James Potter And The Morrigan Web (3 page)

Harry nodded. “Of course. We were attacked by members of the W. U. L. F. We were barely able to fight them off.”

“They were on brooms,” James clarified, speaking a bit louder. “They were wearing cloaks and masks, like they always do, but the wind made their sleeves push up on their arms. One of them had a marking on his forearm, in the same place as the one on him, right there. I can just see it beneath his sleeve. Make him show it to us.”

“No,” Quizling countered quickly. “The boy is clearly inventing this story to falsely accuse Mr. Worlick. If he is so certain of what he saw, then let him describe the tattoo. If it matches that on my client’s arm, then his testimony may stand, not that it means anything conclusive. Many people have tattoos.”

Harry nodded reluctantly. “All right, then. James? I myself do not remember seeing any such markings on that night, so we must rely entirely on your recollection. Can you describe the tattoo you saw on our attacker’s arm?”

James held his breath, thinking hard. His memory of that night was a wild jumble of images-- the Zephyr leaping from its tracks, careening down a crowded New York street, flashes of wand-fire, shattering glass. He concentrated on the figures that had chased them, zooming over the train like hornets. He remembered the pale forearm, clutching onto a black broom. He’d barely registered the markings tattooed there at the time.

“Perhaps we should consider occlumency,” Titus suggested quietly. “You could do it yourself, Harry.”

“Not admissable,” Quizling stated. “The American wizarding court does not recognize the validity of memories obtained via such subjective means.”

“I remember it,” James said faintly. “I only saw it for a second, but... it was just a symbol. It looked sort of like a circle with a slash through the middle of it.”

As James finished speaking, he sensed a change in the atmosphere of the room. He glanced aside and saw Hardcastle looking at his father. They exchanged a meaningful look.

Blunt stepped forward once more. “Prisoner,” he called firmly. “Raise your left arm and draw back your sleeve.”

Worlick stared at James. He almost looked amused. Slowly, he raised his left arm so that his sleeve fell back. The tattoo was plainly visible in the bright light. It showed a calligraphic circle, cut in half by a tapered slash. The slash might have been a wand, or a dagger.

“The Phi of Balance,” Hardcastle stated, unsurprised.

“What’s it mean?” James asked, still frowning.

“It is the universal marker of those who believe magical balance requires the extermination of all non-magical species,” Hardcastle explained in his gravelly voice. “They are murderers with no remorse. The worst of all villains, for they do not kill out of anger or revenge, but for their perverted concept of purity. They do not believe that those they kill are even human.”

“May I lower my arm now?” Worlick asked. It was the first time he had spoken, and James was surprised at the lazy indolence of the man’s tone. The look on his face was one of weary indulgence, as if he were humouring a gaggle of disagreeable children.

“Of course, Mr. Worlick,” Quizling answered. To the others, he said, “This means nothing, of course. Such tattoos are common enough among a certain class of revolutionaries. Most likely Mr. Worlick acquired the marking in his youth, not knowing what it even meant. Furthermore, it does not amount to proof that Mr. Worlick was among those who attacked you.”

“No,” Harry agreed. “I admit, he doesn’t strike me as the warrior type. Still, it is enough for us to detaim him for trial. I am afraid Mr. Worlick will not be released to his home country anytime in the near future.”

Quizling accepted this grudgingly. “Be that as it may, I will require a private meeting with my client to instruct him of the upcoming proceedings. If you will excuse me.”

Quizling moved past the others, approaching the open cell door.

“You have five minutes, Arbiter,” Blunt announced. Quizling did not respond. He stepped into the cell as Worlick made room for him. The two sat down on the narrow bed and Quizling pulled the cell door to behind him, leaving it slightly ajar.

“Pompous fool,” Hardcastle grated under his breath. “Perhaps Worlick will save us some trouble and curse him somehow.”

Harry sighed. “Unlikely, Titus. Let’s try to be professional about this. At the very least, we got what we came for. Nice work, James.”

