James Potter And The Morrigan Web (87 page)

“None of them,” Laosa confirmed. “None of those attending had examined either the theory or the mechanism. Indeed, none had even considered the possibility of error. My own mother was too blinded by her good intentions to contemplate the potential for disaster. Thus, it was with great fanfare and lofty expectations that my great-grandfather’s ring was unveiled, having been steeped in a charmed trunk right there in the theatre. The process was deceptively simple in its execution. It was a timed release. At a particular moment-- the very stroke of noon-- the transfer would trigger. My mother watched, standing there beside her sister, one hand on her shoulder. The others waited silently, wide-eyed, knowing that, one way or another, they were about to witness history in the making.”

The rocking chair creaked again. The visitor’s voice murmured. James pressed his ear to the door.

“Of course she did,” Laosa replied quietly. “It was instantaneous, and horrible. I was watching from the wings, backstage, barely five years old at the time. My Aunt Tempestra was holding her wand out in preparation, of course, pointing at the ring, ready to accept whatever it meant to give. She was tense, trembling, but there was hope on her face. That’s what I remember the most, in spite of everything.

“At the first chime of noon, the transfer triggered flawlessly, just as my mother had predicted. It crackled like lightning, connecting my great-grandfather’s ring and aunt Tempestra’s wand. Her fist tightened on the wand. It looked like she couldn’t let go even if she had wanted to. But the lightning didn’t stop. It built, became blinding…”

Murmuring; Laosa’s visitor was clarifying something.

“She was,” Laosa confirmed dully. “My poor aunt was dead the instant the bolt struck her wand. And yet she sat bolt upright, her arm extended, caught in the strength of the transfer, even as it built, glowing like the sun. It barely took a second from the launch of the transfer. The power overwhelmed her wand. It was inevitable, of course. And that’s when it happened.”

Rose was leaning over James now, straining to listen. Laosa’s voice had weakened as she spoke, reducing her words to faint mutters. There was a long, ringing pause. And then, finally, she continued.

“The transfer leapt away from my aunt’s wand,” she said hollowly, living the memory as if it was happening in front of her all over again. “Not in one direction, but in every direction. A dozen bolts struck out, connecting to the wizards and witches closest to it. Instantly, they jerked where they sat or stood, petrified by the jolt of power. And also instantly, branching from them, more bolts lanced out, connecting to those behind them. In a fraction of a second, every witch and wizard in the theatre was caught, frozen and petrified, in the web of the transfer. It was their wands, you see. The power of the ring, amplified to murderous proportions and imbued with the vicious malice of my great-grandfather, connected every wand in the room, forming an inescapable web of death.

“In less than a second, one hundred witches and wizards fell dead to the floor of the theatre. All I remember is the silence that followed. The terrible, awful silence…

“I survived, of course. I was too young to bear a wand, thus I was spared. My mother, standing right next to her dead sister, had accidentally broken her own wand that morning, stupidly, in a pointless, meaningless carriage mishap. She was cursed to live, to spend her final years remembering that moment, knowing that she was responsible for the worst mass killing in the history of the country.

“And that, my pretty young friend,” Laosa concluded, her voice barely a dry rasp, “is the tale of the Morrigan Web. Despite the rumours, my mother never intended to create a weapon of terror. The only time it was ever used, it was an accident, a tragedy, sparing its unwitting creator and dooming her to a life in the sunless depths. Here, with me, she lived the remainder of her years, haunted by guilt, bearing the secret of the most powerful magical weapon ever devised.”

There was a long silence. James’ knees ached from hunkering so long in the darkness, but he barely noticed. His mind raced with images of the upcoming Quidditch Summit-- hundreds of Hogwarts students, Quidditch players and teachers, along with the attending wizarding world leaders and their entourages-- all bearing wands, all suddenly connected in a crackling web of cursed magic. The wandless Muggle leaders would survive, blinking in the terrible aftermath, confused and clueless. They would be defenceless before Avior and his minions, who simply needed to stow their wands in a safe place until the Web spent its deadly force. The result would be massacre upon massacre as the Muggle survivors were cut down, one by one, like targets at a carnival.

