James Potter And The Morrigan Web (82 page)

As the days passed, James, Rose and Albus began to harbour some slim hope that Filch had forgotten about their punishment. Finally, on a stiflingly hot Saturday morning, just as the three, along with Ralph, Scorpius and Deirdre Finnegan, were leaving breakfast and considering a gratefully lazy day out by the lake (in carefully separate pairs, of course), Filch rounded them up and herded them downstairs to his office.

He seemed unusually terse, distracted and grumpy, despite the fact that he was engaged in one of his favourite activities: punishing students. James, Rose and Albus followed him silently into his cramped office, frowning worriedly at each other as the old caretaker muttered tensely to himself.

“Sit!” he ordered, waving his cane and summoning three rickety chairs from the corners of the office. To himself, he whined, “Where are they, the dratted things… Ah. No, those are dead, all the magic leaked right out of ‘em. Curses. I knows I was keeping one aside here just in case. Ah!” He brandished a very bedraggled black quill, stripped nearly bare of its feathers. He examined it triumphantly in his hand, and then seemed to realize how pathetic the thing looked. The smile fell from his stubbly grey cheeks and he rolled his eyes.

“Here,” he ordered gruffly, rummaging on his desk again. “I’ve only got one of these left, and it doesn’t work so well as it once did. Just… just swap it around while you do lines so you all get a taste of it, see?” Gathering two normal quills and adding them to the pitiable black quill, he shoved them into the hands of the waiting students. James took the black quill, noting how limp it felt in his hands, how mashed and lifeless its tip appeared. Filch waved his cane once again. “
Exorier
!” he commanded. With a soft
fwump
several sheets fell out of the air onto a small, rickety table between the students. “Now, let me see…” the old Squib grumbled, stroking the sandpapery stubble of his chin. “What was it these three did? Was it illegal loitering? Skipping lessons? No… unsanctioned club meeting?”

“We set the Jiskra loose in the Great Hall,” Albus offered helpfully.

“I was just getting to that!” Filch exclaimed angrily, running a hand through his thin, greasy hair and leaving it in a wild strew. “If only you’d give me a moment t’ think! Gor! Blimey!” He blinked, and then turned around, nervously examining a huge chart that covered the wall behind his desk. The chart, which was a new addition since James’ last visit to the Caretaker’s office, was crammed with names, offences, and a series of colour-coded checkmarks, cross-outs, and circles. Filch muttered to himself feverishly, running a callused index finger back and forth over the grid-work of names and dates. “Wait a moment. I did you three already, didn’t I?”

James glanced aside at Rose, then Albus. “Er… er….”

“No, sir,” Rose admitted honestly. “But, well… we certainly can’t blame you for thinking so. What with so much to… er… keep track of.”

“Gor,” Filch shook his head and heaved a great sigh, still studying the chart. “You’ve no idea, young miss, and that’s a fact. So many punishments. So many misbehaving students.”

Albus nodded tentatively. “And there’s really only so much one man can do,” he suggested. “I mean, it’s a thankless job, isn’t it?”

Filch’s shoulders drew up in a sudden, hitching sigh. When he turned around, James was shocked to see tears welling in the ancient caretaker’s eyes. “A simple thanks wouldn’t go amiss!” he agreed, his voice high and choked. He dropped weakly into his chair, producing a startled, wrenching squeak from the old springs. “Not that I’m complainin’, mind, but there’s just so many punishments a man can hand out! There’s only so much a man can manage! ‘Keep order, Mr. Filch,’” Filch suddenly mimicked, lowering his voice to a gravelly approximation of Headmaster Grudje’s, “‘You are the iron fist of discipline, Mr. Filch. Let nothing slip through your grasp. The school is counting on you.’ Why, it’s almost too much for a man to live up to…!”

James nodded, and adopted a sympathetic tone of voice. “Takes all the fun right out of it, I’d wager.”

