James Potter And The Morrigan Web (100 page)

“Like your Mr. Filch!” the Collector exclaimed conspiratorially. “Yes! Perhaps you have divined more than you have let on! But allow me to explain for those who might be a bit slower than yourself…”

Here, the Collector took a step backward, flinging both arms out so that his heavy sleeves flapped. His hands were very white in the dimness.

“It may interest you to know,” he said, pushing back his hood to reveal his dark hair and angular, grinning face, “that this persona-- the persona that I rather whimsically refer to as ‘the Collector’-- is quite a recent invention, created for use in the United States. The Collector is a useful face that I wear, meant to inspire both terror and trust, depending on how I use it. But it is a
new
face, a temporary one, a mere mask that I will discard soon enough. I do have
another
face, however…”

Here, the dark figure began to change. James had seen it happen before, in Avior’s chamber, when he had changed from that persona to the one that stood before them now. He expected that same change to occur now, only in reverse. The figure did indeed grow thinner and older. This time, however, the hair turned iron-grey, matted like straw. The beard that sprang from the chin was stiff, triangular, threaded with black. And the face… the face that formed was not that of the long departed Albus Dumbledore. It was stern, cold, with deeply sunken cheeks and dark shadows haunting the eyes.

“This face…” the figure announced in its new, gravelly voice, “is the face of Rechtor Strangewayes Grudje. And I have been him for
decades
…”

Rose pressed back against James, scrabbling for his hand. She had obviously suspected this, somehow, and yet the reality of it was clearly terrifying. On James’ other side, Ralph gulped, backing away half a step himself.

“As you can imagine,” Grudje said, his entire demeanour changed along with his appearance, “it takes a wizard of unique constitution and particularly stoic mind to maintain three separate personas. The animagus aspect of it is only the beginning. The compartmentalizing of minds, the discipline of conflicting personalities, is the true challenge. None of you three can begin to appreciate it, of course,” Grudje passed his gaze over Rose, James and Ralph, “but Ms. Hendricks… I suspect she has some idea of what I’ve mastered. The only difference between her and me is that I embrace the fracture, and cultivate it. In time, however, I intend to teach her that skill as well. She already shows the aptitude.”

Ralph cleared his throat cautiously. “Headmaster,” he said, addressing Grudje directly, his voice shaking slightly, “Sir, I think that you should let us go. We have… er… essays to write.”

“Oh no, Mr. Deedle,” Grudje replied. “We have only just begun. There is still more story to tell. Ms. Weasley is curious, after all. And Mr. Potter here… well, we shall come to him in a moment.” He turned and ran a thin hand along the doors of the Durmstrang cabinet. “Before I, Rechtor Grudje, was headmaster of this school, I was employed by the Ministry of Magic. Ms. Weasley has surely already ascertained this. I was an Unspeakable, consigned to the Department of Mysteries. This was by my design, for it gave me access to the deepest and most terrible secrets of the wizarding world…”

Grudje walked on, passing in front of the Alma Aleron cabinet. “It is said that, apart from its creator, only two people knew the tale of the Morrigan Web-- how it came to be, and how it was accomplished. These two were the international wizarding investigators who interviewed Professor Laosa after her first, tragic experiment. It is further said that the accounts of these investigators were lost to history, deliberately buried in the endless annals of the Department of Mysteries. I can tell you that this is indeed the case. For I alone found their tales. I absorbed them. It was my single goal as an Unspeakable. Using what I learned, I perfected Professor Laosa’s technique. By my hand, transference of magic became a reality! Mr. Filch’s cane is the result. With that object, Principia Laosa’s original dreams are finally realized. But the clock in the Great Hall, bearing the relic of Ignatius Magnussen, is also the result. With
that
object, Principia Laosa’s darkest nightmares are soon come to life.”

“But why?” James asked, anger and frustration turning the question into a demand.

“But I have already answered that question, James,” Grudje said, and as he did his face changed again. He transformed into Professor Avior, altering his bones and flesh with swift precision. “It is because destiny demands it. The rightful place of wizardkind is to rule. The Muggle world needs us. Left to their own devices they are unruly, unpredictable, a danger to themselves and others. We must subdue them. For their own good.”

Rose gave a disgusted laugh. “You’re going to rule them by killing them?”

