James Potter and the Morrigan Web

by G. Norman Lippert

  Scorpius met James' eyes as he resumed his seat. "So?" he prodded pointedly.

  James shook his head. "I'm not sure I'm supposed to say."

  "Did Flitwick forbid you?"

  James blinked. "Not really, I guess."

  "Then tell," Deirdre prodded, leaning in. "What's so important that it can't wait for the first day of class?"

  James briefly described his conversation with Flitwick and the strangely unmoving portrait of the deceased Headmaster. Out of respect for the Professor, however, he left out the revelation of Flitwick's goblin lineage. If the professor wanted everyone to know about that, James figured he would announce it himself. To James' surprise, no one else seemed particularly interested in the Merlin portrait.

  "So Flitwick can paint, eh?" Deirdre commented, grabbing a roll as the tables suddenly filled with laden golden plates and steaming tureens. "That old hinkypunk's just full of surprises, isn't he?"

  "Not surprising at all, really," Rose said speculatively from across the table. "He's a creative type. You can just tell, can't you?"

  "If you say so, Sybil," Scorpius scoffed, shaking his head.

  "Don't call me that," Rose bristled. "You know how I feel about her class."

  "But," James clarified, bringing the conversation back to the point, "Flitwick couldn't make Merlin's portrait come alive."

  Nearby, Joseph Torrance shrugged. "So he isn't that great of a portrait artist. Big deal. They'll probably just bring in a professional to finish the job."

  Rose frowned toward the front of the hall and pointed, interrupting James' retort. "Is that… the Minister of Magic?" she asked doubtfully.

  James turned to look. Sure enough, seating himself between Professor DeBellows and a thin, severelooking man that James didn't recognize, was the Minister of Magic, Loquatious Knapp. James had met the Minister on several occasions, of course, during visits to the Ministry with his dad. He'd never been particularly impressed with the Minister, who was slight, perpetually smiling and endlessly talking while never saying anything particularly important.

  Scorpius answered, "That's him, all right. And unless he's going to be our new headmaster himself, I'd say he's here to introduce that cheerful-looking fellow next to him."

  "You think?" Deirdre asked, frowning toward the head table. "I heard it was going to be Professor Longbottom. He's already been passed up for the post before. It's his turn, isn't it?"

  "The Ministry sees things differently," Rose sniffed disapprovingly. "My mum says they think Professor Longbottom's too stuck in the past. Not 'forward thinking' enough."

  James glanced at his cousin. "She doesn't agree with them, does she?"

  Rose rolled her eyes impatiently. "Don't be stupid. She's argued with the people at the Ministry all along about it, even back when they gave the post to Merlin. She threatened to quit if they didn't at least interview Professor Longbottom for the job this time."

  "Did they?" Graham asked, raising his eyebrows.

  Rose nodded curtly. "They did. It took all of five minutes. They'd already made up their minds, although they were very tight-lipped about it. Haven't told anyone who their final choice is. What about your dad, James? Was he in on any of this?"

  James shook his head. "Dad hasn't discussed his job much at all over the past few weeks. Seems things have been unusually quiet since the raid earlier this summer. He's spent most of his time on that stupid inquiry."

  Graham shook his head. "I thought that was just a formality, the whole inquiry thing into what happened on the Night of the Unveiling? Those busybodies in the American Muggle Integration Bureau demanded it, right? Can't believe they let Muggles tell them how to run their wizarding world."

  "They don't tell them how to run it," Rose replied, annoyed. "Don't talk about things you don't know anything about."

  Graham's brow darkened. "Well, they demanded the Ministry look into Harry Potter's involvement in it all, didn't they? They got what they wanted, and then some. My dad says it seems like those M. I. B. people have an awful load of power where they shouldn't. I mean come off it, Weasley, they're Muggles and they're American. Who are they to tell us what to do?"

  Rose narrowed her eyes. "They're the people who had an entire wizarding city broadcast to the Muggle world by a rogue English witch. Call them what you want, but they probably have a bit of a legitimate complaint, don't you think?"

