James Potter And The Morrigan Web (11 page)

He would be going on Hogsmeade weekends this year. And learning more advanced defensive and duelling spells! And going to the now-traditional Yule Ball! And most importantly of all, after his success playing Clutchcudgel at Alma Aleron during the previous year, James was determined to finally--
finally!--
make the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He sighed deeply, in happy anticipation.

There had been times during the previous year when James had been quite sure he would never see Hogwarts again. He realized that some part of him had been secretly worried, even during the train ride, that something might still prevent his arrival. It had been a summer of upheaval and dark surprises, after all. Nothing felt particularly safe anymore. But here he was, seated back in his old place at Hogwarts as if nothing had happened at all. He felt pleasantly exhausted, as if he could climb onto the table and go to sleep right there, among the crystal goblets and gleaming silverware.

His reverie was broken, however, as a small cough announced someone standing behind him. James glanced back and was surprised to see tiny Professor Flitwick offering him a rather strange, strained smile.

“Welcome back, Mr. Potter,” Flitwick said peremptorily. “I wonder if I could, er, borrow you for a moment?”

James frowned. “You mean… now?”

“If you would be so kind,” Flitwick nodded, grimacing slightly. “It should only take a moment of your time. It’s a trifle, really…” He trailed away, glancing around the hall as if avoiding James’ eyes. On the dais, Professor McGonagall was positioning the stool and the Sorting Hat, preparing for the start of year tradition. Lily and the rest of the first years were lining up before the dais, dripping rainwater and excitedly nervous, led by Professor Longbottom. Lily stared up at the floating candles, smiling irrepressibly.

“Go on,” Scorpius nudged him impatiently. “She’ll be fine. All the surprises happened the year your brother and I got sorted.”

James nodded, turning back to Flitwick. “All right. Sure, Professor. Whatever you need.”

Flitwick nodded and smiled as James stood. Wordlessly, the tiny Professor led James through the rear doors, across the Entrance Hall, and down a corridor toward what James recognized as the faculty rooms. The Professor produced his wand and tapped the knob of a heavy door near the end. With a golden flash, the lock unlatched and the door creaked open slightly. Flitwick glanced back at James, as if to assure he was still there, gave another nervous smile, and pushed the door open.

“I am sorry to interrupt your arrival, Mr. Potter,” he said, leading James into a tiny, darkened room. It was obviously Flitwick’s office, for the desk and chair were almost comically small, albeit immaculately arranged and organized. A single tall, leaded window dominated the curved wall to the right of the desk. In front of this, silhouetted against the night-blue glass, was a square shape on an easel. “It’s a small duty of mine, you understand. It’s always been a pleasure, really-- a way of using my meager talents to connect with those who’ve passed on. Still, occasionally it proves… surprisingly difficult.”

James moved to the left, away from the silhouetted shape on the easel, allowing Flitwick to approach the desk. The professor pointed his wand at a large brass lantern on the corner of the desk, and then paused. He glanced up at James.

“You will have noticed, Mr. Potter, that we remember our headmasters in a rather unique manner at Hogwarts, yes?”

It took James a moment to understand what Flitwick was talking about. Finally, mystified, he answered. “You mean the portraits? Up in the headmaster’s office?”

“Precisely!” Flitwick exclaimed excitedly. “Precisely, Mr. Potter. Upon the passing of every headmaster, their living portrait is added to the gallery, granting the new headmaster the benefit of their combined wisdom and council. It is a unique arrangement, I might add. No other institution bears such a thorough and well preserved gallery of its leaders. Why, I am proud to say that it has even rated placement in the book of the Top Ninety-Nine Wonders Most Wizards Will Never See. I could show you, if you wish. I have a copy right here in my desk. Er…”

Without lighting the lantern, Flitwick moved fussily behind his desk and began sliding open drawers, shuffling noisily through them.

James was still frowning in confusion. “Professor,” he ventured, raising his voice over the sound of Flitwick’s ransacking of his own office. “Er… what does this have to do with me?”

