James Potter And The Morrigan Web (111 page)

Harry shook his head, bemused. “And who shall I give hell to, then, Sirius?”

“Whoever deserves it!” Sirius called with a laugh, drifting past the Mirror’s left edge.

The next figure was a young man with red hair. James knew who this was immediately as well.

“It’s all bloody brilliant, Harry!” Fred Weasley announced enthusiastically. “Tell George, will you? It’s all totally, bloody brilliant! He’s going to completely love it! You all will!”

“I will!” Harry agreed, his voice breaking slightly. “I’ll tell him! I’ll tell everybody!”

James was surprised to see a house elf appear next, his eyes as huge and round as tennis balls, his head adorned with an inexplicable stack of terribly knitted hats.

“Don’t be sad, Harry Potter!” the elf waved. “Dobby is happy! Dobby has no regrets!”

James glanced up as his father nodded. He suddenly seemed unable to speak.

An owl flew past as if in slow motion, snowy white and hooting happily.

Following the owl was a stocky man who’d once had a horribly disfigured face, now restored and smiling grimly (“Constant vigilance, Harry!” he encouraged as he passed).

Next was a young boy, fresh faced, looking eerily like Cameron Creevey.

Just past him, on the outer edge of the Mirror’s view, two figures passed discreetly, hanging back, but apparently wanting glimpses of their own. One was Arthur Weasley, of course. James’ grandfather craned his head to look out at James and Harry, giving a brief, secret wave with his right hand. His left arm was around a young girl with shining black hair, her eyes bright with curiosity. She did not smile as she drifted past, but her eyes twinkled darkly.

…I forgave you that very night…

James’ heart swelled in his chest, even as he blinked away sudden tears. He realized that he could bear seeing his grandfather and lost cousin after all. It was a bittersweet sight, certainly, but he knew that something essential would have been missing had they not appeared, peeking subtly from the swirl of otherworldly fog.

After them came more… many more. James ceased recognizing any of them, although the faces were hauntingly familiar. Dimly, he understood that he was now witnessing a silent procession of his own ancestors, men and women, some as old as Dumbledore, others younger than James himself, all smiling, with glittering, strangely knowing eyes, nodding as they swept past.

Until finally, a young woman stood in the Mirror. She was only a few years older than James, with a freckle-dusted nose, dark blonde hair and deep, almond eyes. She seemed somehow taller than she was, not because she wore boots and a collection of fine gold-edged armour beneath her cape, but because she had an undeniable air of nobility about her.

Unlike the others, she did not drift past. She stood in the centre of the Mirror as if very little happened to her that she did not cause herself. She cocked her head at James, then his father.

“And who might you be?” she asked. Despite her question, her eyes, like those before her, glimmered with secret knowledge.

“I’m Harry,” James’ father answered, offering the woman a small bow. “Harry Potter.”

Her smile broadened, crinkling the corners of her eyes. “Indeed, yes,” she said to herself. “Harry the Potter. I am in your debt, it seems, my dear Potter. For when I was very young, or so the story goes, my life was saved for the sake of your birth.”

To James’ surprise, his father slipped easily into the woman’s strange cadence of speech. “Does that make you my great grandmother, many ages removed, dear lady?”

“I should say that it does,” the woman agreed easily. “And since time means nothing here, it does not even make me feel old. But pray, do not call me grandmother, great or otherwise. Call me Gabriella.”

Harry bowed again. “That I shall, Lady Gabriella, when we are fortunate enough to meet again and tell our long, interesting tales.”

Gabriella smiled at the man on the other side of the glass and shook her head, as if she suspected he was a bit of a rogue. Then, she shifted her gaze to James and took a step closer, coming just to the other side of the glass.

“And who might you be, young prince?” she asked, cocking her head almost as if she recognized him.

“I’m James, Ma’am,” James answered, strangely captivated by the beautiful, regal woman before him.

“
James
,” she said slowly, as if sharing a delicious, whimsical secret with him. “What a wonderful,
delightful
name…”

The End of Term feast took place the next day, just as always, and amazingly, the Great Hall was restored completely, with the four house tables lining the main floor and the dais once again weighted down with the matching staff tables. The four school vanishing cabinets had been reinstalled along the front of the dais, all fully repaired (with Merlin’s help), their disenchantments postponed until the end of the feast. As a result, and by design, the house tables were packed to overflowing, peppered with Beauxbatons students in powder blue silk robes, stern Durmstrangs in stiff, high collars and double-breasted formal tunics (including the stony-faced Volkiev, who sat amongst a cabal of breathlessly adoring Ravenclaw girls), a scattering of Alma Alerons in their various house colours, most noisily arguing the relative merits of Quidditch and Clutchcudgel, and last but assuredly not least, a sprinkling of Muggle students from Yorke Academy, including Morton Comstock (who sat with the Slytherins, somehow managing to make friends with the house that most traditionally rejected anything other than pureblood wizardry) and Lucia Gruberova, who was laughing delightedly with Lily and her friends further down the Gryffindor table.

Ranged along every table, filling centrepieces of golden bowls, were drifts of red, purple and yellow flower petals, all as fresh and fragrant as if they had just been picked.

There was no sign of the broken statues of the Magical Brethren or the temporary reflecting pool. Gone as well was the ugly five-faced Clock. James knew not where, but felt quite sure that the Clock had met a neat end at the hand of the man who sat in the centre of the dais, his grey eyes roaming the crowded, bustling Hall, his beard bristling beneath a grim, satisfied smile.

James had had very little chance to talk to Merlin since his return. The restored headmaster had spent most of the day repopulating his office with his collection of mysterious magical tools and curiosities, including, as before (and completely inexplicably) an enormous stuffed alligator which hung from the ceiling, surveying the desk below with dark, glassy eyes. James, Ralph and Rose had stopped by just after lunch that afternoon, and James had had the strangest impression that Merlin and the alligator had been conversing idly until the students entered the room.