  Graham scoffed and raised a finger to argue, but was interrupted by Scorpius' lazy drawl.

  "At the moment I care less about international relations and more about that curious object behind the head table. Or hadn't any of you noticed it yet?"

  James looked again. Sure enough, high above the heads of the teachers was a large covered object, apparently affixed to the wall just below the ornate rose window. The object was bulky, entirely hidden by a thick black cloth. As James gazed at it, something seemed to be moving slightly behind the cloth. There was a faint rhythm to it, subtly disturbing the black draping.

  "I assume that wasn't there last year?" he ventured.

  Rose shook her head, her brow knitted. "No. And I don't like it."

  "You don't even know what it is," James commented, but without much conviction.

  At that moment, Professor McGonagall stood up, pushing her chair back from the head table. As always, her long face was severe behind a pair of tiny spectacles. Her peaked hat shadowed her brow and James thought she looked noticeably older than the last time he'd seen her. The hall descended into muttering quiet as she approached the podium and tapped it several times with her wand, commanding attention.

  "Thank you," she said curtly, her eyes ticking keenly over the assembly. "And welcome back to Hogwarts. You will find much changed this year, and I suppose we must deem this only fitting, considering the many changes that are occurring outside of these walls. To illuminate us further on the subject, may I present the Minister of Magic, Loquatious Knapp."

  A scattering of applause echoed from the walls. The Minister stood, nodding and smiling as he sidled around the head table. James noticed that Professor McGonagall did not applaud, nor did she smile as she stepped aside, allowing the Minister to assume the podium.

  "Welcome, students," Knapp beamed, his natural orator's voice booming throughout the Hall. "Welcome back to Hogwarts. As your beloved Professor has already said, there are many changes afoot this year. I have every confidence that you will embrace these changes in the same spirit of bravery and enlightenment that has always been the hallmark of this, our finest magical institution."

  At this, a ripple of mutterings spread over the assembly. Heads bowed and whispers hissed.

  "I'm not sure I can hear him," Scorpius muttered, "with all this smoke getting blown up my robe."

  "There is no reason to be concerned," Knapp went on, dropping his smile and assuming a paternal demeanour. "Many of you have heard rumours of things that are happening in the world, Muggle and magical alike. These are uneasy times, to be sure. But allow me to declare with confidence that none of you need worry. Much of what you hear is, as always, mere rumour and fear-mongering. Let us stand fast in resisting the tide of our lesser instincts. Know that your leaders are firmly unified, working, as always, toward the greater good. You, students, may do your part. Study. Learn. Mature. Grow into the exemplary citizens we all know you can be. If you accomplish this, the future, as always, will take care of itself."

  Knapp beamed again as another round of tepid applause spread through the hall, led from the head table by Professors Kendrick DeBellows and Lucia Heretofore, the Potions Mistress and head of Slytherin House. Hagrid, James saw, clapped dutifully but unsmiling, his beetle-black eyes locked unflinchingly on the Minister.

  As the applause died, Knapp lowered his gaze mournfully. "Alas, due to unfortunate events, Headmaster Merlinus Ambrosius, whom we were only privileged to know for two short years, has been taken from us. We shall miss him and his unique guidance. And yet, as we move on in his honour, we embrace a new day. Allow me to intro
duce to you your new Headmaster, Rechtor Strangwayes Grudje!"

  With this, the Minister burst into wild applause, leading the assembly. He turned and grinned at the man he had been seated next to, who half-stood and raised a long, pale hand. Grudje was thin, with sallow cheeks, bushy grey eyebrows, and long, lank sheets of steely hair. He doffed his peaked hat stiffly and cinched his mouth laboriously upwards at the corners.

  "Grudje?" Rose rasped, leaning over the table toward James. "Who the bloody hell is he? You ever heard of him?"

  James shook his head, not taking his eyes from the scarecrow of a man. "No. What's he trying to do with his face? Is that supposed to be a smile?"

  Scorpius grimaced. "If so, it looks like he learned how to do it from a poorly translated instruction book."

