James Potter and the Morrigan Web

by G. Norman Lippert

  "I need to contact my dad," James interrupted. "I need to tell him what's happening here. And there's more! I can't tell it all to you now, but when we were in New Amsterdam, we ran into this--"

  Longbottom hushed him suddenly. He glanced aside at the others gathered on the pitch. Most of them were dissolving into knots of nervous conversation. Only Albus watched from a distance, his eyes narrowed.

  "Boys," Longbottom whispered, leading James and Zane a few paces away from the others. "Things are much more serious than you know. Many teachers are even more worried than you."

  "Why, Professor?" James asked quietly. "Why doesn't anyone stop Grudje and Filch?"

  "Because Filch has the backing of Grudje, and Grudje has the backing of the Ministry," Longbottom explained quickly. "Anyone who defies them doesn't last long. You'll notice that Professor Revalvier is no longer teaching at Hogwarts."

  "I thought she was just on holiday?" James frowned. "That's why that new substitute Wizlit teacher is filling in."

  "Revalvier is not on holiday. She is under questioning by the Wizengamot for subversive behaviour. She was the first to challenge Grudje on his new policies, and she did so loudly. Within a week she was relieved of her post and taken to London for questioning."

  "But," Zane sputtered, "for what?"

  "Does it matter?" Longbottom answered helplessly. "She got herself into trouble with the Ministry once before for those books she published in the Muggle world. It wouldn't be difficult for Grudje to drum up new suspicions about her. And with her out of the way, he was free to fill her post with someone especially loyal to both him and the Ministry. Herbettina Blovius is no literature professor. She's an undersecretary to the Minister of Magic himself, albeit one with an unfortunate affection for… well, certain kinds of magical literature."

  James nodded dourly. "I looked over the new class reading list. She's got us starting on Persephone Remora's stupid vampire series next term."

  Longbottom shook his head dismissively. "The point is that Grudje gets rid of the people who challenge him. And he has ways of knowing who is against him. Few places seem to be safe from his ears. Not even my quarters. That's why I asked you to meet me in the greenhouses tomorrow," he added, exasperated. "The mandrakes would drown out our voices if anyone or anything was listening. I was going to tell you all of this then, when it was safer."

  "I don't understand," Zane whispered. "Why don't you just contact James' Dad yourself? Obviously he wouldn't approve of what was happening here. Maybe he can get the Aurors involved or something, raise a stink about it until someone at the top listens."

  Longbottom shook his head slowly. "As I said, Mr. Walker, things are much more serious than you know. Even teacher correspondence is subject to Grudje's inspection. He claims it is the edict of the Ministry, but we know better. Every teacher's floo is monitored. Travel is restricted. Any hint of 'subversion' is dealt with swiftly and permanently. There is plenty of secret resistance, of course. Myself, Professors McGonagall, Debellows, Trelawney, Flitwick, a few others. But we must keep very quiet and use the utmost care. If we are discovered, we will be removed from the school completely and therefore be of help to no one."

  "You seriously believe your own quarters are being spied on?" James rasped. "Is that why you were acting so daft tonight?"

  "It is a very real possibility," Longbottom sighed. "There is no question that Grudje has ears in the most unexpected places, although none of us yet knows how. I couldn't let you talk about Night Quidditch in my quarters lest you incriminate all of us. James, you and all of these students must go back to your dormitories immediately. This is far too dangerous for any game."

  "We're not here to play Quidditch, Professor," Zane said. "James has an idea."

  James nodded fervently. "I think we can contact my dad," he explained quickly. "If we all work together, that is. We can send him a short message; get him to talk to us later by floo. Are the dormitory hearths monitored?"

  Longbottom shook his head slowly. "No… no I don't think so. But how, James? How in the world can you get a message to your father?"

  "We write it," James answered. "In the sky, with all of us forming the letters. My dad has the Marauder's Map-- it shows the whole castle and the locations of everyone in it-- and he says he's keeping an eye on it. I think he knew something dodgy was going to be happening this year. He already caught me sneaking around once before. If he's checking in on me tonight, he's sure to see all of us gathered out here on the pitch. If we hop on our brooms, we can make a formation of letters and words that he's sure to be able to read on the Marauders Map."

