James Potter And The Morrigan Web (112 page)

The applause redoubled at this. James noticed that a few of those seated at the staff table responded a bit less enthusiastically. Professor Votary, James was amused to see, was not among them. He stood before his chair, clapping firmly. Elsewhere along the staff table, Professors McGonagall, Revalvier and Longbottom, fully restored to their posts on this last day, applauded as well, nodding with satisfaction.

“And finally,” Merlin’s voice rang out, dimming the applause slightly, “There shall be no consequence other than your grades for unfinished schoolwork. It is not the duty of this school to force you to live up to your potential. It is your duty to yourself. We shall provide the means, you shall provide the effort, and the world shall be as it should.”

This was met with somewhat diminished applause, except for one pair of very loudly clapping hands at the rear of the Great Hall. James turned toward the sound and saw Mr. Filch banging his hands together violently, his sagging face grim with fervour. He no longer carried Grudje’s black cane, James knew, nor spent his time beholden to the nagging statue of the former headmaster.

“Maybe he’s had his fill of punishing us,” Graham mused wistfully.

Scorpius shook his head. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Still, everything’s back as it should be. And I hear there’s going to be a special meeting of all the school teachers and Filch. They’re going to ‘officially define and limit the caretaker’s duties and responsibilities’.”

“In other words,” Deirdre suggested with a mean grin, “they’re going to give him a good smacking down and assure that he can never again live up to his inner tyrant.”

“All I know,” James commented, glancing back at Filch again, “is that I’d pay a hundred galleons to be there when Professor Longbottom has his say.”

“Or McGonagall!” Rose nodded eagerly.

A roar of applause lifted from the Hall again. James glanced around and realized that the House Cup had been awarded. The Ravenclaws hooted and shouted happily, congratulating themselves and taunting the other tables. Among them, James observed Zane clapping and hooting most raucously of all, as if he himself had won half the sapphires in the Ravenclaw hourglass, despite not having attended Hogwarts for three years.

“And now,” Merlin called out in conclusion, “there is but one remaining order of business. It seems that our reigning Quidditch champions, the Hufflepuffs--”

Another roar of feverish applause interrupted the headmaster, this time rising from the yellow and black robed students at the Hufflepuff table. Merlin allowed this with an imperious nod.

“…
despite
their well-deserved celebration, are apparently entering the summer holiday without the benefit of a new trophy prominently displayed in their common room. This, I believe we can all agree, cannot be allowed to stand.”

With that, Merlin stood back from the podium and lifted his staff. As usual, James could not remember the staff being in the headmaster’s hand a moment before-- it seemed to simply appear whenever he required it, as if the ancient sorcerer kept it hidden in an invisible cupboard, constantly at the ready. James could imagine the relief Viktor Krum and the rest of the Harriers felt at no longer having to guard the eerily powerful object.

Merlin lowered the staff, connecting it to the floor of the dais with a ringing, hollow
bang
. The runes of the staff flared blue for a moment. Immediately following this, the Hufflepuff table erupted again into surprised, delighted cheers.

James turned in his seat to look. Standing in the middle of the Hufflepuff table, rising above the heads of the wildly celebrating students, was the darkly glimmering shape of the Crystal Chalice, somehow fully restored and reflecting prisms of light from its ancient facets.

Across from James, Devindar Das half rose from his feet, his eyes intent, his mouth set in a tight frown. With a disconsolate sigh he plopped back down.

“Bloody beautiful trophy,” he muttered. “James, I don’t care if you’re on your ruddy deathbed for next year’s Quidditch try-out. You’re showing up and you’re replacing Vassar. Got it?”

It wasn’t a request. James nodded, his chest swelling happily.

There was a loud clanking noise from the staff table. James glanced up in time to see Hagrid and Professor Debellows just concluding a toast of their enormous tankards. Together the two men stood and began to lead the Hall in a spirited, somewhat unmusical rendition of the Hogwarts tribute.

James noticed that even Merlin joined in.

