James Potter And The Morrigan Web (22 page)

“Makes sense, actually,” Zane muttered. “Trelawney would roll over in her grave if she was dead.” He paused, blinking, and then added, “She’s
not
dead yet, right?”

James shook his head firmly, still straining his memory as he watched the professor. The old man moved with a sort of casual ease that bespoke great power, despite his seeming frailty. His hook nose and sallow cheeks were starkly offset by a pair of glittering, powder blue eyes. As he strode slowly up the other side of the tables, he raised one knobbly hand toward the left balcony.

“These, as you can see, are the tools of our corporate power. Here, there will be no individual divination via cards or tiny, random copies of magical objects. Here, we gather around us the most powerful prophetic tools in the magical universe, pooling our perception and focussing our strength.”

He lowered his hand as he returned to the front of the room. His probing blue eyes moved over the students. “The second difference you will encounter here is in what we choose to divine,” he announced calmly. “You will have been taught to know the future. This, as you have surely realized, is a half victory at best. Even if one does, by some luck and insight, determine what might be to come, he is no more prepared for that future than a student who has access to the next day’s exam questions. What we seek, and what is far more practical, are the tools to know how to manage that future. We seek not just the questions that will be posed to us, but the answers that will propel us forward.”

He stopped and moved closer, leaning on the front table, his grave face and clear eyes moving from student to student. “Here, we seek not just the knowledge of the battle that lies ahead, but the weapons that will help us win it.”

He paused. James studied the professor’s face furiously. He knew he recognized that face from somewhere. Perhaps a chocolate frog card? Or perhaps he had met the professor once in the past, during a visit to the Ministry? It nagged at him, frustrating him.

“Now then,” the professor went on. “Are there any questions?”

Zane’s hand shot up. James glanced aside at his friend, and then toward the front of the room, where the professor stood, his gaze roaming calmly over the class. A strange thing happened as the professor’s gaze alit on Zane’s raised hand. His blue eyes hardened very slightly; his mouth tightened. And then, his gaze roamed onward, passing over Zane, ignoring him.

Trenton Bloch raised his hand.

The professor nodded toward him at once. “Mr. Bloch, I believe.”

“Yes sir,” Trenton said. “I was wondering about all the plants and stuff over there. Are you, like, renting out space to the Herbology department or something?”

There was a scattering of laughter, and even the professor smiled slightly. “You are perceptive to notice them, young man, but your assumption is quite incorrect. It may interest you to know that those, like the various objects opposite them, are tools of divination. Despite their appearance, however, they are not plants at all. Your own professor Longbottom would be quite mystified in any attempt to understand them.”

The professor raised his right hand again, and this time he held a wand in his knuckly fingers. He flicked it deftly, and James glanced to the right. The smallest of the potted flowers lofted gently into the air, trailing a tangle of hairy roots and vines from the edges of its pot. It began to drift out into the white sunlight over the tables.

“They do not grow,” the professor announced, raising his voice slightly as the students craned to look. “They do not feed, at least in the manner of living things. They merely exist, as they have done for thousands of years before us. Their seeds-- if they can be said to sprout from anything-- are the abstracted thoughts of the most powerful wizard prophets of all the ages. Traditionally, they are called
yuxu başlatma,
or Dream Inducers.”

The pot lowered over the tables and drifted toward the professor. As it hovered, its trailing roots snaked eerily. Its waxy bluish leaves rustled. Above these, bobbing slightly and turning like faces to observe the students below, were three fat, pulpy flowers, each larger than a human head and comprised of variegated orange-purple petals around a bristling yellow centre.

The professor reached up and very carefully, very delicately, plucked one of the petals. It fluttered in his fingers, as if caught in a light breeze despite the stillness of the room.

“Each Yuxa finds the person who requires it,” the professor went on, observing the disembodied petal in his hand. “If it chooses you, it behooves you to utilize it at as soon as possible.
But
,” he added gravely, turning back to the class, “it must be utilized with
great care
. Improper use of Dream Inducers is dreadfully dangerous. Fortunately, the rules of use are exceedingly simple. Merely drop the petal in any liquid, then… drink.” The professor pantomimed dropping the petal into an invisible goblet for emphasis. “In precisely eleven minutes, the dream will overtake you. Assure that you are asleep when it does-- an easy task, since the Dream Inducer has a naturally tranquilizing effect-- and the prescribed prophecy will unfold before your sleeping mind, as vivid and clear as any waking experience.”

Trenton raised his hand again, somewhat hesitantly. “And what if you don’t get to sleep before the Dream Inducer starts to do its magic?”

“That,” the professor said in a low voice, using his wand to send the pot slowly back toward its perch, “would be a very poor choice. The dream, untethered from sleep, clashes with reality. Inflicted upon a waking mind, the dream is a nightmare of monstrous hallucinations. For the unfortunate witch or wizard, permanent, raving insanity is the result. For the fortunate… their brain will simply wilt, shrinking to nothing, leaving merely a living husk of flesh.”

Above the class, the pot clunked gently to the floor of the balcony. James gulped.

Zane raised his hand again.

“Are there any more questions, then?” the professor asked, raising his eyebrow benignly.

Zane raised his hand an inch further, nearly bouncing in his seat.

“Yes,” the professor acknowledged, lowering his gaze to a Beauxbatons girl in the front row. “Miss Desmarais I believe. Do go on.”

“I am wondering, sir,” the girl asked with only a trace of an accent, glancing back over the class, toward the open rear doors of the room. “Where are the Durmstrang girls? Surely there are more than boys in this part of the world.”

“Indeed there are,” the professor admitted dismissively. “Durmstrang Academy believes in a deeply scholastic emphasis, without distraction. Thus, quite sensibly, the school is divided into two houses. The girls and boys of Durmstrang attend classes with those of their own gender, mingling only at meals and prescribed social gatherings.”

