The Cloak of Invisibility
I’m never gonna look back, whoa
I’m never gonna give it up, no
Please don’t wake me now
This is gonna be the best day of my life
‘Best Day of My Life’ by American Authors
Wednesday 1st September 1971
James Potter hasn’t slept.
In his defence, how could he possibly do something so mundane on a day like this? He has tried, of course, but ultimately gave up sometime around two o’clock, his mind too busy thinking up all kinds of outrageous scenarios to even come close to losing consciousness.
He’s going to Hogwarts. Finally. After eleven years of waiting, he’s at last going to the magical school in the Scottish Highlands. No one can possibly expect him to be patient after all this time. Much like many other children from wizarding families around the British Isles, James has grown up with a childhood revolving around tales told by parents who had also attended the school in their youths. Now it’s his turn to make memories that will one day become stories for his own children. He can’t wait.
It's close to eight o’clock in the morning when he finally hears the sound of his parents stirring, and, deeming it an acceptable time to be up and about in the house, he rushes from his room onto the landing, nearly knocking his father over as he emerges from his parents’ bedroom.
“Steady on, James, the train doesn’t leave for another three hours,” Fleamont chuckles, trailing after his son.
“I don’t want to be late,” James enthuses, practically bouncing.
“I take it you’re excited, then?”
“You have no idea!”
“Well, I think I might have some,” Fleamont smiles. “It’s not been so long that I can’t remember my own years at Hogwarts.”
“Mhm, whatever you say, old man,” he taunts.
“Who are you calling old man, you little toerag?” His dad lunges forwards, tickling his son’s sides. James shrieks, dashing off down the stairs and through the hallway in the direction of the dining room, Fleamont hot on his heels.
“Toddy! Toddy, you’ve got to help me!” he cries as he crosses the threshold, racing around the large table to escape his dad.
“Master James is being most dramatic this morning,” comes a croaky voice. A moment later, a small house-elf appears, a tray laden with all sorts of pastries balanced in his hands.
“He’s trying to tickle me!” James squawks indignantly, watching warily as his father doubles over slightly to catch his breath.
“Toddy is sure that Master Fleamont has a good reason for it.” James gasps, affronted as he throws himself down in his seat. Fleamont flashes him a triumphant smile.
This is how it has always been between James and Toddy, their relationship consisting of mostly bickering. The small house-elf has been a part of the family for as long as James can remember, and in his eyes, he considers Toddy pretty much as a third parent—just a little bit meaner than the first two.
“Good morning,” James’ mother, Euphemia, chimes, striding into the room and leaving the scent of jasmine flowers in her wake. “I hope these two aren’t giving you too much trouble, Toddy.” She takes her seat at the table, accepting a kiss on the cheek from her husband as she does so.
“No more usual,” grumbles Toddy, now levitating a hefty jug of orange juice. It’s Fleamont’s turn to look scandalised now.
Euphemia tuts and arches an eyebrow at him. “Honestly, what am I going to do with the pair of you?”
“Don’t pretend you would have it any other way,” Fleamont jests.
“Hmm,” she hums before turning to James. “Is all of your stuff packed up and ready to go?” He nods, cheeks bulging with the entire slice of toast that he’s managed to cram in his mouth. “And you’re sure you’ve got everything? Books? Wand? Robes?”
James gulps down his toast. “Yep. I even have this.” Out of his pocket he pulls a red-and-gold school tie—Gryffindor’s colours.
“Where’d you get that?” asks Fleamont.
“I might have had a nose around in your old school trunk,” he replies, looking a tad bit sheepish. “Did you really dye your hair bright blue?”
“Not out of choice, son, not out of choice.” Euphemia snorts.
Breakfast continues in much the same way, with jokes made and laughter shared. James is going to miss it—of this he is absolutely certain. He’s an only child—his parents having had trouble conceiving and not expecting to ever have a child until James came along—and they are everything to him. His whole world, truly. And it can definitely be said that he takes after them. He’s inherited his looks from his father, as well as that mischievous glint that seems to perpetually linger in his eyes, and from Euphemia he got his complexion and, most importantly, his kindness. James Potter has more love living inside of him than one would ever have thought possible for an eleven-year-old boy.