James was just finishing packing that night, alone in the Gryffindor dormitory, when a ghostly shape approached, flitting soundlessly through the stone wall next to him.

James startled, nearly dropping the wad of unfolded clothes in his arms.

“Cedric!” he gasped. “That Spectre of Silence thing…! Seriously!”

“Sorry,” the ghost replied, unsmiling. “One of Snape’s portrait sent me to get you. He says you should get down to the hospital wing right away.”

James blinked at Cedric’s ghost. “Why? Rose is fine, isn’t she? She was all healed up by the time we got to the feast. Everyone else as well.”

Cedric didn’t explain any further. “Just go on down. Hagrid’s there. And Petra Morganstern, I think. Sort of.”

With that, James’ eyes widened. He dumped the last of his clothes into his trunk and dashed down the stairs.

Two minutes later, he clambered to a halt in front of the pebbled glass doors of the hospital wing, unconsciously slowing to listen, anxious for any sign of what might be beyond. Faint voices echoed from inside, but he couldn’t make out any words. Tentatively, suddenly afraid of what he might see, James pushed the doors open.

Madame Curio was bent over a shape on a bed halfway down the ward. Every other bed was neatly made, crisply white, making the single occupied bed seem especially incongruous and unexpected.

“James,” a deep voice said quietly. James turned to see Hagrid standing just inside the double doors, his face pale, his black eyes serious. “How’d you know to come?”

“Someone, er, sent for me,” James replied, deciding in an instant that it might be better to keep Cedric out of it. “What’s going on? Who’s been hurt?”

“Well, that’s the thing, innit,” Hagrid said, glancing over James’ shoulder, to the occupied bed halfway down the ward. “She’s not hurt, s’ far as Madame Curio can tell. She’s just… dyin’. Or not. Nobody can tell.”

“Who?” James whispered, turning back, caught between wanting to rush to the bed and a powerful reluctance to see who occupied it. “Is it Petra?”

“Whuh?” Hagrid said, confused. “Petra? Morganstern? No, no. It’s that girl. The one from the States, with the pink hair. Hendricks, I b’lieve ‘er name is.”

“Nastasia?” James clarified, dropping his voice. “But…?”

“Found ‘er in the cellars,” Hagrid whispered roughly. “Jus’ lyin’ there in the dark, half dead, all by ‘erself. But no injuries, no sign of curses, nothin’!” Hagrid was clearly deeply unsettled by this. Obviously, he had carried Nastasia to the hospital wing himself, bringing her directly to Madame Curio.

“She’s jus’ wakin’ up,” Hagrid went on. “She asked for yeh especial. I don’ know how yeh knew that, but now that yer here, well, you can talk to ‘er if yeh want. Maybe find out what’s happened to ‘er. If yer willing, o’ course.”

James nodded faintly. Slowly, he approached the bed as Madame Curio retreated to her office, shaking her head and muttering to herself.

Nastasia lay in a pool of yellow light from the nearby lamp. Apart from her clothing, which was grimy and damp, she looked the same as always, as if she had simply lain down on the hospital bed for a quick cat-nap. She opened her eyes as James reached the side of the bed.

“Hi,” she said quietly.

“Hi,” James said back, studying her face. “Er… Hagrid says you’re hurt. What happened?”

Nastasia closed her eyes again and tilted her head away. “Two snakes go out,” she replied faintly, “but only one comes back. It was always going to be that way eventually, I guess.”

James frowned. He thought back to the scene in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom-- the two snakes, both representing the conflicting sides of Nastasia’s personality, Nasti and Ashya, fighting for dominance, finally reduced to outright battle.

“You couldn’t kill Rose, or the rest of us,” he said. “Part of you was ready to-- the Nasti part. But the Ashya part fought back. It made you go to war with yourself. Is that it?”

Nastasia nodded, still not meeting his eyes.

“And now… part of you is… dead?” James asked, his voice unconsciously lowered to a whisper. “Is that it?”

Nastasia nodded again, staring across the ward to the dark windows that lined the wall beyond.

James shook his head. “But, what does that mean? Will you be all right? Hagrid says… he says you’re dying. Is that true?”

