James Potter and the Morrigan Web

by G. Norman Lippert

James smiled at his uncle and felt a blush rise to his cheeks. "The Order?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  "Shush, all of you," Luna said, raising her mug. "It's Christmas. Let's not speak of such things."

  "For now, at least," Ron agreed. He smiled at Rose, who snuggled on his lap. "How was the Portkey?"

  "Fine," she replied. "But Grandma Weasley will probably leather you with a hex for using your old sweater. So why are we meeting here instead of the Burrow like we were supposed to?"

  "Nothing wrong with old Grimmauld Place," Bill answered heartily. "I daresay Kreacher makes it nearly as festive as a chestnut. Why, when we arrived he had those old house elf heads singing Christmas carols."

  "No!" Albus exclaimed. "He's been trying to do that for years but Mum never allows it!"

  Luna smiled. "She's been a bit busy trying to arrange for us all to be here. Still, I do rather like the singing. It's curiously… unconventional."

  Behind her, Rolf nodded meaningfully. James knew why: few people appreciated-- or identified with-- the curiously unconventional as much as Luna Lovegood-Scamander.

  "Seriously," James said, plopping onto the arm of the sofa next to his uncle Bill. "Why here? You lot sent Albus a letter saying we'd be traveling by Portkey to the Burrow, and then you brought us all here instead. And just now you mentioned 'the Order'…"

  "Last minute change of plans," Charlie stated, waving a hand in the air. "Your dad suggested it a few days ago and we all loved the idea. Enough said, and here we all are."

  "And Goblinfire in the hearth," Rose said, perking up on her father's lap and narrowing her eyes. "No smoke for the chimney."

  "Extremely dodgy," Albus agreed, turning to look closely at his Uncle Charlie. "You're hiding something. What is it?"

  "Poppycock," Ron said firmly. "Stop being so bloody suspicious, all of you. There're more bedrooms here than there are at the Burrow, it's as simple as that. And we've charmed the attic to function as a dormitory for the lot of you. You saw it when you first arrived."

  "If you charmed the attic," Rose said, cocking her head, "you don't have much of an idea of what a dormitory is."

  "Bloody hell," Ron muttered, climbing to his feet and depositing his daughter onto the chair behind him. "I thought Hermione was doing it. And she likely thought I was doing it. And now she's out helping Ted Lupin get a tree. Seriously, though, she's much better at furniture transfiguration than me…"

  He started for the archway, and then stopped, glancing back sternly. He pointed at the three students one by one. "All of you, keep your noses to yourselves. There's nothing suspicious going on--" he stopped, seeing the look on Rose's face. "And I'm totally wasting my breath, aren't I?"

  "You've never been able to lie, Dad," Rose shook her head. "Sorry. You're just too honest by nature. Leave it to Uncle Charlie."

  "Damn right," Charlie agreed, hoisting a mug of cider. "Let them be, Ron. They'll find out soon enough. We bloody would have when we were their age."

  Ron fumed silently for a moment, and then seemed to resign himself with a shake of his head. "Luna's right," he shrugged. "It's Christmas. Let's not speak of such things." He sighed deeply and gave a small smile. "I've got an attic to transfigure. Who wants to help?"

  "I'm in," Albus jumped up eagerly. "I want quadruple bunks, all the way to the ceiling, James on the very bottom."

  "James? Rosie?" Ron prompted.

  "No thanks," James said, getting to his feet. "I want to go say hi to everyone else."

  "Me too," Rose said quickly, joining him.

  Ron rolled his eyes. "You're both as transparent as ghosts. Fine. Go see what secrets you can dig up. But I'm telling you, you're wasting your time."

  In that, it turned out Uncle Ron was quite right.

  Grandma Weasley, to no one's surprise, was in the kitchen, surrounded by brilliant sunbeams from the high windows and the warm scent of baking. Bowls stirred themselves busily on the butcher block while a huge wooden spoon swiftly dolloped raw cookie dough onto baking pans. Fleur was with her, looking unnecessarily spritely in an immaculate white apron, her blonde hair pulled back in festively ribboned pigtails.

  "Good morning, James, Rose," Grandma Weasley sang delightedly, dusting her hands on her apron and drawing them into a mutual, crushing embrace. "So good to have you all here! Where are the others?"