James nodded. “I really wasn’t very sure. I was grasping for straws.”

“Sometimes that is what it takes,” his father said.

“But dad,” James said, lowering his voice to a near whisper. “I really don’t think it
was
him on that night, when they attacked the train. He’s just too little and wiry. The man I saw was bigger. I can tell that even though he was wearing a robe and hood.”

“I know, son,” Harry agreed. “But this is good enough to keep him for now. Soon enough, we’ll connect him to his network, the people he was working for. With any luck, we’ll capture them as well, and they will all stay here in Azkaban for a long, long time. We have you to thank for that.”

James shrugged. He wasn’t sure that he had done anything especially difficult, but he hoped his father was right. Worlick was certainly evil, although not at all in the way that James had expected. Rather than vicious and vengeful, the man exuded a brand of detached hate that was so cold it was almost clinical. Here, James knew, was a wizard who felt absolutely no remorse or regret for what he had done. He would do it again, and worse, if he had the chance. Fortunately, he had been captured and imprisoned. And for now, he would stay that way.

Shortly, the cell door swung open again. Quizling stepped out, straightening his cloak and adjusting his arbiter’s hat. Behind him, Worlick lay reclined on the mattress, only his feet visible, his black alchemy book held open on his stomach. The man’s lazy indifference was truly creepy.

“Are you quite through?” Harry asked.

Quizling nodded in a businesslike manner. He huffed past James and the rest, striding purposefully into the darkness of the outer hall.

“It seems we are finished here,” Hardcastle commented.

Blunt nodded. He flicked his wand toward the cell door, which slammed shut with a clang. Almost immediately, the door and the stone wall began to shuttle back the way they had come, accompanied by the rumbling roar of the cell tower. A minute later, the cycling doors shuddered to a halt once again, revealing the engraved stone wall. Blunt tapped the wall with his wand, unveiling the tiny stone door that safeguarded the entrance flame. He returned the flame to his torch and led James, Harry and Hardcastle back out into the main hall, where Quizling was waiting impatiently.

No one spoke during the return trip down the winding staircase. James followed his father again, with Hardcastle in the rear. Quizling stalked along next to Blunt, apparently fuming to himself and anxious to be on his way.

Back in the watery cavern, the ghost ship was nowhere in sight. The lantern buoys bobbed silently in the darkness, painting their bright reflections onto the inky water.

“The ferry will return shortly,” Blunt explained. “Mr. Quizling, I will return your broom to you forthwith.”

Harry turned to Quizling in the darkness. “I assume you will instruct your embassy of what transpired here today. Can we expect no unnecessary interruptions as we proceed with Worlick’s trial?”

Quizling neither turned to Harry nor reponded to his question. He merely stared out over the dark water, awaiting the return of his broom. Blunt stood at the edge of the pier and held both his wand and the entrance torch high overhead. He fired a single green flare toward the distant cavern ceiling. It painted moving shadows among the stalactites.

“Mr. Quizling?” Harry said, frowning slightly. “Is everything all right?”

Quizling still did not respond. Out of the darkness, a long dark shape lofted toward the pier. Blunt caught it deftly. It was, of course, Quizling’s broom. Blunt turned toward Quizling and held it out. Quizling’s arm jerked forward to grasp it.

James gasped. As Quizling reached forward, the sleeve of his cloak pulled back, revealing his forearm. A dark tattoo marked his skin. It was the Phi of Balance, the exact same one that James had seen minutes earlier on Worlick’s arm.

“Dad!” James called out, scrambling for his wand, but Quizling was too fast. He spun around, his own wand already in his fist, and fired a red bolt directly at Hardcastle, who was nearest. Hardcastle leapt to dodge the spell, which seared through his robes, barely missing him. An instant later, both Harry’s and Hardcastle’s wands were out and firing. Red light flickered throughout the cave, but Quizling was gone. The flap of his robes and whistle of his broom echoed over the water, along with a gust of mad laughter.