Nastasia finally turned her head back to him. “I don’t know,” she answered, and James saw that she was silently terrified. Her voice was a thin whisper. “I’ve never felt anything like it. I’ve never been so lonely. So empty and weak. Part of me is chopped off. I don’t want to live like this… I don’t think I can…”

James shook his head again, more firmly this time. “You can. You just… need to learn how. You can do it. I mean…” he stopped, groping for the right words. “You faced the darkest part of you. You did what most of us could never do. You confronted the worst in you and you overcame it! That’s…. amazing, really! And because of that, Rose and Ralph and I, we’re all still alive now. You’re… well, sort of a hero. There’s that, isn’t there? Ashya… you’re a hero. Hold onto that, all right?”

She smiled at him faintly and her eyes thickened with sudden tears. She closed them and the tears ran down her cheeks, dropping to the pillow. With some effort, she raised her hand and beckoned him forward.

James leaned closer, sidling nearer to the head of the bed. She turned her head toward him again, beckoning him still closer. Weakly, she lifted her head from the pillow, reaching up to hold onto James’ shoulder and using it for leverage. When her lips were next to his cheek, he thought briefly that she meant to kiss him again. He half wanted her to, and feared it. Instead, faintly, she whispered into his ear.

“I’m… not… Ashya.”

James’ eyes widened and a sense of deep cold descended over him, chilling him to his heels. He backed away involuntarily, causing the girl to fall back onto the pillow, her hand dropping over the side of the bed. She was laughing silently, her chest rising and falling in swift huffs.

“I’m not…
Ashya
,” she said again through helpless laughter, tears still wet on her cheeks. “Ashya’s dead… I watched her die. She was so noble, so brave, so…
foolish
. She battled the Lady by herself. I wouldn’t join her. I refused to…” her voice climbed to a mad squeak and she laughed harder. More tears leaked from her eyes, joining the wet streaks already on her face. She turned to James as he backed away from the bed, horror-struck. “But she was so beautiful, even at the end,” she gasped. “The Lady crushed her head beneath her heel. She laughed… she cackled as she did it. And when it was over, when the Lady had run away, still laughing her crazy, demented laugh… I went back. I went back to my foolish, dead sister. Poor, dead Ashya. I rejoined her. What else could I do? What else?” She forced herself upright on the bed, rising on one elbow, staring at James intently, begging him with her eyes. “Ashya’s dead!” she said again, firming her voice to a shrill plea, her laughter breaking into gasping sobs. “Oh Ashya! Why did you leave me? What’s Nasti without Ashya? What’s the brain without the heart? How does half a person live? Ashya! You’ll come back, won’t you? You have to come back! I need you…!”

She fell back, her laughs and sobs breaking into panting, ragged breaths, muttering feverishly to herself.

A thin, warm hand laced into James’, threading his fingers and gripping tight. Somehow, without taking his eyes from the shifting, moaning girl on the bed, James knew that it was Petra standing next to him.

“Will she be all right?” he asked her.

Petra shook her head. “I don’t know,” she answered softly. “I’m a sorceress. Not a prophetess.”

Slowly, silently, they turned, hand in hand, and retreated along the ward. Darkness descended around them, dimming the windows, claiming the beds one by one, until James and Petra walked alone, moving in that strange between-world that they alone seemed able to access.

“So what happens now?” James asked darkly, all the cheer sucked from his heart by the image of Nastasia’s pathetic, diminished shape. “Is Judith gone? Was it worth it?”

“She’s not gone,” Petra sighed. “But the connection between us is broken. We’re no longer sister fates, she and Izzy and I. And that makes her weaker. Possibly even more dangerous, since she’ll be desperate now, clinging to her place in this reality. But weaker.”

“Weaker than you?” James asked, glancing aside at her. She nodded.

James stopped her, still holding tightly onto her hand. “So what happens now?” he asked again.

Petra lowered her eyes to their clasped hands. “All that remains now,” she said, mustering her resolve, “is the Crimson Thread.”