  "Yes," Knapp went on, still grinning toward Grudje as he sank back into his seat. "Mr. Grudje has been of invaluable service in many corners of the wizarding world. He brings a lifetime of dedication and mastery to the office of headmaster, and I am certain that you will soon come to think of him with the greatest of admiration and, yes, even affection."

  "Unlikely," Graham mumbled with feeling. "Bloke looks like somebody's warmed-over nightmare."

  Rose elbowed him sharply. "Give him a chance. Looks aren't everything," she rasped.

  "And now," Knapp proclaimed, turning back to the gathered students and gripping the podium with both hands. "On to the most exciting new detail of this school term. As many of you are aware, certain… world events have occurred. While we in the Ministry can assure you that any unwelcome repercussions of these events are even now being sufficiently addressed, it has become incumbent upon us all to consider, more than ever before in our lives, what it means to be witches and wizards living amongst our Muggle brethren. For centuries, we have had the benefit of knowing about them, while they have known us only via myth and superstition. The vow of secrecy is nearly a thousand years old. And yet, it behooves us, if not to question it, then to ask ourselves: what might our lives be like without it?"

  At this, again, the hall descended into harsh whispers. Across from James, Rose merely looked sidelong at him, her brow knitted. On the other side of the Hall, several of the older Slytherin students broke into hearty, grim-faced applause. Albus, James was dismayed to see, joined them.

  "Students," Knapp called out, overriding the increasing whispers. "Students, attend. This must be more than a merely intellectual exercise. A time of great change may well be upon us. It is essential that we all prove ourselves, not only as witches and wizards, but as citizens of the world. With that endeavour before us, I am pleased to reintroduce a program that has not been seen since the days of your great-great grandfathers. For the first time in nearly two hundred years, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, along with the Ministry of Magic and the cooperating bodies of three other magical governments, will offer intra-academic exchange classes with four other schools from around the world. In the spirit of international brotherhood, Ladies and gentlemen, I give you--" here, the Minister turned and gestured grandly with his right arm. "Durmstrang!"

  An explosion of dark green smoke erupted between the dais and the head of the Slytherin table. Nolan Beetlebrick, a seventh year Slytherin, leapt backwards, shoving two first years to the floor in an untidy jumble. As the smoke diffused across the hall, smelling vaguely of moss and wood fire, a dark shape resolved out of it. It was a large box, nine feet high, covered in angles and leering shapes. It was, in fact, an enormous, baroquely designed cabinet, constructed of polished wood the colour of seaweed. Its doors were shut tight, gleaming darkly in the candlelight.

  Knapp gestured again, this time toward the head of the Hufflepuff table. "Beauxbatons!" he announced proudly.

  Another burst of smoke leapt into the air, this time powder blue and lilac-scented. A second cabinet resolved out of the smoke, this one pale white with golden scrollwork and tapered, rounded sides. The students began to applaud now, somewhat confusedly but with growing anticipation.

  "Alma Aleron!" Knapp bellowed, gesturing once again.

  A burst of deep red smoke, smelling strangely of fireworks and cut grass, exploded before the Ravenclaw table. The Alma Aleron cabinet was as square and tall as monolith, lacquered in gleaming walnut brown, its closed doors decorated with twin carved eagles. The applause continued, increasing steadily in volume.

  "And finally, last but by no means least," Knapp concluded, gesturing toward the head of the Gryffindor table, "Perhaps the most important and unique school of them all, Yorke Finishing Academy, Bristol!"

  The final burst of smoke was white as steam. It had no discernible scent that James could tell. As the cloud drifted upward, the cabinet revealed within it was not really a cabinet at all. It was smaller, made of dull grey metal, and ranged with a set of four narrow doors, vented at the top.

  The applause began to peter out in general confusion.

  "Yorke Finishing Academy?" a voice muttered from the Ravenclaw table. James saw that it was Fiona Fourcompass, her lip curled in vague disgust. "Never heard of it."

  "What is that thing?" another voice whispered. "That's not like any cabinet or wardrobe I've ever seen."