  "Wow," Zane said appreciatively. "That's Zombie-calibre thinking! Nice one! You really think it will work?"

  "If Dad's watching." James shrugged. "He couldn't possibly miss it."

  Longbottom studied James' face for a long moment. Finally, he nodded curtly. "We have to be quick. Get everyone together. Before I explain, I'll allow anyone who doesn't want to be involved the freedom to leave. If just one person tells, though, James, it's all over. Not just for you, but for me as well. We must both be willing to take that risk."

  James blew out a harsh breath. "It's our best chance, I think. Besides, you're the unofficial founder of Night Quidditch. I think the league will go along if you lead the way."

  "That's what I'm afraid of," Longbottom muttered darkly. "Very well, then. Let's get on with it."

  It took rather longer than expected. Fortunately, not a single one of the Night Quidditch players elected to leave, despite the dangers. With so many people on brooms, however, it was especially difficult to arrange into the necessary formations. James and Professor Longbottom oversaw the process, taking turns viewing the arrangement from high above, calling down instructions as necessary.

  "The G is drifting," James called down, cupping his hands to his mouth against the cold wind. "Fiera, just stay next to the far ring. That's your anchor. Everyone, else, keep a tight formation. No more than arms' length from each other."

  "This is harder than it looks!" Albus called up. "You try hovering between two people in a bloody hurricane without crashing into each other!"

  "Turn your broom into the wind," Willow instructed. "First rule of advanced flight; there's no spell to combat wind shear."

  "I'll combat whatever I want," Albus muttered loudly. "Are we almost done? What are we spelling, anyway?"

  "Nearly there," Professor Longbottom announced. He broke away from the formation and swooped up alongside James. Together, they peered down at the undulating, moonlit formation of broom riders.

  "GRYF FLOO 12 AM," James read aloud. "Do you think dad will understand?"

  Longbottom nodded. "If he's seeing it, he'll get it. Gryffindor Floo, tomorrow, midnight. If you don't mind, James, I'd like to be there myself, and perhaps a few others. I'll spread the word. There will certainly be a few more people interested in speaking to your father, however briefly."

  James glanced at the professor, realizing again the gravity of their situation. "Er, yeah. Whatever you say, Professor."

  From Below, Herman Potsdam called, "How long do we need to hold this up? It's a lot less fun up here when I can't whallop Bludgers at Albus' head."

  "It's been nearly five minutes since the message was readable," James nodded. "If dad didn't see us getting into position, then waiting around probably won't make any difference."

  "Here's hoping," Longbottom sighed harshly and then called down, "Well done, everyone! Carefully break formation, spread out, and make your way back down to the pitch."

  Like dandelion seeds, the formation broke apart and drifted into meaninglessness. One by one, the Night Quidditch players dipped toward the frosty grass. James followed, landing on the centreline next to Professor Longbottom.

  "What do you say, Professor," Albus grinned, his cheeks red and his eyes sparkling in the moonlight. "Since we're all out here anyway, how about a quick match?"

  "Yeah!" a scattering of voices chimed in.

 
Longbottom shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, with obvious reluctance. "There's no time. And besides, there's no more Somnambulis potion. You all need to get back to your beds."

  His instructions were drowned out by increasingly enthusiastic appeals as more players gathered round.

  Beetlebrick was wide eyed with inspiration. "We can set a target score! One hundred points! First team to get there wins! No Snitch! We'd be done in less than an hour!"

  "No snitch!?" Albus interrupted stridently. "That's not Quidditch, you heretic!"

  Zane piped up, "We could field full teams with this many people! Forget houses for the night, just random squads for the fun of it! After all, the league's been shut down. Think of it as an exposition match!"

  "Enough!" Longbottom announced firmly, raising his hands. "Quiet down now, all of you!" He stopped, waiting as the gathering reluctantly fell silent. He looked around at them all, his eyes hard beneath his cowl. Finally, he drew a deep breath and shook his head. "Seventy-five points," he allowed. "Snitch wins the whole match. Because Albus is right. There's no Quidditch without the Golden Snitch."