“So what happened to you, Headmaster?” Rose had asked. “Last year, on the Night of the Unveiling. Everyone thought you died!”

“The answer to that question would require a stack of books as high as this room, Ms. Weasley,” Merlinus replied without looking up from his work. “Suffice it to say, there are many shades of death. Fortunately for me-- and all of you, I daresay-- I was only
mostly
dead.”

“Headmaster Dumbledore talked as if you and he had some sort of big adventure on the other side of the Mirror,” James prodded. “Is that true?”

Merlin did pause then, glancing up as he plunked a stack of slab-like books onto his desk with a puff of dust. He looked not at James, however, but at the portrait of Dumbledore that hung on the wall. James turned toward it, as if the portrait itself might answer his question. Albus Dumbledore was back in his frame again, his bearded chin resting on his chest and his peaked hat pulled over his brow. He snored faintly, somewhat unconvincingly.

“Yes,” Merlin acknowledged. “I suppose that’s true enough. He assisted me when I needed it, making my return possible. And in return, I allowed him to occupy my place in this reality for a short time.”

Ralph cocked his head curiously. “Any chance we’ll ever hear the rest of that story?”

“A stack of books as high as this room, Mr. Deedle,” Merlin replied again dismissively, returning to his work.

On the way back from the headmaster’s office, James, Ralph and Rose had run across Peeves the Poltergeist, who had apparently, somehow, returned along with Merlinus Ambrosius. He seemed especially agitated with them, pelting them with bits of chalk and chasing them along the corridor.

“Nasty students!” he cried angrily, “Letting such horrors as the Lady of the Lake into Hogwarts! Letting her swipe away poor, harmless Peeves! Nasty, reckless, irresponsible students!”

“We didn’t
let
her in!” Ralph protested angrily, shielding his head as he ran. “She invaded! We had no say in the matter!”

James could not help laughing helplessly as he ran. He couldn’t wait to tell his Uncle George that he had been lectured about responsibility by Peeves the Poltergeist.

Now, as the babble of excited students rang from the walls of the Great Hall, Merlin stood and approached the podium at the centre of the dais. The room quieted slowly, all eyes turning toward the big man, awaiting his first official words as reinstated headmaster.

“And so it seems quite curious,” he said, smiling his grim smile, “that my first day back is your last day here.”

This was greeted with a smattering of laughter and applause. From the Slytherin table, Albus cupped his hands to his mouth and hooted.

“Nevertheless, you shall return again in a few months’ time,” Merlin went on, raising his voice easily over the happy crowd, “And once again, we shall apply ourselves to the pursuit of knowledge, sport, and friendship. In the spirit of this, some things might best be addressed now, so that you shall know what you will be returning to.”

The Hall quieted again, somewhat restlessly.

Merlin lowered his voice, growing serious. “You have been told that we live in uncertain times pupils. And because of this uncertainty, a number of new rules have been instituted. Age-old freedoms have been curtailed. Restrictions have been introduced. All in pursuit of the venerable cause of security.”

A mutter of discontent threaded through the room as the mood darkened. James heard whispered references to the restrictions and searching of post, the ban on social gatherings, the new Draconian requirements for Hogsmeade weekends…

“I will not tell you happy lies, pupils,” Merlin went on, gazing soberly around the Hall. “I have met with the teachers behind me. I have spoken to those at the highest levels of the Ministry of Magic, as well as those of other magical and academic institutions across many nations…”

Here, James saw Beauxbatons students nodding at each other. Volkiev sat up, his face turning even grimmer with pride. Obviously, Merlin’s meetings with leaders around the magical world was no secret.

“And I will tell you that what you have heard is indeed the truth,” Merlin continued. “This
is
an uncertain age, pupils.” He regarded them soberly, leaning slightly over the podium. “But if there is one thing I have learned in all of my many centuries and prodigious travels, my young friends, it is this:
every
age is an age of uncertainty. There has been no time without its own great dangers, no era that has been free of the strain of worry, of looming threats, of wickedness or danger or imminent, dangling apocalypse…” He paused, and James suddenly realized that Merlin was-- if not joking, then certainly making light. The big man’s beard bristled as he smiled tightly. A murmur of soft laughter blew over the room like a warm breeze.

“As this is the case,” Merlin announced briskly, “your teachers and I have determined that there is nothing to be gained by special rules, rubrics or restrictions designed only to cater to some imagined unique level of danger. Risk is the world that we live in, pupils. This has been true since the dawn of time. And while we, your guardians and teachers, shall avoid unnecessary dangers wherever possible, as well as provide you the reasonable protection and security you need to learn, to grow, to become the fine young witches and wizards you are destined to be, we will not stunt that development in the name of absolute safety.”

He allowed this to sink in for a long moment. Then, he tilted his head back and raised his arms. “Owl post,” he announced firmly, “shall return to its usual, unrestricted and natural state. Receive your mothers’ cookies, your fathers’ howlers, your orders of dung bombs and Skiving Snackboxes without fear. What you do with those things may well fall under our jurisdiction, but
how
you receive them is your purview entirely.”

A roar of applause exploded across the hall as a fleet of owls entered, streaming through the high windows and bearing all variety of envelopes, packages, parcels, newspapers, and magazines.

“There shall be no more restrictions on gatherings, social or otherwise,” Merlin went on, his smiling voice booming easily over the applause and the clapping flutter of wings. “Organize what you will, be it study groups, duelling clubs, illicit night outings, kitchen raids… our duty is to catch you in misdeeds, not to prevent you from dreaming of them.”