  From the dais, Knapp raised his hands, calling attention once more. "These, students, are portals-- Vanishing Cabinets. Each one will take you, at the appropriate time, to the school that it represents. There, you will attend classes, meet new people, and develop an appreciation for the interconnected web that is the world we live in. Furthermore, students from each of these four schools will be joining you here. You will see them in your classes, in the halls, and even at our social functions. I trust that you will represent yourselves well, and quite possibly forge friendships that will last for many years to come."

  As Knapp finished, the Great Hall swelled with a babble of voices. Questions were shouted toward the podium, but Knapp waved them away with a smile.

  "For the remaining details," he bellowed, "I leave you in the very capable hands of your new headmaster. Enjoy your adventures abroad, ladies and gentlemen, and do us proud!"

  With that, Knapp backed away from the podium, still beaming and waving as the students erupted into fresh throes of excited confusion. Headmaster Grudje, James noticed, had arisen from his seat. He stood nearly a head taller than the Minister of Magic as he stepped around him, approaching the podium stoically. He did not attempt to speak over the babbling throng, but simply stared out over the tables, his face as grim and cool as a gravestone, his grey eyes unmoving, seemingly fixed on the far wall. Slowly, eventually, the Hall quieted, settling into a sort of strained, expectant silence.

  When Grudje finally spoke, his voice was very deep, grating like millstones in a well. "You will each," he stated mildly, in a near monotone, "sign up for no more than four and no less than two classes at the school or schools of your choice. Classes will earn the appropriate grade in the equivalent Hogwarts subject, except in the case of Yorke Finishing Academy, which will be handled appropriately by Professor Grenadine Curry." He paused and lowered his eyes, peering slowly around the crowded house tables. "As the better of you have hopefully already realized," he went on a bit less severely, "most of these schools occupy very different time zones than do we. For your convenience, I have arranged for a small gift to the school, a very old tool, used under identical circumstances in centuries past, which will guide you as necessary to your various international appointments."

  Here, Grudje turned slowly. Unlike the Minister of Magic, the new headmaster's gesture was slow, deliberate, and eerily powerful. He extended an open hand toward the black-draped object below the rose window. Then, with a snap of his fist, the cloth fell away, billowing down behind the head table. Every eye in the hall watched.

  It was a clock unlike any clock James had ever seen. It was easily as tall as the headmaster himself, made of polished black wood and carved with a mind-boggling array of designs, curlicues and symbols. There was one large face, white as the moon and adorned with ornat
e black hands showing the current time (this face was labelled "HOGWARTS" in glowing blue letters). Four smaller faces surrounded the main face, each of these showing a different time and labelled with the names of the four other schools. Behind the largest face, ticking and whirring busily, was a mass of gears, cogs and flywheels, protected by a daunting iron padlock affixed to a hasp on the hinged clock face. An enormous brass pendulum hung from the bottom of the clock, swaying ponderously from left to right.

  "That," Deirdre breathed in awe, "has to be the most gloriously ugly thing I have ever seen."

  "I trust your instructions are quite clear," Grudje said, turning slowly back to the house tables. "Are there any questions?"

  Despite the clamouring of voices mere moments earlier, the Great Hall now remained nervously quiet. Somehow, it seemed that, despite everyone's curiosity, no one felt quite prepared to engage the new headmaster. James glanced around, waiting for a hand to go up. Finally, with a hard swallow, he raised his own.

  Grudje saw this and his eyes, if it were possible, both narrowed and sparkled. "Mr. Potter, then," he growled. "Do go on, young man."

  "I, er… I think some of us might be wondering, sir…" James stammered, shifting his gaze from Grudje to the strange metal locker at the end of the Gryffindor table, "I mean, I myself have never heard of any school called Yorke Finishing Academy. Can you, maybe, tell us what magical government it's connected to?"

  Grudje stared hard at James for a long moment. "Mr. Potter, I am surprised at you," he said in his deep, rattling voice. "Yorke Academy is not connected to any magical government. Yorke Academy will earn you credits with Professor Curry, you may recall. Madam Curry is your professor of Muggle Studies. Yorke Academy, you will therefore not be surprised to learn, Mr. Potter… is a Muggle school."