  A rough, barely restrained cheer arose from the players, who immediately began to break up into swiftly arranged teams.

  "This is totally daft," Longbottom muttered under his breath, but James heard the smile in his voice. The professor produced his wand from the depths of his robe and pointed it at the Quidditch trunk. A bolt of yellow unlocked the trunk and it sprang open, revealing the restlessly glowing balls inside.

  "Listen close, now," Longbottom announced, turning back to the players. "Seriously, this is it. After tonight--"

  Behind him, the Quidditch trunk slammed closed with a loud clunk.

  James jumped and turned toward the trunk. An old boot was planted in the centre of the lid, holding it closed. With a swish and a flourish of fabric, the boot suddenly became the bony figure of Argus Filch, his foot pressed firmly on the Quidditch trunk, the invisibility cloak fluttering in his outstretched hand. He raised his cane slowly, menacingly, in the other.

  "Indeed, Professor," he growled triumphantly. "This is very much it."

  For one long, awkward moment, Professor Longbottom merely stared at Filch, his face unreadable. Finally, he pushed the cowl back from his head and stepped forward.

  "Thank you, Mr. Filch," he said brightly. "As you can see, I have arranged this little midnight outing. Herbology club, you see. Midnight blossoms and the like. Your vigilance is appreciated, but unnecessary. I will escort the students back to the castle now that we are finished."

  "Oh, I don't think so, Professor," Filch breathed slowly, his grin growing even more toothy, the cane unwavering in his upraised hand. "If you'll just hand me your wand, we can avoid any… unpleasantness."

  James felt a chill shake him to his heels. Filch had never once, in his experience, defied a teacher.

  "Argus," Longbottom said calmly. "I would hate for you to do anything you'd regret later…"

  "Your wand, Mr. Longbottom," Filch demanded in a louder voice, taking a step toward the professor. "And it is you who might be regretting things right about now. If you please." He held out a horny hand, palm up.

  "I would do as he says," a thin voice instructed from the darkness. James heart lurched into his throat as he turned, straining to see past the gloom of the grandstands. A tall figure stood there, watching: Rechtor Grudje, his face hidden in impenetrable shadow. "I have some very serious questions for you, Mr. Longbottom. Come along to my office. Perhaps we can sort this out swiftly. Perhaps it is an easily explained misunderstanding."

  Longbottom glanced around at the stunned students clustered behind him, his face resigned. "I'll take full responsibility," he stated. "Go with Mr. Filch back to your dormitories. There will be no detentions tonight."

  "That's right," Filch agreed viciously, taking the professor's wand from him. "Teachers don't get detentions, after all. Oh, no. Not by a long sight."

  Wind moaned through the grandstands, creaking in their dark heights. The sound mingled eerily with Filch's monotonous, wheezy laugh.

  Special thanks to Jennifer Stolzer for today's guest artist chapter illustration!

  9. THE MIDNIGHT ASSEMBLY

  It was the very pit of night when James woke up.

  All around, the castle was as still as a tomb. The dormitory stove had burned low, leaving the air so cold that James could see his breath rising above his bed. If he stayed awake much longer, he could watch one of the Hogwarts house elves appear to stoke the stove back to life before dawn, silent and secretive, employing its own unique magic.

  James didn't know why he was suddenly awake, but he wished he wasn't. Stormy thoughts circled his head, swooping in to land as he rose to full consciousness: Professor Longbottom captured by Filch and Grudje; the uncertain message to his father; the eerily familiar Avior Dorchascathan; the malevolent Lady of the Lake and Petra's dream story…

  The Collector…

  The Morrigan Web…

  A low scraping sound came from the stairs. James' ears perked up and he turned his head to look. The sound had been tiny, subtle, and yet, against the dead silence of the castle, it had been as clear as a knocking footstep. He squinted into the darkness of the spiral staircase and strained his ears.

  "James," a voice whispered in his ear.

  He jumped, flailed in bed, and fell to the floor with a thump, taking the blankets with him. He scrambled to his knees and peered over the bed, eyes bulging.

  Nastasia knelt on the other side. She looked at him with glassy, serious eyes.