Laosa’s visitor was asking a question.

“You misunderstand,” the Crone wheezed. “My great-grandfather’s ring was not the key to the Morrigan Web. The ring served only as fuel. The deadly nature of the Web is that any sufficiently magical object can power it, any tool or sigil that has absorbed the strength and purpose of a very powerful witch or wizard, now dead and gone, leaving only their essence behind. My great grandfather was a warlock-- a purveyor of warfare and death-- and yet he was no horror. He was simply an amoral man willing to sell his dark talents for a rich income. Even so, look what his reflected essence wreaked when untethered and amplified!

“If only my mother had used someone else-- a witch or wizard of noble heart and gentleness-- she may well have succeeded in her plan. Or, at worst, created a Web of mere pixie dust and flowers. But that, unfortunately, did not happen. This is the world we live in, my young pretty-- a world brimming with evil determination. A world full of wicked witches and wizards whose power and intent lingers after their mortal death, just waiting to be amplified and unleashed with the proper spells and preparation. The horror of the Morrigan Web is that anyone can do it, if only they know how, and can locate a sufficient source of magical fuel and dark intent.”

The visitor spoke again. James thought he could make out the question this time: “How does one stop it?”

Laosa wheezed with laughter. “One does not. Once the source of fuel is locked in place, it can only be replaced with another source of fuel, equally as powerful, and related to the same donor. Removing the enchanted object outright will only trigger the transference prematurely.”

James pressed his ear directly into the crack of the door, struggling to hear as the visitor asked another question. “Then how does one recognize the Morrigan Web before it is triggered?”

“Ahh,” Laosa smiled. “You see that that is the crux of the matter. Early warning and avoiding false alarms. It may be that a dead wizard’s favourite pipe is a magical time bomb. It may also be merely a quaint memento. As a famed Muggle once said, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. So how, you ask, does one tell the difference?”

The visitor murmured in an encouraging tone.

Laosa heaved a deep, resigned breath. “There are three markers,” she admitted, lowering her voice so that James, once again, could barely hear. The others crowded round him, piling outside the door and holding their breath to listen. “The first marker is the object itself. It will be a tool or instrument of someone of great power, heartlessness, and purpose. The subject must be deceased, leaving their essence to pool in the object, making it a focal point.

“The second marker is proximity,” the ancient crone went on. “The object will be in the centre of a crowd, the focal point, the headpiece. It will not be subtle. It cannot be, or the magic of its preparation will not work. And finally, perhaps most important of all, the third key is…”

Laosa’s voice cracked. She wheezed drily, coughed, and then hesitated, apparently taking a drink. Her visitor spoke to her soothingly, her own voice hushed. After an infuriatingly tense minute, Laosa spoke again. James couldn’t press his ear any closer to the door-- Rose, Zane and Scorpius hovered over him as well, leaning and straining-- but Laosa’s voice had fallen to a harsh rattle, indistinguishable beneath the distant crackle of the fireplace.

And then, in horrifyingly slow motion, James began to lose his balance. Rose and Scorpius were leaning on him, adding their weight to his precarious position. He tilted toward the door, tried desperately to right himself, and only succeeded in knocking Scorpius’ hand loose of his shoulder. The blonde boy fell atop him, tumbling him forward into the door. Rose fell as well, rolling over him, followed by Zane, who tripped over James’ legs and knocked the door completely open before sprawling full length onto a rough woven rug.

The door banged against the inside wall, rattling in its old hinges.

“Interlopers!” Crone Laosa rasped, her voice reduced to a rough, strained wheeze. She leapt from her rocking chair by the fire, wand in hand, pointing down the full extension of her arm. “Trespassers!
Eavesdroppers!”
Furiously, she stalked forward, eyes blazing on her long, wrinkled face, white hair streaming wildly behind her.

