James Potter And The Morrigan Web (90 page)

Rose looked both shocked and crestfallen. “It’s you, sir?” she clarified, glancing from the painting to James and back. “You’ve got portraits scattered all over the school? And you’re using them to spy on everyone for Headmaster Grudje?”

“‘Spying’ is a subversive term,” Snape sniffed. “I am obliged to offer the entirety of my services to the new headmaster. As a result, I have been charged with observing. Those with nothing to hide have nothing to fear.”

James shook his head. “Because of you, we’ve lost Revalvier, McGonagall and Longbottom!”

“I had nothing to do with any of their predicaments,” Snape glanced away dismissively. “Each of those professors earned their own removal. If you disagree, take it up with the Headmaster. It is none of my affair.”

Rose’s disappointment was quickly boiling into anger. “Everyone’s living in fear because of you!” she declared, struggling to keep her voice low. “Good people-- people who were your friends and comrades-- are afraid to speak up against what’s going on, all because you’re broadcasting their every word to Grudje!”

“That’s
Headmaster
Grudje, and it behooves you to remember it, Miss Weasley” Snape declared, rising to his full height in the painting. “Like it or not, he is in charge, now, and things will be done according to his design. Those who chafe under that requirement are, by definition, unfit to serve under his leadership, regardless of their history, either with me
or
this school.”

“But,” Ralph frowned sadly, “Professor McGonagall got attacked. She’s still in St. Mungo’s. All because somebody wanted to keep her quiet. Maybe even Headmaster Grudje. Is that who you want to work for?”

“Conjecture and hearsay,” Snape retorted under his breath, but James could see that this had struck a nerve with the painted former headmaster. He moved closer to the painting and lowered his voice.

“You don’t have any choice in the matter,” he whispered. “Do you? You
have
to do what Grudje wants. Because, being dead, you don’t really have free will any longer…”

Snape refused to meet James’ eyes. “As usual, Potter, you speak as if you know what you are talking about. And also as usual, you do not.”

“Just like the portrait of Headmaster Phineas Nigellus Black,” Rose nodded slowly. “My mum says he had to do what Headmaster Dumbledore asked, whether he liked it or not. All the old headmaster portraits are honour bound to serve the living headmaster. Phineas Nigellus seemed to think it was a curse more than a duty.”

Snape glared at Rose from the painting. “None of you have the slightest idea what you are talking about. Move along. Go to your classes.”

“It must drive you mad,” Scorpius mused. “Having to do what that crazy dictator wants. After everything you did when you were alive to shut down people like him.”

“I
was
people like him,” Snape countered. “Men like Headmaster Grudje are the tip of the spear, the ugly truth that few are willing to acknowledge. Without men like him-- without men like
me
-- neither the wizarding nor Muggle worlds could survive.”

“But you
weren’t
like him,” Rose persisted softly. “You knew that power was nothing without wisdom and… well, love. That’s why Dumbledore trusted you. That’s why Uncle Harry named his second son after you.”

Snape shook his head, breaking his gaze. “Off to your classes with you. Do not speak as you go. Your probations are in effect, and Headmaster Grudje is right: he will know if you disobey.”

James hitched a long, disconsolate sigh. Disgusted, he turned away and began to tromp down the stairs. After a moment, Rose turned to follow, as did Scorpius and Ralph.

“It is a terrible shame,” Snape’s voice commented faintly, apparently to itself, “that I never did manage to get a portrait into that damned Room of Requirement.”

James stopped in mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder. The others crowded behind him, coming to a messy halt. Scorpius’ eyes sharpened, registering what the painting seemed to imply.

“Did you just say, sir,” he asked, “that you have no portrait in the Room of Requirement?”

Snape’s voice was low and cunning. “I
said
that you should all get to your lessons before I have to report you.”

“I see, sir,” Scorpius answered. “Certainly, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Turning and sharing a collection of secretive grins, the students continued their tromp down the staircase. As they reached the bottom, they split up, Rose and Scorpius turning right for Transfiguration with the new Professor Tofty, Ralph and James heading out into the morning sun in search of Hagrid’s Care of Magical Creatures, already in progress.

The portrait of Severus Snape sighed in his painting, relaxing once again into the background. “Damn,” he muttered to himself darkly. “Phineas Nigellus was right.”

At breakfast the following Monday morning, with less than two weeks left of term, Headmaster Grudje finally announced the upcoming Quidditch Summit.

“In ten days,” he rumbled in his standard monotone, “this school will be host to an event of historic importance. For the first time in nearly a thousand years, Muggle and Magical leaders will meet officially, here in these very halls.”

Most of the students had heard about this event by now, despite the restricted post and news blackout. Still, with the official announcement, the room descended into a buzz of animated whispers. Grudje allowed this for a moment before going on.

“We are all quite aware of the reasons behind this meeting. After many centuries of peaceful concealment, the wall of secrecy that has protected our worlds has been breached. Even now, despite our best efforts, it continues to crumble. Magical enforcement of the Vow of Secrecy is increasingly erratic. Unfortunately, some less scrupulous Witches and wizards have begun to take advantage of this. Conversely, intrepid or unfortunate Muggles have begun to infiltrate worlds that have been, for a millennium, beyond their reach. Some of you, I am quite sure, have heard the tale of the illfated Muggle family that inadvertently stumbled into Knockturn Alley by way of an unguarded portal.”

A smatter of mean laughter peppered the hall, mostly emanating from the Slytherin table. James had indeed heard the tale, as had everyone else. A trio of hags had discovered the family of four hiding behind a pile of trash bins, hopelessly lost and trembling with terror at the sight of the milling witches, goblins, and various nefarious creatures that frequented Knockturn Alley’s shadowy corners. It had taken a week of memory modifications at St. Mungo’s to undo the damage, and even then the father had continued to suffer from an irrational terror of warts.