“Hm? Oh,” Flitwick glanced up at James and seemed to deflate a bit. “I apologize, Mr. Potter. This is all rather… mm-hmm. Quite.” He cast around the darkened room fitfully, and then sank into his doll-sized chair. Without looking , he waved his wand toward the chair behind James. “Please, do have a seat, young man. Perhaps some further explanation will suffice.”

James lowered himself into the normal-sized chair, which was ridiculously overstuffed and smelled strongly of mothballs. Flitwick sighed.

“Most people do not know this, Mr. Potter,” he said in a more subdued voice. “But I am not, strictly-speaking, one hundred percent human.” He paused, studying James’ face in the darkened room. “You are not surprised, I see.”

James’ cheeks reddened. “Well, er. Not as such, professor. No. Some of the students have… er… made guesses.”

Flitwick smiled at James-- a genuine smile this time, twinkling in his tiny eyes-- and then he laughed aloud. “Of course, of course,” he nodded. “Nor do I blame them. I will allow you the truth, Mr. Potter, as explanation of why I have called you here. I am part goblin, you see. One quarter, in fact. Tell me, were your classmates’ speculations correct?”

James shrugged uncomfortably. “Yeeess… A bit. Some had thought maybe you were part… er. I really shouldn’t say, Professor.”

“Oh do tell, James,” the Professor beamed, leaning eagerly forward. “In times like these, a good laugh is always welcome.”

James’ face was burning now. “Well, Professor. Everyone really likes you, see? It was never meant to be disrespectful at all. Mostly we all think it’s really cool. But--”

“Out with it, young man!” Flitwick interrupted, still grinning in anticipation.

“Hinkypunk, sir.”

Flitwick rocked back in his chair and let out a gust of jovial laughter.

“Oh, I daresay, that would make a better story,” he admitted, still laughing and wiping his eyes. “Much better, indeed.”

James smiled as well and shook his head. “I still don’t understand, Professor. What’s this have to do with…”

Flitwick composed himself, although a ghost of a smile still curled his lips. He nodded. “Forgive me, Mr. Potter. I am delaying the inevitable. As I said, I am part goblin and goblins, as you may or may not know, are particularly good at the alchemical arts. A, er, relative of mine, in fact, is one of the best restoration artists in the world. His specialty is, unsurprisingly, magical portraiture. It’s in my blood, you see. Not everyone can do it. I can take no credit for it, although I have worked long and hard to hone my skills, meager as they may be.”

Realization began to dawn on James. He looked hard at the tiny Professor across from him. “You… paint the portraits? All those magical portraits of the former headmasters are yours?”

Flitwick raised his hands in a deprecating gesture. “By no means all of them, only the most recent. It is quite an honour, one that I inherited decades ago. I paint each portrait upon the death of the headmaster, using the skills handed down to me by my goblin forefathers. It is a rather secret art, combining both the artistic and the alchemical, although it can be taught even to non-goblins. You may recall Professor Jackson, of the American school, is rather an expert on the subject, even if he is a bit… well…
uninspired
.”

James nodded emphatically. “Tell me about it.” He paused and looked aside, at the silhouetted shape on the easel. Suddenly he felt very curious to see it in the light. “So that’s… your most recent portrait? That’s… Headmaster Merlin?”

Flitwick heaved a great, long sigh, turning to share James’ gaze. “Headmaster Merlinus,” he agreed. “In a manner of speaking.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is why I have called you here, James,” Flitwick answered quietly. “Sometimes, magical portraiture is a very ticklish task. Sometimes it requires… extra measures.”

James glanced back at the professor, unsure what he meant.

Flitwick leaned slightly forward, producing his wand again and pointing it toward the lantern. “Mind your eyes,” he instructed. With a small tap, the lantern flared alight, filling the cramped office with warmth and golden light.

James’ eyes immediately flicked toward the portrait in front of the window.

