James Potter And The Morrigan Web (43 page)

“Thought we’d go all out and replace a few warped rafters while we’re at it,” he announced, clapping James on the back in greeting while the saw continued of its own accord, spewing sawdust into the wet grass. “I see yeh were as good as yer word, bringin’ along some extra helpers. Morning Rosie, Mr. Malfoy.”

As always, Hagrid’s voice cooled a little when addressing Scorpius. Some things, James knew, were harder to forget than others, and it was common knowledge that Scorpius’ now dead grandfather, Lucius, had once arranged for Hagrid to be sent to Azkaban for a time. Despite this, within fifteen minutes, Hagrid’s good nature and cheerful mood took over and he was soon hoisting the blond boy to the roof and showing him the ins and outs of nailing shingles.

“Very nice, Mr. Malfoy,” he nodded encouragingly. “Yeh’ve got quite an eye fer detail. Couldn’t make those shakes any straighter with a ruler, I’d wager.”

Scorpius nodded half-heartedly, but James could tell that he was pleased with himself.

By mid-morning teatime the sun had risen to a hard diamond, warming the late autumn air and revealing a nearly completed new section of roof, its fresh shakes a pristine cedar pink against the faded grey of the rest. The smell of sawdust hung in the air of the hut, mingling with the crackle of the fire and the steam of black tea.

“Midnight flying,” Hagrid shook his massive head, smiling as he poured. “Sounds like somethin’ yer dad would’a done, I admit. Though he never would’a had the gall to crash through my hut roof.”

He plunked the tea onto the table with a chuckle.

Scorpius reached for a cup. “Potters certainly seem to have a knack for trouble,” he said pointedly, arching an eyebrow at James. “
And
dragging other people along for the ride.”

Rose stared seriously into her cup, swishing the tea from side to side. “Hagrid,” she said suddenly, “What do you think about Mr. Filch being granted magical powers?”

Hagrid looked up, surprised. “Magical powers?” he repeated, smiling in confusion. “Yeh can’t mean Mr. Filch. Why, he’s a… well… Yeh see, he’s a…” he paused, his brow working furiously, trying to fight the inertia of his mouth. “He’s… the caretaker, Mr. Filch is. What’s he, er, need magic for?”

“Everyone knows he’s a Squib, Hagrid,” Scorpius rolled his eyes. “But the headmaster has given him a magical cane. It runs on Grudje’s own magic, somehow. And Filch is going a bit mad with it.”

“Weerrl,” Hagrid said, easing himself into a chair, a cup and saucer balanced in his enormous hand. “I don’t s’pose there’s any harm in that. I dabbled in a little illegal magic back when I wasn’t supposed to. Had me wand made into an umbrella jus’ ter keep it secret. Old Headmaster Dumbledore knew about it, o’ course. Couldn’t ever get anythin’ past him. I still use it these days, even though I don’t need ter hide it anymore.” He nodded toward his pink umbrella where it leant next to the door.

“We know,” Rose said, smiling slightly. The pink umbrella was fairly hard to miss. “But still. Even when Dumbledore was allowing you to use your magic umbrella, he never gave Filch any magic powers, did he? I never even thought such a thing was possible. You think Grudje is just a better wizard?”

Hagrid looked so sharply at Rose that his tea slopped into its saucer. “Albus Dumbledore was likely the best wizard ever there was. I’ll have yeh know that he could’a given magic powers to a walnut if he’d had a mind. There’s nothin’ any wizard alive could do that Albus Dumbledore couldn’a done better. Blimey, he’s like to have invented half the spells in yer textbooks!”

“Of course,” Rose demurred quickly. “You’re right. So why do you suppose he never shared his powers with Mr. Filch, though? And Headmaster Grudje did?”

Hagrid settled back into his chair with a long creak. “Headmasters is different, that’s all. That doesn’t mean Mr. Grudje is wrong. It jus’ means he does things ‘is own way. Yeh lot don’t need to concern yerselves about it, b’lieve me. Don’ go makin’ the same mistakes your parents did. And not jus’ once, neither! They was always doubtin’ the powers that be. Comin’ to me with wild stories ‘bout how Professor Snape was out ter get ‘em and how Headmaster Dumbledore was foolish ter trust ‘im. If they’d knew half the things I knew…”

“You mean the half you didn’t accidentally tell them?” James murmured with a grin.