“Damn!” Hardcastle cried in fury. “He’s gone daft”

Harry shook his head, swiftly pocketing his wand. “Not daft,” he said. “Escaped.”

“But Quizling was no prisoner here,” Blunt said, scowling severely.

“James saw it a split second before I did,” Harry explained, shaking his head. “The tattoo, same as the one on Worlick’s arm. Quizling had no tattoo when we arrived here.”

James clutched his own wand, having not fired a single spell. “So how did it get there? Was he in league with Worlick the whole time?”

“No,” Harry said, turning toward Blunt. “They are not in league. And that was not Quizling. The man that just escaped had the same tattoo as Worlick because he
was
Worlick. Mr. Blunt, I trust that you keep a few brooms here for emergency use?”

“Indeed we do, Mr. Potter,” Blunt acknowledged quickly. “They are stowed right here, in the cavern.”

“We will require two of them,” Harry declared. “James, you will accompany Mr. Blunt back inside. Check Worlick’s cell and see what you find there. Hopefully Mr. Quizling is still alive. If so, James, accompany him back to land via the ferry. Understood?”

James straightened his back and nodded firmly. “Yes sir. Right away.”

Two brooms dropped out of the dark heights of the cave at Mr. Blunt’s summons. Harry and Hardcastle caught them. A moment later, the two aurors were in the air, preparing to give chase.

“We will meet you at the landward pier,” James’ father called back. “Be careful, James!”

James raised his voice as his father and Titus Hardcastle sped away, racing their reflection on the dark water. “I will! Don’t let him get away, Dad!”

But they were already gone, leaving nothing but cold silence and James’ worries in their wake.

When Blunt reopened cell door number 6-2-9, the interior scene had not changed. A figure still lay reclined on the bed with only its feet visible, the black book still held open on its chest. Blunt stepped forward carefully, wand raised, and peered in at the figure. A moment later, he lowered his wand and breathed a low oath.

From the outer hall, James asked tentatively, “Is it... Quizling?”

Blunt nodded. He leaned forward, out of James’ sight. There was a white flash, and the reclining figure jerked suddenly, dropping the book.

“What!” a voice called out. “You can’t do this! I am an arbiter! I--”

“Calm down, Mr. Quizling,” Blunt ordered. “You’ve been Stunned, I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ll be fine in just a moment or two.”

Quizling scrambled upright, flailing wildly against the confined stone walls. “I demand to know who did this to me! By what authority--”

“It was done under no authority,” Blunt declared, overriding him and turning and striding into the outer hall. “You may wish to know that this was the action of your ‘client’. He traded identities with you, apparently using a polyjuice potion to change his appearance, although I cannot begin to imagine how he acquired it within these walls.”

Quizling huffed as he followed Blunt out into the viewing hall. “Well. I’m sure there must be some reasonable cause for what has transpired here.” He stopped and narrowed his eyes. “Surely you do not suspect that I myself assisted Mr. Worlick in any way. You do not believe that I smuggled any potions into these walls on his behalf?”

Blunt stopped. Without turning around, he sighed. “No, sir. I do not believe you have the capacity for such an act.”

“You can be sure that I do not,” Quizling nodded emphatically. “I am an arbiter of the Wizarding Court of the United States. Justice and objectivity are my watchwords. I--”

“You’ll be needing a new cloak for the ferry, I assume,” Blunt interrupted, walking on. “Your ‘client’ seems to have made off with your clothes.”

Quizling stopped and glanced down, noticing for the first time that he no longer wore his ferry cloak or his official arbiter’s robe and hat. His face pinched into a scowl. He glared at James.

“I assume your father and that overgrown grizzly bear companion of his are after Mr. Worlick?”

James nodded. “They’ll catch him, too. They’re the best.”

Quizling nodded, his eyes still narrowed. “Then we have nothing to worry about, do we? Come along, my boy. Let’s put this horrid place behind us.”

The ghost ship arrived shortly after James, Quizling and Blunt returned to the pier. As Quizling preceded James aboard, Blunt gave James a severe look.