James Potter And The Morrigan Web (36 page)

“Fine,” James muttered to himself. “Be that way.”

He looked up, seeking Willow amongst the flitting figures darting like bats over the pitch. As far as he could tell, the match was Gryffindor against Ravenclaw, with Zane slated to play for his old House team. Familiar voices called in hushed tones, mostly sixth and seventh years. James cupped his hands to call up to them when a figure approached him brusquely out of the dark. It was Zane, holding a long, familiar shape in his hands.

“Here,” he said curtly. “I don’t even know why I brought it. I’ve been hiding it in the equipment shed ever since first match this year.”

James’ eyes widened as he accepted the object. It was his Clutchcudgel skrim from the previous year, its black lacquered coat and blue flames glinting in the darkness. He ran his hand over its slick shape, suddenly realizing just how much he missed riding it.

“This is actually legal?” he asked breathlessly.

Zane shrugged. “It’s Night Quidditch. Pretty much everything is legal.”

With that, the blond boy mounted his own broom and kicked off, shooting up into the dark mist like a rocket.

“Go, James!” Lily called as quietly as she could, cupping her hands to her mouth. “This is so marvellous! I can’t wait to tell Mum and Dad!”

“The first rule of Night Quidditch,” Willow announced sternly from the darkness overhead, “is we do not talk about Night Quidditch.”

“Ah!” Lily nodded with enthusiastic understanding. “Of course!” She pantomimed locking her own mouth shut, grinning irrepressibly.

James nodded to himself, his head still swimming with this remarkable change of events. With a practiced toss, he flipped his skrim face up onto the ground. It bobbed six inches above the grass and James trapped it there with his right foot.

“Ridiculous,” Aloysius stated matter-of-factly. He looked James in the eye and tossed him his bat. “Don’t kill yourself on that thing, Potter.”

“Thanks for your concern,” James nodded.

“I’m not concerned,” Aloysius rolled his eyes. “It’d just be hard to explain to the headmaster. Now go kick some Ravenclaw tail.”

James hefted the Beater bat and grinned. A moment later, he kicked off from the ground, crouching low over the board and accelerating up into the misty air. He wobbled for only a moment, having not ridden a skrim in many months. Almost instantly, however, his skills flooded back to him. He swooped from side to side, slaloming between players. In the near distance, the Snitch darted wildly, drawing greenish streaks in the air.

“All right!” Aloysius rasped from the centreline below, having assumed the role of referee. “We’ve got six hours of dark, let’s use it well! This is Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw! Winner faces Slytherin next week. And it better be Gryffindor!”

“Just release the game balls, Arnst!” Herman Potsdam called down from the Ravenclaw team. James had seen him in the halls but never spoken to him. The boy was a sixth year, a bit overweight and awkward looking, not unlike Aloysius Arnst. Apparently, Night Quidditch lent itself to such players. James wondered fleetingly if that fact bode well for him.

“Game on!” Aloysius announced hoarsely, tossing the Clutch into the air and releasing the Bludgers.

James’ grin felt plastered onto his face. He raised the bat, leaned forward over his skrim and launched into the sudden airborne melee.

For the next two weeks, Night Quidditch very nearly pushed everything else out of James’ mind.

The matches were never, ever discussed during the day, but knowing looks would be passed in the halls. Herman Potsdam, for example, gave James a particularly withering glare outside of Arithmancy the week following Gryffindor’s solid nocturnal win over Ravenclaw. Willow Wisteria, normally as aloof and cool as an iceberg to anyone younger than herself, suddenly became very friendly with James, stopping by his table in the library and “accidentally” leaving books of Quidditch history and offensive duelling techniques behind. Even Scorpius seemed more bearable now that they shared the secret.

Slowly, in dribs and drabs, James learned the history of Night Quidditch. It had begun during James’ second year, initiated rather accidentally by Professor Longbottom.