After their meal has come to an end, they leave the dining room. Euphemia heads up to the study to send a letter by owl before they have to leave for King’s Cross, and as father and son watch her ascend the grand staircase from their place in the entrance hall, Fleamont nudges James gently in the ribs. “Want to see something cool?” he whispers.
James nods enthusiastically. “Yeah.”
Once the coast is clear, they make their way through the house and up to the loft. The heavy door creaks loudly on its hinges, making them cringe in unison. They close it behind them, and Fleamont flicks on the light switch, illuminating the dusty room which is jam-packed full of belongings: old Quidditch equipment, suitcases, rusted owl cages, boxes of miscellaneous items, a plastic Christmas tree that James is pretty sure hasn’t seen the light of day in his lifetime. At the back of the room sits Fleamont’s old school trunk. This is what they are here for.
Fleamont kneels down, James eagerly following suit, and swipes his hand over the lid, cleaning off the nameplate that reads ‘Fleamont C. Potter.’ He lifts the lid up, revealing the decades-old contents. At the top are the photos that James was looking through whilst on the hunt for the Gryffindor tie. There are ones of his mum and dad sat under a tree by a large lake, looking jus as stupidly in love as they are in the present day, some are of Fleamont and his friends, and there is the one of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, grins plasters to their faces and brooms in hand. In this photo, Fleamont’s hair is dyed an electric shade of blue, and his arm is thrown around the shoulders of a lanky girl with black hair, green eyes and a Snitch clutched tightly in her fist.
“Will you ever tell me what happened to your hair to make it go blue?” James questions as his dad begins to rummage through the trunk.
“Filius Flitwick happened,” he huffs. “I made a bet with him on who was the better duellist. Whoever lost would have to dye their hair the other’s house colour.”
“And you lost?”
“Evidently so.”
James spends the next several minutes flipping through the photos whilst his father searches for whatever it is that he is looking for, and in the end, most of what had originally been inside the trunk is scattered haphazardly about them on the old floorboards.
“Aha!” he cries out at last, fishing out a shoebox from the very bottom of the trunk. “Knew it was in here.” James watches, his anticipation growing, as his father sets the box down on the floor between them.
“What is it?”
“First things first, James, I need you to promise me that you won’t tell your mother about what I’m going to give you. She’d have my head if she found out. It has to stay just between us.”
Apprehension creeps in. What could this thing possibly be, and what could make Fleamont want to keep it a secret from his wife? His dad seems to sense this, and he rushes to clarify. “Don’t look so worried—it’s nothing bad. She just doesn’t want you to cause too much trouble whilst you’re away, and this … well, this would definitely make it easier for you to do just that.”
His concerns appeased and interest piqued, James nods. “I promise.”
Those two words are all that is needed for Fleamont to flip open the lid of the box. Laying inside, there is what appears to be a sheet of material, silvery and shimmering.
“What is it?” James repeats, confused as to what is so special about this piece of fabric, as pretty as it is.
“This,” his dad responds, carefully drawing the cloth out of the box and holding it between the two of them like it is something sacred, “is the secret of the Potter family.” And with that, he manoeuvres the sheet behind him and drapes it over his shoulders, pulling it close around his front. James can’t believe his eyes. Where his father’s body had once been, there is nothing but air, a levitating head above it. It’s disappeared! His body has disappeared!
“Well?” Fleamont prompts.
“You—but you—that’s—you’re invisible!”
His dad grins—it’s the same grin that James can often be seen sporting. “Told you it was cool.”
“It’s more than cool, Dad! Where did you even get something like this?”
“It was my father’s. He gave it to me when I started Hogwarts. Before it was his, it belonged to his father, and he was given it by his father, and so on.” He pauses, removing the cloak from around his shoulders. “It’s yours now.” He holds it out to his son.
“Seriously?” James asks, starstruck.
“Seriously,” Fleamont confirms.
Ever so gently, James reaches out, taking the Cloak of Invisibility into his hands and pulling it around himself. With a shimmer, his body disappears from sight, just as it did for his father’s.
“You like it, then?”