It was indeed Merlinus. His face was painted with immaculate perfection, showing the square line of his jaw, the rather crooked nose, and the stern, eerily probing eyes. He was seated, just like all of the other headmaster portraits, but unlike most of them he was not leaning back in a pose of rest. He sat upright, his bearded chin raised almost challengingly, his right hand clutching the arm of his ornate wooden throne-- a throne James recognized very well from the adventures of his first year. Two black rings shone on the headmaster’s large, meaty hand.

But something was wrong.

James stood slowly and approached the painting, peering at it intently.

“It’s not…” he shook his head slowly. “Not…”

“It is not alive,” Flitwick admitted, coming to join James in front of the canvas. “Not a breath, not a single spark of life, no matter what I do with it.”

James stared hard at the portrait. It was perfect in every way, absolutely capturing the essence of the ancient sorcerer. And yet, it was just a picture, a mere image, somehow even less alive than a Muggle photograph.

He glanced down at Flitwick. “So… what’s missing?”

“That is very much the question, young man,” Flitwick answered. “I was rather hoping you could tell me.”

James shook his head. “Me? But, I’m no painter. I can’t even draw.”

“Perhaps not. But you knew the headmaster, Mr. Potter, perhaps better than anyone in this age. And perhaps even more importantly, you were with him when he died. You witnessed the moment that he gave up the ghost. I am sorry to bring up such a difficult memory. I don’t mean to seem heartless. You may refuse, of course, and I will bear you no disrespect. But it may be that you can give this portrait what I, with all my technical skill, cannot. If you are willing.”

James looked back at the unmoving portrait again. He shrugged. “I don’t mind, Professor. I was sort of hoping to see him one more time anyway. Even if it is just a reflection, and not really him. But I don’t know how I can help. I don’t--”

“Just touch the portrait, Mr. Potter,” Flitwick said quietly, urging James forward. “It may be the final ingredient-- your memory of him, the imprint his death made on you. Perhaps, if we are fortunate, you may pass that spark on. It is the only thing left to try.”

James approached the painting. Merlin’s sharp eyes peered out of the painted face, seeming to look at James, to study him, but it was only an illusion. There was no life there. Just paint on canvas.

“Are you sure, Professor,” James asked, raising his right hand.

“Yes, yes,” Flitwick insisted, obviously anxious to see his work completed. “The paint is long set. One touch will do it. Go ahead, James. Fear not.”

James leaned toward the portrait. Merlin’s face was perfectly life sized, staring blindly out at him. The shadow of James’ hand crept up it, and then, with no fanfare, his fingertips touched their own shadow. The whorls of paint were hard to the touch, full of texture and purpose. This close to, however, it was hard to see the portrait as anything other than strokes of dried paint.

Flitwick watched, poised on the toes of his boots. Finally, after a long moment, he exhaled.

“Thank you Mr. Potter,” he said, taking a step back. “That will be all.”

James took his fingertips away from the portrait. He hadn’t felt anything magical at all. He frowned and backed away from the portrait.

“Did it work?”

Flitwick smiled disconsolately and shook his head. “I am afraid not. I apologize for wasting your time, Mr. Potter, and for dredging up unpleasant memories. Thank you for being brave enough to make the attempt.”

James glanced at the Professor, then back at the still canvas. “So… what’s next? What will it take to fix the portrait of the headmaster?”

Flitwick produced his wand once more and pointed it at the lantern on his desk. “As I said, Mr. Potter, you were the last hope for the portrait. I am afraid there is no fixing to be done. For the first time in nine centuries, there will be no living portrait of a departed headmaster.”

“But… why not?”

Flitwick smiled tiredly. “Perhaps the reason is as obvious as it is unsatisfying,” he replied. “Merlinus Ambrosius, as you know more than anyone, was no ordinary wizard.”

With a tap, Flitwick extinguished his lantern.

By the time James returned to the Great Hall, the Sorting Ceremony was complete. Lily was seated at the front of the Gryffindor table, pink-cheeked and already laughing with her new friends. Professor McGonagall had stowed the Sorting Hat for one more year while some small commotion occupied the head table. A few late arrivals seemed to settling into their seats, adding to the already crowded dais.