James scrambled to back away from her but was hopelessly entangled with Rose and Scorpius. Clumsy with terror, the students flailed, shrinking back from the Crone’s white fist and black, twisted wand.

“Blattam…
Immutare
!”

A purple bolt leapt from Laosa’s wand. James squeezed his eyes shut, certain he was about to be blasted into cockroach-hood. Instead, the bolt struck the door, splitting it and peppering him with splinters. He risked slitting one eye and peering up.

Laosa’s wrist was being gripped from behind by a pale white hand, raised just enough to offset her aim. A face, smiling and framed by satiny black locks of hair, peeked over the Crone’s shoulder calmly.

“Actually, Madame,” Tabitha Corsica said with a smug sigh, “I’m afraid that most of these… are with me.”

“I suppose the truth would make a better story,” Corsica said as the gathering left Crone Laosa’s quarters (Crone Laosa herself fuming curses and shaking with fury behind them) “if it wasn’t so sadly obvious. When I saw you in the greenhouse during this afternoon’s lesson, Mr. Potter, I knew immediately that you were up to no good. You are as easy to read as a Beedle the Bard picture book. I simply followed you and your little clique of troublemakers.” She laughed lightly.

“It
can’t
be that easy,” James seethed as he stalked ahead, following the spark of his own wand back to the dwarven tunnel. “No one simply walks into the cellars of Alma Aleron.”

Inexplicably, Zane snickered behind him.

“Ah,” Corsica said, turning to Zane and Nastasia, as if remembering they were there. “This is where we leave you. You will both accompany Madame Laosa to the surface. Good day to both of you.”

Zane’s grin transformed immediately into an alarmed frown. “You’re sending us with Crone La-er…” he caught himself and glanced behind him, spying the old woman’s pale face and blazing eyes as she hobbled up to them. “Er…
Madame
Laosa, I mean. And a more handsome and capable escort have I never met! Why, a delight! A pleasure, to be in the company of…” he coughed, running out of steam in the face of Laosa’s withering stare.

“Save it for the Chancellor,” she growled, her voice like sandpaper. “I’ve already sent word that I will be delivering you to the surface. In your present forms, unfortunately.”

“Oh thank God,” Zane declared, wiping his brow theatrically. “Lead on then, Madame Crone.”

Laosa ignored him. As she passed Tabitha Corsica, however, she pinned her with a steady, piercing gaze.

“You seem a far sight young to be a professor, my pretty,” she muttered, leaning close and narrowing her eyes. “There’s something about you that speaks of treachery.” She sniffed, as if scenting the air around Corsica, tasting her aura. Her thin lips curled into a tight smile. “I
understand
treachery.” She nodded. Then, with a swirl of her ancient, mouldy robes, she swept on, leading Nastasia and Zane into the shadows.

“We’ll talk,” Zane called, turning to trot backwards. “Have your people call my people!” He waggled his eyebrows and pantomimed talking on a Muggle telephone. James knew that he was talking about the Shard and nodded wearily.

“Shall we?” Corsica announced cheerfully. “Mr. Potter, you’ll take the lead, if you please. I have an excellent sense of direction, but it seems a waste not to utilize your Compass spell. Surprisingly intrepid of you, I daresay.”

“Stop calling me Mr. Potter,” James said, his voice echoing as he ducked into the cramped dwarven tunnel. “You’re barely older than me. And you
aren’t
a full professor. You’re just a substitute.”

Corsica clucked her tongue behind him. “Sticks and stones, Mr. Potter…”

Further back, Rose spoke up. “James is right. It
is
dead suspicious that we found you here, er, Professor. Seems awfully convenient just to say you followed us.”

“Alas,” Corsica answered, “I should thank you and your friends for
making
it so terribly convenient for me. Following James and Mr. Dolohov from the greenhouse was no challenge. Spying the rest of you skulking outside the Great Hall was even easier. And slipping into the Great Hall to spy on you was a mere matter of timing and misdirection.”