“Some, yes,” Avior replied, his voice deepening as he morphed back into the Collector. “But only those who must be put down to make way for us. Only those whose cooperation cannot be obtained by other means. It is a cruel mercy, but a mercy nonetheless.”

“But my sister is there!” James cried out, growing desperate. “She’ll die as well!”

“Oh, I’m afraid the reality is much worse than that, dear James,” The Collector said, shaking his head sadly. “You see, your parents are also there.”

Rose startled violently and emitted a little “eep!” of horrified surprise. James’ mouth dropped open.

Ralph stepped forward. “What do you mean? Mr. Potter and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are imprisoned somewhere in the school. They aren’t in the Great Hall.”

“Well, no,” the Collector replied, hedging slightly. “You do have me there. They are in the antechamber directly behind the Great Hall. Unconscious, I might add. If things should go especially badly, do take some solace in that. They will not have suffered the suspense of their own impending death. Unlike this afternoon, when they willingly embraced what they believed to be their own doom, sacrificing themselves for the ungrateful crowd below. I suspect, were they conscious now, they’d feel somewhat silly about that. Pity we cannot all enjoy a hearty laugh over the affair…”

“What do you
want
?” James demanded furiously.

The Collector sighed dramatically. As he did, he transformed yet again, shifting back to the shape of Avior Dorchascathan with a subtle crackle of bone and tendon. “This is also a question I have already answered, James,” he said. “In my office, weeks ago. History repeats itself, only this time we must get the details right. Like your father and Albus Dumbledore, you must join me rather than oppose me. We must be partners, you and I, and by your own willing decision. If you do so, I shall see that your sister and parents are moved to safety. It’s all quite simple, really.”

James shook his head helplessly. “That’s crazy! How am I supposed to join you? How could I?”

“We shall come to that,” Avior smiled thinly. “For now, simply answer the question: do you mean to partner with me? Will you, James, join me, as your father joined Albus Dumbledore?”

“Fine!” James exclaimed. “Anything! Just get my sister and our parents away from the Great Hall!”

“In a moment, in a moment,” Avior nodded. “But first, I’m afraid, the details of our partnership…” He drew a deep sigh and regarded James speculatively. “You are not my first partner, James. I have another, a fetching yet powerful woman. It was she that introduced Ms. Hendricks to me, who recognized the potential of our alliance. You know this partner of whom I speak, do you not, James?”

James’ mind was such a blur of fear and worry that for a long moment he had no idea what Avior was talking about. Then, with a shock, the truth clicked into place. “You mean…” he said, not quite daring to say it aloud-- would Avior laugh at him? Mock him? Doubt him as had so many others? He steeled himself and went on, “Your other partner… is Judith. The Lady of the Lake.”

Avior nodded slowly, meaningfully. “I am jealous of you, James,” he said, almost playfully. “You’ve known her rather longer than I. You two have a history. Don’t attempt to deny it.”

Rose turned to James as Avior spoke, her eyes wide, but not exactly shocked. He knew what she was thinking: she could no longer afford the luxury-- the comfort-- of doubt. The Lady of the Lake was real. Avior knew her. She was his partner.

Ralph sidled closer to James. “Blimey,” he said under his breath, “you were right.”

Avior went on. “It is the history that you and she share that I mean to speak of, James,” he said, a bit too casually to hide the intensity of his interest. “For it shall form the foundation of the partnership between you and I.” As Avior spoke, he changed again, more gradually this time, transforming back into Rechtor Grudje. He turned, pacing slowly along the line of vanishing cabinets. “There is something that I want, Mr. Potter. Something you have heard of, no doubt. It is a great tool. Even greater than the Morrigan Web itself. I have come to understand that whoever possesses it possesses the very fabric of destiny. With it, they can step outside the capricious and nonsensical restrictions of fate. Rather, they can make fate their slave, bending it to their every whim. You know the tool of which I speak, James. My other partner, Judith, whom you call the Lady of the Lake, assures me of this. In fact, she tells me that you are, quite simply, the key to it. You, my young friend,” Grudje said, turning to face James squarely, piercing him with his cold, grey eyes, “You… are the key to the Crimson Thread.”

James returned Grudje’s stare, his mouth suddenly as dry as cotton, completely dumbfounded.