“Oh, that it does, lad,” Filch agreed heartily, producing a ratty grey hankie from a breast pocket and blowing mightily into it. “That it does. Why, it’s almost a man’s worst nightmare: learning to hate the thing he’s always loved most.”

“You know who really needs to do lines,” Albus suggested meaningfully. “Headmaster Grudje. For taking advantage of your sense of responsibility.”

Filch nodded wistfully, mistily, and then seemed to catch himself. He sat up and glared at Albus, his eyes narrowed, albeit red-rimmed and watery. “Oh, you little imp,” he growled. “You lot are just winding me up. It won’t work, I tell you!” His cheeks flushed with mingled embarrassment and rage. “One hundred lines, each of you! ‘I will not make Mr. Filch’s life any more difficult!’” he ordered, then hastily added, “‘And I will not tell anyone that Mr. Filch blubbed in front of me!’ Now go! And not another word!”

With a sigh, James drew one of the pieces of parchment toward him. He examined the tip of the worn quill, saw that it was congealed black with blood. When he began to write, however, it produced only a faint, squeaky scrawl, barely visible. The back of his hand tickled, scratching the letters out but not drawing any blood.

Without raising his head, he glanced up at Rose. She was on her third line already, just finishing the phrase WILL NOT TELL THAT MR. FILCH BLUBBED in her neat, curly handwriting.

A sudden squawking noise made James jump in his seat. It seemed to have the same effect upon Filch, who scrambled at his desk, dislodging a pile of confiscated dung bombs and Skiving Snackbox sweets. He located a small statue and, strangely, held it close to his lips. “Yes, Headmaster!” he said loudly, speaking apparently to the statue.

“Mr. Filch,” the statue said in a grating, hollow voice. “There seems to be a gathering of students approaching the Quidditch pitch. I do not believe there are any practices scheduled for today.”

Filch slapped a hand over his eyes and drew it wearily down, making his already long face positively horse-like. He gathered himself and forced a ghastly smile. “Students often conduct scratch Quidditch matches on weekends, Headmaster. I doubt they are using the opportunity to engage in revolutionary behaviour.”

“I did not equip you with a magical cane to doubt, Mr. Filch,” said the statue (which was, James saw, a tiny representation of the headmaster), “but to act as my representative. I cannot be everywhere. I expect you to be my eyes, ears, and…”

“Guiding hand,” Filch finished weakly, nodding. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

The statue in Filch’s hand emitted a faint, declamatory squawk and fell silent. Filch set it back on his desk carefully, almost as if he thought it was a small bomb. “Some magic,” he grumbled under his breath. “Constant interruptions. A man can’t have a single solitary moment.”

“What was that, Mr. Filch?” the statue demanded.

Filch nearly fell off his chair. “Sorry, sir,” he answered manically, trying to catch the heap of parchments that he had inadvertently knocked over. The pages, each covered with lines scribbled in dark, blotchy blood, slithered through his hands and scattered to the filthy floor. “Nothing, sir! Just… on my way is all!”

The statue squawked again. Filch gave up on the slithering parchments, letting them slip off his desk and scatter to the floor like leaves. He stared at the tiny statue, then, tentatively, waved a hand in front of it. When there was no response, he located a large, stained mug and placed it, with extreme care, over the statue, hiding it. Only then did he collapse backwards in his chair, groaning and muttering incomprehensibly to himself. After a minute, wearily, he heaved himself to his feet, collected his cane, and stalked from the room without a word or even a backwards glance.

“I don’t know what’s going on here,” Albus said once Filch’s limping footsteps had echoed into silence. “I’m feeling something really, really weird. It’s almost a kind of sickness. I think it’s…”

“Pity for Mr. Filch,” Rose nodded wonderingly.

“I was going to say nausea at the stench in his office,” Albus frowned. “But yeah, I suppose there’s a little pity, too.”