“But…” the Beauxbatons girl went on, frowning. “Why then are we not also separated?”

The professor sighed, showing a note of impatience. “Alas, the administrators of your various schools were rather insistent that, for economy’s sake, such double class scheduling would prove… ‘impossible’.”

“I
know
him,” James finally whispered, leaning aside toward Zane, whose hand was still raised. “I’m
sure
of it! I just can’t quite…”

“Professor,” Zane called out suddenly. “May I?”

The professor did not look at Zane. His eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded the petal that still fluttered in his raised hand. He sighed theatrically.

“Yes,” he said flatly. “Mr. Walker, then. What is it you feel you simply
must
ask?”

“Sir,” Zane said clearly. “I see Beauxbatons, Hogwarts and Alma Aleron students here. I was wondering, where are all the people from Yorke?”

The professor continued to stare at the petal in his fingers for a long moment, as if contemplating the question. Finally, his blue eyes slid toward Zane, coldly calculating.

“Who?” he asked, raising one grey eyebrow.

“The Yorke students,” Zane clarified. “You know. The Muggles, sir. Where are they?”

The room had fallen as still and quiet as a tomb. James realized it was rather warm in the room, despite the snowy mountain vista beyond the frosted windows.

“And why, pray tell,” the professor asked, enunciating each word with icy deliberation, “would such individuals have any place in a class of Prophecy? Please, young man,” he went on, holding up his left hand and closing his eyes, “do not deign to answer. You yourself are only here because your own school has, quite inexplicably, chosen to condescend to those of lesser heritage. I tolerate this in the name of diplomacy, but please, do not test my patience.” He sighed again and opened his eyes, scanning the rest of the class. “The rest of us surely understand that it is no benefit to the Muggle to place them in a situation where their, ahh,
inherent inadequacies
would be laid bare for all to see. It would be an embarrassment and an injustice to subject them to such humiliation. Thus, as a gesture of…
compassion
… Durmstrang Academy has prohibited their entry. I am quite sure that most of us can appreciate and honour this decision.”

James shivered, the warmth of the room dispelled by the coldness of the professor’s words. Next to him, Zane finally lowered his hand.

As he did so, the professor seemed to relax slightly. He held up the petal once again. “Finally,” he said evenly, gazing at the fluttering shape in his hand. “Let us see who the Yuxa chooses. This one, you might be interested to know, is one of the more whimsical Dream Inducers. It imparts foreknowledge of love. Will you marry or die alone? Will you be beloved by someone else, or love anonymously from afar, doomed to a life of unrequited passion? You will learn no names, but you will know the shape of your romantic future, be it delightful or destitute. To whom does the Dream Inducer choose to reveal its secrets?”

With that, the professor released the petal. Immediately, it fluttered up into the air like a purple-orange scarf, twisting and wafting on invisible currents. The class watched, wide eyed and rapt, as it began to descend, circling over the tables. Finally, silently, it dropped to the first table, directly onto the parchment of the Beauxbatons girl, Desmarais. She looked down at it, both nervous and intrigued.

“It is yours, Miss Desmarais,” the professor said with a small smile. “You may do with it as you wish. Use it, or do not. There is no mandate that you must. You now know the instructions for use of the Dream Inducer, and the dangers if you do not follow them to the letter. The rest is in your capable hands.”

The girl gingerly picked up the petal and cupped it in her hands. Experimentally, she sniffed it, and then invited her friends to do the same. As she did so, the professor pocketed his wand and produced a pair of spectacles from his robes. He put them on, apparently preparing to dismiss the class early, but James suddenly gasped in his seat.

The spectacles-- a pair of tiny glass half-moons on a simple wire frame-- had been the missing element. Now in place on the professor’s nose, they formed the final piece that completed the puzzle. James knew where he had seen the professor before, although he could not bring himself to believe it. It was ridiculous and impossible.

“What’s with you, James,” Ralph whispered, nudging him with an elbow. “You look like you’re trying to swallow a hippogriff egg.”

“The professor!” James rasped, staring as the man before them began to distribute a sheaf of notes to the class. “Look at him! Just look!”

“I’m looking,” Zane muttered darkly. “So what?”

“Don’t you see it? He’s… it’s…”

“What?” Ralph hissed nervously, glancing from James to the professor.

James boggled. He could barely bring himself to say it. The last time he had seen that face, it had been on a portrait in the headmaster’s office, smiling enigmatically, its eye twinkling behind its half-moon spectacles.

James gestured helplessly with one hand and flopped back in his seat.

“It’s Dumbledore,” he whispered, shaking his head with disbelief. “It can’t be, of course. It’s impossible. But it is. That… is Headmaster Albus Dumbledore.”

James knew it was ridiculous. Albus Dumbledore was long since dead, killed-- albeit mercifully and according to prior agreement-- by Professor Severus Snape, who succeeded him as headmaster during the dark season of Voldemort’s final days.

It didn’t help that nobody else quite saw the resemblance, at least not as strongly as he did.

“I
sorta
see it,” Zane admitted after class, cocking his head and squinting thoughtfully. “But really, isn’t it just that characteristic ‘crusty old wizard’ look that they all seem to have? Peaked hat, long beard, old-fashioned glasses, yadda-yadda. They probably all shop at the same store for flighty ancient wizard types.”

Ralph was perusing the professor’s hand-out as they filed out of Durmstrang castle, led again by the stoic Volkiev.

“Here’s his name right on the top of the page,” he said, frowning intently. “Looks pretty dense and Durmstrangy. Dorcha… Dorchascathan? First name Avior. No wonder he didn’t introduce himself.”