“And thus,” Grudje went on, approaching James slowly, measuring him, “I present to you the nature of our partnership. I desire the Crimson Thread. I have already told you that it is nearly in our grasp. I am assured that you are the key to it. It is in your very hand. All you must do to save the lives of your sister and parents… is give it to me.”

James could not speak. More than anything, he wanted to save his sister, his dad, his uncle Ron and aunt Hermione… but he had no idea what the crazily transforming figure was talking about. Why would he think that James was the key to the Crimson Thread? Why would he say that it was in his, James’, hand? Helplessly, James glanced down, opening his hands. They were empty, of course.

“She lied to you,” he said faintly, not looking up from his open hands.

“Speak up, Mr. Potter,” Grudje said warningly. “And take care: the lives of your family depend on your next words.”

James shook his head, wishing he had something else to offer, wishing that Judith hadn’t been so horribly cruel. He raised his eyes to Grudje. “She lied to you,” he said, angry tears prickling the corners of his eyes. “Judith is the one who told you I was the key to the Crimson Thread. But she lied. It’s a trick. A horrible, mean trick. On both of us.”

“Mr. Potter,” the dark figure said, transforming once again into the Collector, “Are you telling me that you
refuse
to give me the Crimson Thread?”

“I’m
telling
you,” James said, raising his voice, “That I don’t have it to give…” He glanced aside at Ralph. “Last time we saw the Crimson Thread it was in the World Between the Worlds. Only what we saw wasn’t really the Crimson Thread at all. It was just a symbol. The real Crimson Thread was a girl. Her name was Morgan. She’s dead now. Judith killed her. That’s what she does,” James returned his gaze to the dark figure before him, his eyes blazing. “Judith kills. She killed Morgan. She killed my cousin Lucy. She’ll kill us if she gets the chance. And then, when she’s done,” James laughed harshly, “why, she’ll come and kill
you
.”

The Collector’s face hardened at this. All the mean glee leaked out of it, leaving only hard-eyed viciousness. He straightened.

“So be it,” he said coldly, almost petulantly. “If you do not wish to play my game, Mr. Potter, then I am afraid I have no use for you at all. Ms. Hendricks,” he looked past James, addressing Nastasia. “Kill them.”

James couldn’t quite believe his ears. Could it be this sudden? This anticlimactic? Were he, Ralph and Rose about to be killed by a girl their own age, a traitor with pink hair and a nose ring?

He turned, but Nastasia was no longer behind him. She was moving around them to join the Collector, her eyes firm as she glared at James, her wand still raised.

The Collector stood back to allow her room. “This is the first time you’ve killed, is it not, Ms. Hendricks?”

Nastasia nodded, not hesitantly, but eagerly. “I’ve practiced plenty. On the target dummies back at Alma Aleron. But this is the first time for real.”

“For real is the only time that counts,” the dark figure said wisely, his bones crackling slightly as he transformed back into Professor Avior. “I know that you have feelings for James. This could make killing him somewhat difficult for you. Practice on the other two first. Begin with Ms. Weasley.”

“Wait!” James cried, trying to push Rose behind him, but she shoved him away.

“Don’t be stupid, James!” she hissed. “You’re very noble and all, but it’s pointless.”

Suddenly, Ralph lunged forward, rushing Nastasia where she stood and inexplicably jamming his hand into his robes. Nastasia leapt backwards, pivoting her wand wildly.

“Avada…!” she shouted, but Ralph was too fast. He bowled into her, driving her backwards into the Alma Aleron cabinet. Their combined weight knocked the cabinet off balance. It teetered and crashed to the floor with Ralph and Nastasia atop it. James threw himself forward to help his friend, but a blast of red blinded him, emanating from the struggling pair. Ralph flew backwards, repulsed by the blast, and bashed against the Durmstrang cabinet, knocking it over as well.

“Stay!” Nastasia shouted furiously, struggling upright and pointing her wand at James. James skidded to a halt while Avior laughed wheezily.

“Excellent, Ms. Hendricks,” he said encouragingly. “One must be ready for anything, up to and including physical attack. Very spirited response, if a bit clumsy. You will learn refinement.”

Rose joined James, trembling with rage and fear. “Did you kill him?” she demanded, her voice glassy.

“Not yet,” Nastasia admitted, her breath coming in harsh pants, her pink hair wild over her flushed face. “You heard the Professor. I’m to kill
you
first.”