  "You," James breathed, trying to calm his pounding heart. "How did you…?"

  "Can we go down to your common room?" she whispered earnestly.

  James nodded weakly. "Fine. I'm awake anyway."

  "Wait here for a minute," she said, her eyes still locked on his. "Then come down and meet me. Don't watch. OK?"

  James frowned in tired annoyance. "You sneak into my dormitory and tell me not to watch? I already know you can change into a snake. That's it, isn't it?"

  "Just…" she said in a small voice, "just don't watch. Promise me. I know you can keep your promises, so do it."

  He shook his head impatiently. "Fine. I promise. Slither away." He closed his eyes and leaned on his bed.

  Across from him, a shuffle sounded, and then a dry scrape, like fine chain mail dragged on stone. In her snaky form Nastasia was, in fact, remarkably quiet. The next time he heard her she was on the stairs, descending in faint, sweeping slithers.

  James counted to thirty, tired to the bone but almost preternaturally awake. Then, with a sigh, he stood, scooped his robe from the hook on his bedpost, and shrugged into it as he crept down the stairs.

  Nastasia was seated in the darkness by a window, barely a girl-shaped silhouette against the gloom. James joined her, plopping onto the chair across from her. He waited for her to begin.

  "You kept your promise," she said.

  "That's what promises are for," he commented curtly. "Otherwise they're just lies."

  Nastasia laughed darkly, weakly. "Sometimes it isn't that simple."

  James was in no mood for riddles. "So you can turn into a snake," he stated bluntly. A thought struck him and he slapped himself on the thigh. "I guessed that!" he rasped suddenly. "Back on first night when you snuck in, I knew there was something you weren't telling us! The cabinets were closed for human use, but somehow you got through. I told Scorpius and Rose and Ralph that you had to be an animagus or something! It was the only way! Wait until I tell them that…" he stopped himself, frowned again, then flopped back into his chair. "Right. I can't."

  "I'm not exactly an animagus," Nastasia muttered, turning her chin toward the dark window.

  "I may only be a fourth year wizard," James replied, "but I know what it's called when a witch can turn herself into a snake. It's called animagus. Get it? Animal and magic?"

  "Is your pal Ted Lupin an animagus?" she asked suddenly, glancing back at him.
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br />   James narrowed his eyes. "What do you know about Ted?"

  "I know what Zane told me. He said that Ted Lupin attacked Ralph once in the form of a wolf. But Ted's not a werewolf. So is he an animagus?"

  "Zane talks a lot, doesn't he?" James sighed. "But no, I don't think so. Petra said that Ted changes sometimes because of a weird combination of his werewolf dad and his metamorphmagus mum. It's complicated. So are you telling me you've got a dad who's a, what, a weresnake?"

  Nastasia looked away again and drew a long, deep breath, shaking as she let it out. "Don't be stupid."

  James waited, but Nastasia didn't go on. "So tell," he prodded, trying not to sound impatient, which he was. "You promised to tell me everything if I kept your secret."

  "It's not that easy!" she whispered harshly, angrily. "I've only ever told one person before! It's hard to break the seal on a secret like that! Give me a minute!"

  "Fine," James crossed his arms and slumped in his seat. "So were you there tonight, by the way? I didn't see you."

  "I was there," she replied sullenly.

  James nodded. "Must make it easy to sneak around that way. Slithering through the grass unseen. Slithering up the enchanted dormitory stairs without tripping the alarm hex. Sliding around through pipes and drains…"

  Nastasia was quiet.

  James tried a different approach. "So how long have you been able to turn into a snake?"

  "I don't turn into a snake," she hissed suddenly, turning back to him. "I…"

  James shrugged. "You what?"

  She sighed again, briskly, as if frustrated. "It's not…" she began, gesturing vaguely with both hands. "I'm not… what most people would think of as… normal." She dropped her hands onto her lap and glared at James, her face tense, as if she wanted to make a joke of it and was struggling desperately not to. Her hands scrabbled over each other restlessly, like wrestling spiders. Finally, she dropped her eyes.

  "Right," James said slowly. "I think I probably could have told you that."