“Exaggerations,” Hagrid proclaimed with a wave of his hand. “Yeh’ve been readin’ too many of Professor Revalvier’s stories. Why, if she was here and not on holiday even she’d admit most o’ that was made up just ter keep the tale int’restin’.” He pushed further back into his chair and sighed wistfully. “But it’s true that things were very different back in those days, and that’s mostly ‘cause of Headmaster Dumbledore. He was a great man, and don’t let anyone ever tell yeh any different.”

James suddenly found himself thinking uncomfortably of Professor Avior. It occurred to him that his father, Harry, wasn’t the only person who would be rather unstrung by the existence of a dodgy Doppelganger of Albus Dumbledore.

“Tell us about him, Hagrid,” he said. “Did Headmaster Dumbledore have any, er, secrets? You’d know as well as anyone, wouldn’t you?”

James half expected Hagrid to chafe at the question, but the huge man merely gave a shrug and stared out the window. “Everyone has secrets, I expect,” he said. “And the greatest of us prolly have the greatest secrets of all. I never pried, o’course, but I can tell yeh this: all those stories that have been told about Dumbledore since his death-- ‘specially the tripe written by that ‘orrible Rita Skeeter-- it’s all just plain rubbish. He may ‘ave had his secrets, and he might‘ve done some things he regretted in his youth. But all that was nothin’ compared ter the good he did overall. Why, when he was still a young man Dumbledore duelled and defeated the infamous Gellert Grindelwald, who had once been ‘is best mate back before Grindelwald turned all dark and vicious. That takes more’n power, mind. That takes strength of character, fighting someone who was once like a brother t’ yeh!”

Hagrid grew silent and stared hard at the window. The fire crackled merrily. Trife snuffled and stretched by Hagrid’s feet. Outside, voices called in the distance, enjoying the unusually warm Saturday morning.

“A great man,” Hagrid said again, shaking his head as if snapping out of a trance. He sipped his tea. “Yeh know, there were those what didn’t believe the news when he died. Said it wasn’t possible, ‘specially the way it ‘appened. Silly, o’ course, but that’s the kind o’ legend Albus Dumbledore was.

“Even at ‘is funeral, there were those who refused ter believe it was all over, refused ter admit ter themselves that there was any body in that crypt. It had ter be a trick, or a mistake, or some sort of elaborate plan. Even today…” He paused and studied the dregs of his teacup. In a lower voice he went on, “Even today, there are people who think Albus Dumbledore is still out there, waiting’, watchin’, just bidin’ his time, working out some last, master plan. And when the time is jus’ right, when the perfect moment arrives… why, he’ll show himself again.” He nodded to himself and sighed hugely. “He’ll show himself again and make everything jus’ the way it’s supposed ter be.”

He shook himself once more and looked around at the students seated at his table. “But that’s silliness, o’ course. Even great men die. I expect we all know that by now. They die, and when they do… why, there’s no comin’ back.”

James nodded slowly, emphatically. He did know that. He knew it all too well.

At breakfast the following Thursday, just as the first frost laced the windows and the fire in the Great Hall was stoked to capacity against the creeping chill, Nobby returned. He landed clumsily on the table, nearly stumbling into James’ porridge, looking unusually bedraggled and exhausted.

“That must have been some journey,” Rose commented in surprise, putting down her pumpkin juice.

James reached for Nobby’s leg and began to untie the parcel of notes attached there. “It’s about time, too. I’ve got a nice fat letter all ready to go back. Just wait until Mum and Dad hear what’s been going on here.”

He untied the notes from Nobby’s leg and then paused, frowning down at them in his hands.

“What?” Ralph asked in a hushed voice. “Should we wait to read them later, do you think?”

“No point,” Scorpius muttered, leaning close to James and peering at the letters. “Look.”

He took the letters from James and held them up. Lily, Rose and Ralph leaned close.

