James Potter And The Morrigan Web (107 page)

Petra nodded. She closed her eyes and extended a hand toward James. Instantly, he felt gravity fall away, releasing him into the air. Gently, he lofted over the broken statues, the decimated fountain, and into the icy chill of the frosted rose window. The ugly five-faced clock hung before him, its guts ratcheting faintly, pushing the minute hand inexorably, gradually forward. Hovering before it, James studied the clock, looking for any hidden compartment or alcove.

There were only seconds left.

Desperately, James reached forward and grabbed the gigantic central white face with his free hand. He tugged at it, meaning to wrench the face off completely. With a brief screech, however, the face hinged open, swinging like a door and revealing the Clock’s ticking, gear-choked innards.

A small compartment occupied the lower third. Inside it, glinting wickedly, was the familiar gargoyle-faced cane head.

“Don’t just grab it out!” Rose called, struggling to raise her voice over the clambering crowd. “
Switch
them, James!”

Ralph added, “But be quick about it!”

James held the old pistol next to the glinting cane, bringing them as close together as he could. Like opposing magnets, they seemed to resist each other. James steeled himself, wrapped his free hand around the cane (which was hot to the touch, as if it had been sitting for months in blazing desert sun) and held his breath.

He tugged. The cane didn’t want to move. He tugged harder, straining and pushing the pistol forward, trying to force them to switch places. It wasn’t working. Something forced them apart, a sort of tiny but undeniable gravity, a force field of destiny, insisting that what was meant to happen
had
to happen.

And then, suddenly, the force field broke. The cane flew from the compartment at the precise moment that the pistol slammed into it. James recoiled backward, cane in hand, caught in mid-air by Petra’s careful levitation.

The clock struck the hour. Brilliant light exploded from it, blinding James. He shielded his eyes and cringed away. Tendrils of magic arced from the clock, white-gold in the expanse of the Hall. The tendrils connected like lightning to every wizard and witch in the hall-- Titus Hardcastle, who had finally regained his feet, along with the other Aurors; Lily and the other student ambassadors; every diplomat and Ministry official in the clamouring crowd-- all were suddenly connected in a sparkling, flashing Web of magical energy. The Web’s intensity built, became blinding, and then, with an explosive crescendo of perfect finality, burst into a mass of inexplicable red, purple and yellow shapes, filling the Hall entirely.

James felt himself lowered suddenly to the floor, clumsily, as Petra glanced around, her eyes wild, worried, examining the flittering, colourful cloud. A scent filled the Hall, soft but pervasive, smelling incongruously of spring breezes and sunlight. It was, in fact, the unmistakable perfume of spring flowers, and with it, James recognized the fluttering veil of objects. They were petals, descending like confetti, covering the floor, the broken tables, the smashed statues, and every person in the Hall, transforming the chaotic scene into a softly magical wonderland.

Every eye in the room cast about in stunned silence, watching the gentle snowfall of colour.

Slowly, cautiously, Petra relaxed. She turned to look back at James over her shoulder, a fragile smile rising on her face like a sunrise.

James returned the smile. Helplessly, he fell to a seat on the floor, releasing the ugly cane head, weak with relief.

Behind him, suddenly, the door beneath the Rose window shuddered. Something banged against it from the inside, then blasted it open. From his seat on the floor, covered with fluttering petals and smelling of summer rose gardens, James turned. His father, uncle and aunt burst through the antechamber door, wands raised alertly, shoulders hunched for battle. Spying the gently falling curtain of petals, they stopped, looks of comical confusion dawning on their faces.

Harry spotted his son seated amidst a drift of flower petals and lowered his wand.

“James,” he asked, his voice strained with wonder and confusion, “What… exactly… did we
miss
?”

25. THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY

The moment the crowd of ambassadors, diplomats and government officials drained from the Hall, carefully guarded by the Aurors, Albus and Scorpius appeared, as well as Zane and, unexpectedly, Professor Flitwick.

“Whoa,” Zane said, his eyes going wide as he pushed through the double doors and spied the destruction and bizarre floral decoration of the room. “This must have been some party!”

“Albus,” Harry called his son, beckoning him forward urgently. “Help us! Rose has been hurt!”

Both Albus and Scorpius dashed forward, converging on Rose as Hermione and Ron bent over her.

“It’s not as bad as it looks, Mum, really,” Rose winced as they pulled her to her feet. “Petra helped me. She’s good at that sort of thing, apparently.”

“Shush” Hermione commanded, supporting her daughter on one side while her husband supported her on the other. “This is all your fault!” she exclaimed, glancing up at Ron. “She gets all her mischief from your side of the family!”

“Mum,” Rose managed to roll her eyes.

“No,” Ron shook his head, “it’s true, love. And despite what your mum says, she wouldn’t have it any other way. You’ll tell us everything that happened on the way to hospital wing, right?”

“There are others,” Harry said, meeting Albus and Scorpius and pointing toward the petal-covered debris of broken tables and statuary. “None hurt as bad as Rose, but they’ll need some help getting to the hospital wing. You’ll take them, won’t you?”

“Aww, dad!” Albus complained, “I want to hear the story! I mean,
look
at this place! And you should have heard the noise!”

“Believe me, I did,” Harry nodded curtly. “And you’ll hear the story just as soon as I do. For now, you and Scorpius, I officially classify you junior Aurors, first class.”

“What? Sincerely?” Albus brightened. “Wait, does that mean…” he glanced back toward the double doors, where Titus Hardcastle was conversing with Lucinda Lyon, their heads close together. “You know… you’re, like, back in charge again?”