“You know that potion I gave you after your first match?” Scorpius whispered the following Wednesday morning between classes, glancing around furtively as he and James huddled near the ancient statue of Lokimagus the Perpetually Productive

“The sleep thing?” James nodded. “Yeah, sure. I assumed you nicked it from the Potions closet.”

“Not quite. And it does more than help you skip a night of sleep,” Scorpius said, hunching his shoulders and peering around Lokimagus’ nose. Some distance away, Peeves was painting moustaches on a line of portraits, most of which already had moustaches and complained loudly at the additions. “We brew the potions ourselves, using this really rare plant, Somnambulis, that’s been banned by the Ministry for a whole bunch of boring reasons. Something about wizarding trade agreements with growers in other nations. Rose explained it. I didn’t listen. Point is, some of us found out Professor Longbottom secretly started growing some back during my first year. Trenton Bloch thought it would give us night vision or something. We snuck some, brewed it up with some old potion recipe he found, and ended up awake all night with nothing to do.”

James frowned. “So you just decided to head out to the Quidditch pitch with a collection of glowing game balls?”

“It took us a few weeks to come up with the idea and charm a trunk of old equipment. After that, it was just a matter of sneaking a supply of the Somnambulis and rounding up enough players. It was only supposed to be ten or so players, just enough to field a scratch game. But the whole thing seemed to get a life of its own. People couldn’t help telling other people. Eventually, there was a team for every house. We had to lay down some official rules. One, we never talk about Night Quidditch.” He stopped and glared at James meaningfully.

“Got it,” James nodded gravely. “This conversation never happened.”

“Two,” Scorpius whispered, turning back to Peeves as the poltergeist inched closer, giggling maniacally, paintbrush in hand. “New players can only be added if they learn about Night Quidditch on their own. You, for instance. You got suspicious and followed us out to the pitch, so you’re in. That’s a good thing, too, because it gives us an extra player. Up until now, whenever anyone got injured in a match we were just down a player.”

James nodded silently. Even after only one match, he knew that injuries were inevitable. He himself was still colourfully bruised from a mid-air collision with one of his own teammates.

“The third rule is just sort of an unspoken agreement,” Scorpius muttered, “Nobody from the regular house teams. We don’t want Night Quidditch to end up just being practice for day Quidditch.”

“But Devindar was there,” James whispered. “He plays Keeper, same as during the day.”

Scorpius shrugged. “He got in on it in the beginning. We can’t freeze him out now. Besides, he’s Longbottom’s favourite. He says without Dev on the rings we don’t stand a chance against Beetlebrick and the Slytherins.”

James’ furrowed his brow. “You mean…?”

“Longbottom totally knows about us,” Scorpius nodded, suppressing a wicked smile. “I mean, he does
now
. He caught us sneaking into the greenhouses beginning of last year. We told him everything, and why not? He has his own secret to keep, growing the Somnambulis in the first place. I think he wanted to be really mad at us, but I also think he liked the idea of Night Quidditch from the first time he heard it. He’s even come out to see a match or two.”

“You aren’t serious!” James grinned.

“Indeed I am. He’s pretty cool, really. And he’s dead set on winning the Night League this year, taking it away from Slytherin.”

“I had no idea he was competitive at all,” James mused, still grinning. “He always seems so… sort of daft. In a nice way, of course.”

“You know what they say,” Scorpius said, straightening up. “Longbottom killed the snake, Nagini, back when he was just a student here. Everybody talks about your dad and his final duel with the Dark Lord, but if Longbottom hadn’t done his part first, killing the snake horcrux…”

“Then none of us would probably even be here,” James nodded sombrely. “The Professor is a… complicated man, isn’t he?”

Scorpius nodded. “Come on, before Peeves tries painting moustaches on
us
next.”