“Those are
our
letters!” Rose hissed in surprise. She looked around at the others, alarm dawning on her face. “The ones we sent to my parents and Uncle Harry! They came back unopened! What’s going on here?”

James turned to peer up at the head table. Headmaster Grudje was seated in the centre, neither eating nor drinking, as usual. It was difficult for James to tell from so far away (especially without his dreaded glasses) but the headmaster seemed almost to be watching him. After a moment, the old grey wizard stood and tapped his empty goblet with his wand, calling attention. The babble of voices died away as everyone turned toward the head table.

“Some of you will have noticed,” Grudje announced calmly, his deep voice ringing through the hall, “that there have been some changes regarding school post. Due to the current stresses placed upon the Vow of Secrecy, external measures have been implemented to ensure the continued security of the magical world. For the time being, no unauthorized post will be allowed in nor out without the consent and approval of school officials.”

A wave of whispers rippled over the room at this rather incredible turn of events. Rose met James’ eyes with growing unease.

“Calm yourselves, students,” Grudje went on, raising his voice. “There is no cause for concern. If you have need to contact your families, you may do so at any time. You will merely be required to do so via myself or, if you prefer, Professor Votary. If we approve your correspondence, it will be sent without delay via a fleet of especially charmed owls currently in our employ. Alas, your own owls, and those in the stable of the school owlery, would simply circle the school endlessly, unable to break the temporary boundaries.”

James reached to stroke Nobby’s bedraggled back. “Sorry, mate,” he whispered. “I didn’t know what I was sending you into.”

“They can’t do this,” Rose whispered stridently. “It’s… it’s not legal!”

Scorpius frowned up at the head table. “This is no new rule,” he muttered. “I’d wager that boundary has been up for weeks. He’s just telling us now because people are starting to ask questions.”

“But why?” Ralph shook his head. “Are they really worried that the whole magical world will get blown open by a stray owl?”

James shook his head. “Guys like Grudje don’t care about the security of the magical world. They care about power. He’s shutting down the post because he can.”

“Or perhaps,” Lily said in a very low voice, “he’s just trying to keep his secrets?”

Scorpius looked at Lily sharply. “Are you suggesting that Grudje has stopped the post just to keep us from blabbing to our parents?”

James shuddered. The thought was almost too chilling to consider. Next to him, Lily shrugged slowly.

Later that afternoon, Rose and James caught up to Professor Votary outside his office.

“Yes, students,” he said, clutching his enormous, badge-covered carpet bag to his chest and locking the office door with a tap of his wand.

“We just wanted to ask about the post, sir,” Rose said, falling in step next to the short, fat wizard. “We have some letters that got returned to us. We were hoping, perhaps, you could just…”

“Just stamp them,” James added quickly. “Or whatever you need to do to just, you know, send them on.”

“A necessary measure, I suppose,” Votary sighed brusquely. “Personally, I suspect a few stray owls, leaked strategically into the Muggle world, would be an excellent way to break the news to them gently. Strategy and moderation is what’s called for! Nothing like the fiasco that occurred across the pond. Still, the march toward progress is always uphill, and equality is an egg best broken, er, slowly.” He seemed to consider this analogy critically for a moment as he walked, then shook his head. “Be that as it may, the headmaster is quite right, quite right indeed. Can’t allow things to slip any further out of hand. This must be handled delicately. So! Where are your letters?”

Rose glanced quickly up at the professor, and then at James. “We, er, don’t have them with us. We were just asking… what would it take?”

“You implied you were in rather a rush,” Votary frowned as they turned a corner. “Bring them to me and I will inspect them and send them straight on. It isn’t as if there is a queue a mile long at the moment.”

“They’re up in our dorms,” James answered lamely. “But, er, you’ll need to inspect them?”

Votary nodded briskly. “Why of course! That’s the entire point. Purely a formality, I assure you,” he explained. “I abhor any infringement of privacy, of course, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all that. The headmaster wants to assure that no overly incriminating objects or comments fall into the wrong hands. Sensible, if a bit, well,
totalitarian.
Peace at any cost, eh?” He hefted his carpet bag and tilted his head toward a prominent badge affixed to one end:
PEACE AT ANY COST!
it flashed in red letters.