James sighed, leaned back, and stretched. He tossed the black quill onto Filch’s desk and swept his parchment to the floor along with the others.

“Come on,” he urged, standing. “He’ll never know if we did these or not. And I’m not feeling too bad for that sadistic monster. He’s the reason both Professors McGonagall and Longbottom are gone. He’s getting what he deserves.”

“But he can’t help it,” Rose said, pitching her voice low and leaning to peer at the inverted mug that hid the tiny Headmaster statue. “Grudje is using him, turning his natural crankiness into a tool.”

“He’s weaponized Filch, all right,” Albus agreed, tossing his mostly blank parchment onto the floor. “Only Filch is getting sick of it. Who’d have thought that old Squib would get tired of torturing us?”

“It’s like being fed your favourite food until it makes you ill,” Rose said sadly. “The poor man,”

“I seriously can’t believe you’re feeling sorry for him,” James declared angrily. “After what he did to Lily. He made my sister bleed just to get back at me. And he enjoyed it.”

Rose frowned, remembering. She nodded. “You’re right. To the devil with him. I hope Headmaster Grudje works him into the grave.”

“That’s more like it,” Albus said fervently as they made their way out of the Caretaker’s office. “
Now
you’re talking like a
Weasley
.”

17. LAIR OF THE GOWROW

Throughout the diminishing weeks of school, as the final Quidditch tournament (and the secret summit of magical and Muggle leaders) approached, James kept an increasingly alert eye on the fireplace in the Gryffindor common room. He began to stay up late nearly every night, watching for any appearance of his father. Surely, Professor McGonagall had told the Order of the Phoenix what was happening. Surely, they were planning some sort of counter-measure. And surely, someone would let him, James, know that everything was under control.

“They really don’t need to tell us anything, you know,” Rose said one night as she crammed her books and homework into her book bag. “They’re probably extremely busy, getting everything arranged, doing all sorts of spying and studying and stuff, learning what the Morrigan Web is and how to stop it.”

“But they wouldn’t even know about it if it wasn’t for us,” James insisted angrily. “They owe us at least a word. I mean, for all they know we’re still having lessons at Durmstrang with that madman, Professor Avior. He could be trying to kill us once a week!”

“I doubt he would be that bold,” Rose shook her head. “He may be vicious, but he’s not rash.”

James wasn’t convinced. “He wouldn’t have to be obvious about it. He’s an evil genius, remember? He could poison us somehow. Or make us stay after class and sick another of his crazy monsters on us, call it an unfortunate accident. Anything.”

“Speaking of unfortunate accidents,” Rose said, shouldering her bag. “Any word from Nastasia?”

James shook his head in frustration. “I think she’s actually avoiding me. She hasn’t been at any of her lessons here at Hogwarts. Zane says she’s even skiving off some of her classes at Alma Aleron. He’s a little worried about her, even after I told him what she did in Avior’s office. He says she was just playing the double agent, tricking Avior into telling us his plan.”

“Well,” Rose tilted her head consideringly, “What if she was? It worked, didn’t it?”

James sighed and slumped, returning his attention to the low flames of the fireplace. He wanted to tell Rose what he knew about Nastasia-- that she was crazy, somehow split into two personalities, one evil and one… slightly less evil. But he’d promised Nastasia that he wouldn’t. For now, just barely, that promise held him back. He decided to change the topic. “Zane did have a chat with his head of house about the Collector.”

“Professor Cloverhoof?” Rose brightened. “Well that’s good, isn’t it? At least he has access to some people in authority. Are they going to look into it?”

James shook his head dourly. “You don’t know what things are like in the States. The Progressive Element is very popular there, although nobody calls it that. Even Professor Cloverhoof is affected by it. When Zane told him there was some mad wizard in New Amsterdam threatening to attack a gathering of world leaders, Cloverhoof blew it off. He said it was a load of ‘anti-egalitarian propaganda’ and that Zane was above believing such things.”