“It has become necessary, therefore,” Grudje went on, “to involve our Muggle brothers and sisters in the management of affairs from this point onward. Along with representatives of the Ministry of Magic and other magical administrations, a careful selection of ambassadors and leaders from Muggle governments worldwide will descend upon this school for the advent of the final Quidditch match between Slytherin and Hufflepuff…”

At the mention of their names, both the Slytherin and Hufflepuff tables erupted into raucous applause. Grudje’s face paled and his eyes narrowed.

“
This is not an occasion for petty house loyalties
,” he declared with surprising volume, quelling the applause. The hoots and handclapping fell away, reducing the hall to awkward silence as Grudje frowned at the tables, the weight of his gaze like a cold wind. In a low, severe voice, he continued. “These are very serious times, pupils. The gravity of this summit is heavy upon us. We have been chosen to represent the entirety of the magical world. Our task is to show that witches and wizards are not threats to be feared, but friends and helpers, partners in a new world of peaceful coexistence. As such, many of you will be chosen as amateur diplomats. You will both serve and entertain our Muggle guests at events in their honour, held at various locations throughout the school.

“Most importantly, however, will be the display of magical competition and camaraderie that is the Quidditch tournament. This will be the keynote of the summit, and will involve each and every one of you. You will attend, and you will be on your best behaviour. Whomever wins, we shall all display the greatest respect, deference, and school spirit. And in the end, our Muggle guests will know that we are a culture they need not fear. Indeed, they will be welcomed and disarmed by our combined sportsmanship and magical heritage.”

Grudje paused, his cold eyes still roaming over the hall, measuring each face. Finally, he relaxed slightly. “On a happier note, however, this term’s Quidditch tournament will also be witness to the unveiling of an all new tournament trophy, the soon-to-be-coveted Crystal Chalice, presented via the generous donation of Mr. and Mrs. Draven Vassar, parents of our own Lance Vassar of Gryffindor. The Chalice, an ancient and immensely rare magical relic discovered by the Vassars in the course of their historical explorations, will serve as an enduring symbol of excellence for centuries to come. How fortunate will be the first winner to bear such a legacy.”

With that, Grudje favoured the hall with one of his rare, ghastly smiles.

“Ugh,” Rose muttered, cupping a hand to the side of her face to block the sight. “It looks like magical fish hooks are tugging at the corners of his mouth.”

Graham Warton’s face was pale with anger as a smattering of applause rippled through the Hall. “Isn’t it just like Lance Vassar to lose us the Quidditch cup and then produce some even better cup to award the winner.”

James was distracted, however, by the chilling certainty of Grudje’s announcement. Until now, the Quidditch Summit had seemed like a disturbing but nebulous premonition-- something that simply might not happen if he only refused to believe it. Now, it was not only a concrete reality, it was less than two weeks away. And worst of all, despite what they had learned during their misadventure in the cellars of Alma Aleron, they didn’t seem any closer to unravelling the mystery of the Morrigan Web.

With the announcement, the final days of term seemed to trickle by with eerie, capricious speed. This was due in large part to the typical end of term rush of examinations, accompanied by the mountains of homework that continued to be piled on. James tried heroically to attend to his studies and keep on top of homework, not so much for the sake of his grades but simply to stay out of Filch’s way. Even now, the old Caretaker was assigning crushing detentions to students who failed to turn in their assignments, which only succeeded in taking more time from their homework and studies, leading to even more detentions. The unfairness of it was all too infuriating, offset only slightly by the fact that Filch himself seemed the most harried of all, driven as he was by the increasingly demanding expectations of Headmaster Grudje.

As the days slipped by, James arranged fleetingly brief meetings with Rose, Ralph, Scorpius and sometimes even Albus, Zane and Nastasia in the Room of Requirement, which he had learned how to access back in his first year, thanks to his father. During the meetings, the Room of Requirement presented itself as a small command centre, complete with Sneakoscopes and a Foe-Glass, a library of books on magical spying and espionage, and a large plotting table bearing a map of Hogwarts and the surrounding grounds. Despite these tools, the gathering was consistently frustrated in their attempts to work out how the attack on the Quidditch Summit might happen, much less how to prevent it.

“Even if we knew Avior’s plan,” Scorpius declared finally, “The pitch will be absolutely crawling with guards.”

Albus nodded grimly. “Titus Hardcastle will be in charge of security. Nothing gets past him. He’ll have all the Aurors on high alert, especially after the disaster over the holidays when the American vice president was killed.”

“Will Uncle Harry not be there at all?” Rose asked.

James shook his head. “The Minister of Magic will probably have dad scheduled to count cauldrons in some warehouse in Siberia or something. They’re going out of their way to keep him away from the action these days.”

“I never thought I’d say this,” Zane sighed, pushing the map away and leaning back in his chair. “But this is out of our hands. It was one thing when we faced off against loopy Madame Delacroix and even the Gatekeeper. Those were plots involving just a few powerful people working under the radar. This time it’s the whole Ministry of Magic and powerful people working right out in the open.”

“It’s
still
only a few people,” James persisted, pounding the table with a frustrated fist. “It’s Avior working alongside Judith, the Lady of the Lake. I don’t know how they met, but obviously they have the same goals in mind. He wants power over Muggles, she wants chaos and destruction. Either way, it’s still just the two of them.”

“It may only be the two of them with the wicked little plans,” Nastasia agreed breezily, “but they’ve got the whole brute force of your Ministry of Magic behind them, paving the way without even knowing it.”

Ralph’s face was stony with resolve. “We can’t just give up, either way. We just need some help.”