“Provisionally,” Harry nodded. “I’ve only spoken briefly to the Minister-- he seems to have spent a large portion of the evening under a table-- but he formally dismissed the charges against your aunt, uncle and me in light of the evening’s events. There’ll be a hearing before the Wizengamot, but I don’t expect to have any trouble with it after…” he glanced around the room and gestured vaguely, “all of this. Now off with you. Duty calls.”

“Yes sir!” Albus saluted and dashed off, followed closely by Scorpius. Watching from nearby, still dazed at the evening’s events, James could see that Scorpius was pleased with his temporary deputation, even if he didn’t like to show it. Together, the boys began to lead limping and confused diplomats from the room, grilling them loudly about what had happened.

“
I
wanted to be a junior Auror,” Zane sighed, plopping next to James in the drift of petals.

James glanced aside at his friend. “So what brought you here?”

Zane shrugged. “Nastasia left me a note. Said she was coming here tonight and that I would never see her again. She said not to follow her because she didn’t want me to get hurt.”

“So you followed her,” James nodded.

“Immediately. The Alma Aleron cabinet was in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, lying on its back,” Zane said, cocking his head curiously. “I mean, what’s up with that? I had to crawl out of it like Dracula waking up from a nap.”

“Oh,” James said, “that was Ralph. He knocked it over.”

“Sounds like Ralph,” Zane agreed equably. “What about the Beauxbatons cabinet? Don’t tell me
that
was his work, too?”

“Why?” James asked, his curiosity piqued. “What was wrong with it?”

Zane gave a low whistle. “Smashed all to bits. Looked like somebody had taken a sledgehammer to it.”

“You’re probably not far off,” James nodded, thinking back to the Collector’s unnatural, rage-fuelled strength. “So have you seen Nastasia, then?”

“No,” Zane slumped. “You?”

James shrugged noncommittally. “Here and there. It’s… complicated.”

Zane gave a deep sigh. “I know. She’s trouble. I’m sorry for the way I acted about it all. She weaves quite a spell, doesn’t she?”

James nodded again. “Petra was here,” he commented, changing the subject.

“She was?” Zane exclaimed, sitting up. “Where’d she go?”

“Gone again,” James admitted, making a flying away gesture with one hand. “She and that detective bloke. Marshall Parris. Said she’ll be back, though, once she sees him back to his home in the states and pays him. She’s bringing Izzy back with her when she comes.”

“Cool,” Zane relaxed.

Ralph approached, his hands still tacky with Rose’s blood. “Come on, you two,” he said, cocking a thumb over his shoulder. “You’re dad’s looking for some explanations, James.” The big boy smiled down at Zane. “By the way, good to see you, mate!”

Zane squinted up at Ralph, meeting his smile. “You too, Ralphinator. Just like old times, eh?”

Ralph glanced around at the ruined Hall and nodded. “Yeah, I’d say pretty much
exactly
like old times. Shame you missed all the action.”

“Hey,” Zane said, climbing to his feet, his smile turning into a grin, “the night’s still young!”

Ralph and Zane each took one of James’ hands and tugged him to his feet. Together the three picked their way over to where Harry Potter stood talking to Professor Flitwick.

“The Professor here has given this curious object a quick examination,” Harry said, holding up Magnussen’s broken cane head. “Suffice it to say, it’s nothing but a worthless hunk of iron, now. Whatever you did to it, James, you broke its powers.”

“Ooo!” Zane exclaimed, his eyes brightening. “Can I have it then? It’d make a great addition to my dorm room! Give it that dark and brooding look that it’s been missing for the last year or so!”

“I think not,” Harry said with a half-smile, handing the cane back to Flitwick. “We’ll be destroying it, just to be sure. But now,” he glanced from Ralph to James. “You two, it seems, have a tale to tell…”

He invited the boys to join him on the dais, beneath the row of still-standing headmaster portraits (who, apart from the non-moving Merlinus Ambrosius, watched with great interest). James didn’t want to describe the events of the night-- he felt weary to the bone and slightly punch-drunk-- but his father gently insisted, reminding them that their memories of events would be less clear even by tomorrow morning. Thus, with Ralph’s help, they told the entire tale.

When it was over, Harry shook his head in wonder. “I can’t believe it…” he mused darkly from his seat beneath the portraits.

“What?” James prodded, “that we tossed the whole universe around like a quaffle? Or that Rose poisoned Judith’s mind with the Yuxa Baslatma plants?” He perked up, warming to the topic, “Or that I figured out the key to defeating the Morrigan Web with just a few seconds to spare?”

His father shook his head wryly. “No. I can’t believe you didn’t trust Tabitha enough to stop us from falling for the fake object. We destroyed the Vassar’s Crystal Chalice for nothing…” His voice was scolding, but James could see that he was suppressing a smile.

“Yeah,” James nodded, giving his father a shove. “Well
you
said you wouldn’t use wands with the Morrigan Web about to go off! ‘Oh, we’ll all leave them at home just to be safe’! Big liar!”

“It wasn’t a lie,” Harry said, rising to his feet. “It was a last minute change of plan.” He stretched his back and peered aside, at the portrait of Merlinus Ambrosius. Addressing Flitwick, he asked, “No luck bringing it to life, Professor?”

Flitwick came alongside and heaved a shallow sigh. “None at all, I’m afraid. And with his death almost exactly one year gone, I have little hope of ever finding success.”

“You’ve tried everything?” Harry frowned curiously at the portrait.

“Well,” Flitwick hedged, “everything within my power. The final option is unavailable to me, of course. A touch from the deceased’s wand sometimes imparts the final spark of life. Unfortunately, Headmaster Merlinus left his staff buried immovably in New Amsterdam.”