As classes settled into a steady rhythm, James grew slowly accustomed to the sight of the assorted Durmstrang, Alma Aleron, and Beauxbatons students peppering the classrooms. Even the Muggle students from Yorke academy began to find their stride, being mostly relegated to less magic-intensive classes such as Care of Magical Creatures, Potions, and Arithmancy. Lucia, the Muggle girl with whom James shared a class at Beauxbatons and who consistently seemed rather in awe of him (having read the Muggle adaptations of Harry Potter’s stories) showed a surprising skill at potion-making, to the extent that even Professor Heretofore seemed grudgingly impressed. Comstock, however, continued to be a rather insufferable complainer, making nothing but enemies at Hogwarts and even annoying such legendarily diplomatic teachers as Professor McGonagall.

“He actually asked if I could turn into anything ‘cool’!” she was overheard exclaiming at the head table one evening during dinner. “I told him, ‘young man, it takes many years to master the art of the animagus’. And he had the temerity to ask me why I chose to invest those years in something as boring as a cat! Not even considering the adaptability and stealth potential of the common feline, much less the difficulty involved with the conservation of mass between forms!”

“We cannot blame our non-magical counterparts for their ignorance, Minerva,” Professor Debellows proclaimed magnanimously. “Such is the purpose of this programme, after all. To show them the realities of our world in preparation for possible integration.”

McGonagall stiffened and opened her mouth to respond, but then appeared to think better of it. James, watching from the Gryffindor table, saw her eyes flit toward the new headmaster, Grudje. As usual, the gaunt man sat silently in the centre of the head table, his fingers steepled, neither eating nor speaking, his eyes roaming coolly over the Great Hall, seemingly deep in thought.

“He creeps me out,” Ralph admitted later that evening. “He never seems to eat. Hardly ever comes out of his office. It’s like he’s hardly even here. He’s a ghost waiting to happen!”

“Not every headmaster can be like Merlin,” Rose muttered. “Or McGonagall. Or Dumbedore, for that matter. The new headmaster just has his own, er, style.”

“Or lack thereof,” Scorpius added.

As the leaves of the forbidden forest began to change colour and drift into piles around the enormous tree trunks, the Wednesday trips to Durmstrang for Practical Prophecy grew colder and colder. James, Zane and Ralph began to wear their heaviest cloaks, keeping them on even during class time in the frosty and cavernous Durmstrang classroom. James tried to pay attention as Professor Avior taught them the fine techniques of organic prophecy, but his haunting similarity to the long dead Headmaster Dumbledore was a constant, growing distraction.

On his third trip to the Durmstrang classroom, James secretly smuggled along a Chocolate Frog card featuring Albus Dumbledore. As Professor Avior led them along the eastern brass balcony, explaining the properties of each of his strangely magical plants-- his dream inducers, as he called them-- James slipped the Chocolate Frog card from his sleeve and compared it to the professor. The two faces were more than similar: they were virtually-and eerily-identical.

It was an irresistible mystery, and yet James had no clue how to go about solving it. There had to be a connection between Avior and his mysterious, long-dead twin. But what?

As class finished, James followed the Durmstrang students toward the spiral stairs, surreptitiously slipping the Chocolate Frog card back up his sleeve. Something snagged the hem of his robe sharply, nearly tripping him. He stopped, hopping on one foot, forcing Ralph to bump into him.

“Easy,” Zane complained from behind Ralph. “What’s the hold-up?”

James glanced back over his shoulder. “Stupid plant’s attacking me,” he muttered, reaching to yank his robes away from the squat, thorny mass. It stuck stubbornly, snagged on a mass of prickly burs. Impatiently, James yanked harder. There was a crackle and a small knot of burs tore away from the plant, stuck firm to James’ robes.

“Whoa,” Ralph muttered. “The Yuxa finds the person who needs it.”

“What?” James said, frowning down at the ugly brown mass meshed into his robe.

Ralph glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Remember? First class? Professor Avior told us that each prophecy plant finds the person who most needs to learn its secrets. I’d say you’ve been found.”

James shook his head. “I just got snagged in the stupid thing,”

“I don’t think things like that happen by accident,” Zane said, hunkering down behind James. Carefully, he extricated the mass of burs from James’ robe. Straightening, he held them up to the light. “Ow,” he hissed. “Those are sharp!”