ namesakes. Hopefully he would not have handed over a magical creature, however harmless, to a first year.
“No sir.”
“And what was Hagrid’s niffler doing in Ravenclaw Tower while you were outside?”
“Well sir, I’m not entirely sure, only I had taken it out for a walk in the corridor because this summer Grandad got a muggle niffler to find treasure while we were at the beach on holiday, and I thought I could use a real niffler to find treasure at Hogwarts and have an adventure.”
“I see,” Neville said with a sigh, “Potter, students are not permitted to bring magical creatures — magical creatures other than owls,” he added hastily, seeing that James was about to object, “into the school.”
“Yes sir.”
“I will be returning the niffler to Hagrid, and you will be joining me in detention Tuesday evening after dinner.”
“Yes sir,” James repeated rather sullenly, his face a mixture of chagrin and stubbornness.
“Now, I suggest you continue on to the pitch, I believe your flying lesson starts soon.” That caused James (whom Neville had watched zoom about on a toy broom and later a Cleansweep 14) to brighten considerably.
“See you later, Nev — Professor!” he called, beating a retreat towards a descending staircase. Once he was out of sight, Neville chuckled slightly. He was still holding an indignant niffler stuffed into a schoolbag, and now he had to come up with something for James’s detention. Lines, he thought, there was always lines.