“I love it.” James lunges forwards, wrapping invisible arms around his dad’s middle and pressing his not-so-invisible face into his chest. “Thank you so much, Dad.”
“You’re welcome, son. Just make sure you put it to good use.” He winks, that signature sparkle shining in his eyes.
✶ ✶ ✶
It is a little over an hour later when they at last find themselves at King’s Cross Station. James is ecstatic, making an impossible attempt to take it all in at once, which is causing him to have a fair bit of trouble in walking a straight line. So far, he has bumped into three people, all of them giving him slightly disapproving looks before continuing to rush off to wherever it is that they are going. In the end, after he’s nearly tripped someone up by suddenly stopping to look around, his mum takes hold of his arm in order to keep him moving. His dad clears a path in front of them using the trolley that carries James’ trunk.
They come to a halt next to the barrier between platforms nine and ten. “Here we are, then,” Fleamont states.
James glances about dubiously, not seeing any way of actually getting to where they need to be. “I thought you said that there’s a secret passage. I can’t see anything.”
“Well it wouldn’t be much of a secret if everyone was able to see it easily, would it?” says his mum.
“No … I guess not.” He pauses for a moment, contemplating his surroundings. “How do we get to platform nine and three-quarters, then?”
“You have to run at the barrier.”
“Ha, ha, very funny, Dad. Now, how do we actually get there?” askes James, rolling his eyes.
“I’m telling the truth James,” Fleamont insists. “Here, watch this.” After a furtive look about, making sure that no one is paying them any mind, he moves so he is facing the barrier, before breaking into a run, pushing the trolley ahead of him.
James is certain he’s about to witness his father give himself a concussion and is very ready to say ‘I told you so,’ but, much to his amazement, the trolley as well as Fleamont pass seamlessly through the wall and completely disappear. James gasps.
“Ready to give it a go?” Euphemia smiles knowingly.
He walks forwards tentatively, looking back at his mum, who nods her head in encouragement, before moving into a hesitant jog and squeezing his eyes shut tight. He braces for impact, but nothing comes. There’s only a breeze that brushes lightly against his skin and a slight change in sounds.
James opens his eyes to find himself standing on an entirely different platform. There is a sign hanging above that reads ‘Platform 9¾,’ and in front of him is a grand scarlet stream train: the Hogwarts Express. His parents have been telling him about this train for as long as he can remember.
His eyes rove about wildly, drinking everything in: some older kids playing with what appears to be a Fanged Frisbee, a girl with blonde hair and a barn owl perched on her shoulder, other students and their families exchanging teary goodbyes. Glancing over at his mum—who appeared only seconds after he did—and dad, he can practically see the nostalgia creeping in, like they’re looking back to almost thirty years ago and reliving their teenage years all over again.
“Has it changed much since you were last here?” James asks.
“Not at all,” comes his mother’s reply. She turns her face to gaze down at James, a mix of affection and sadness etched into her features. “Oh, I’m going to miss you so much,” she says, sniffling whilst drawing him into a hug. “I always thought my mum was being dramatic when she would cry at me going back to school.”
“Your mother was very dramatic,” Fleamont mutters under his breath.
“Not now, Monty,” she grumbles in that fond way reserved only for him and James.
At last, she pulls away, hands on James’ shoulders and holding him at arm’s length. “I’m expecting at least one letter a week from you, young man. Anything less and I will Floo all the way up to Scotland just to check up on you. And for the love of Merlin, James, please try not to cause too much chaos.”
Behind her, Fleamont is trying not to laugh.
“But I’ve got to try and beat Dad’s record for most pranks pulled in a year,” James contradicts.
“Would it not be better to try and beat the grades he got?”
James pretends to ponder on this for a couple of seconds before replying with a very serious ‘Nope.’
Euphemia huffs in exasperation while a laugh escapes Fleamont, and then he is pulling James in for his own hug.
“Have a brilliant time, James. We love you lots, and we expect to hear all about school when we see you again at Christmas.” With one final squeeze, he withdraws his arms from around his son.
“I love you both loads and loads and loads, and I promise to write to you all the time,” he swears, voice thick, before he takes his trunk and turns, stepping onto the Hogwarts Express for the very first time.