  "Mostly upstairs," Rose smiled, squeezing her grandmother as tightly as she could. "Turning the attic into a hostel."

  Fleur commented briskly, "With all ze magic zey are pouring into zis 'ouse it's a wondair it doesn't grow legs and dump us all straight out onto ze street. Adding floors, enlarging zis, reducing zhat. It is more than an old 'ouse can take!"

  "Who's enlarging things and adding rooms and floors?" James asked as casually as he could, but his grandmother merely flapped a hand at him.

  "Never you mind that. If you're going to hang about the kitchen, we can use your help, both of you. It's no small task cooking and baking for a family this size, especially with all these extra visitors and unexpected guests."

  "Who's unexpected?" Rose pressed. "Are there even more people coming?"

  "And where's dad?" James added. "Don't tell me he's traveling again?"

  "Zese are questions for your uncles," Fleur shook her head, hefting the pan of cookies and opening the oven with a flick of her wand. "Zey'll tell you everyzing you need to know."

  James rolled his eyes. "We already asked them! They didn't tell us anything."

  "Well then I guess you don't need to know, do you?" Grandma Weasley replied curtly. "Now off with you or get to work. Which will it be?"

  The answer was obvious. James and Rose darted through the sunlit kitchen and pulled open the cellar door with a creak. They tromped down the wooden stairs into murky dark.

  The cellar had once been a ramshackle dining area. Now, the ancient table had been replaced with a collection of old sofas and chairs, forming a comfortably shabby common room, all centred round an enormous, rusty stove. To James, the cramped, low room felt rather a lot like the basement game room of his old Alma Aleron residence, Bigfoot House.

  Voices echoed from near the glowing stove.

  "Grudje has ultimate say when it comes to the faculty," George Weasley was saying darkly. "I doubt even Harry can talk the Minister out of it."

  "Harry's persistent," a woman's voice answered. "Besides, the law is the law."

  As James and Rose approached, they saw Angelina, George's wife, seated next to him on the couch. She glanced up at them and smiled.

  "Just in time! Good morning James, Rose! And Merry Christmas!"

  "You, too, Aunt Angelina," Rose sighed in frustration. "Are you two going to tell us what's going on?"

  "Why should anything be going on?" Uncle George replied, staring tensely into the glow of the stove.

  James threw himself onto a nearby chair. "Don't you start. You of all people, Uncle George."

  "We won't tell you what your presents are no matter how many times you ask," Angelina teased.

  "What's going on with Uncle Harry and Headmaster Grudje," Rose sighed, sinking to the couch next to Angelina. "And have you heard what a nightmare he is, by the way? He's given Filch some magical cane and set him free on his own little reign of terror."

  Angelina nodded, her smile growing dark. "We've heard all about it. Believe me."

  "Here he comes," George suddenly said, jumping forward and grabbing the handle of the stove door. With a screech, he wrenched it open, revealing the glowing coals inside. James peered into the nearly blinding glare, expecting to see a face appear there. Instead, the coals flared brilliant green and flashed with flame. A figure popped incongruously out of the small space, bringing a wreath of green flames with it. When the flames evaporated, Harry Potter was standing there, dressed in his winter cloak, a natty suit peeking from beneath it.

  "Dad!" James proclaimed, jumping up. He moved to his father's side, only now realizing how much he had missed him.

  "James," his fathe
r greeted him warmly, throwing an arm firmly around his shoulders and squeezing. A moment later, the stove glowed bright green again and Harry drew his son aside, making room. Another figure popped out of the flames, this one decidedly more bedraggled-looking, his hair lank and dark, hanging in his face. As he straightened and swept his bangs aside, James recognized the figure and gasped.

  Rose jumped up. "Professor Longbottom!" she cried.

  The professor smiled wearily and shook ash from his shoulders. "Do I smell cookies?" he asked faintly. "I'm perfectly starved."

  "It isn't that it's secret," Harry Potter explained later, walking from room to room on the third floor with James, Rose and Ralph on his heels. "It just isn't anything you'd be interested in. It's just business."

  "But you're head Auror, Uncle Harry," Rose countered, following Harry into a corner bedroom. "Your business is totally exciting! Seriously!"

  Harry smiled at her, and then waved his wand slowly around the room, scanning it with pale purple light. James recognized it as a Ravaelio spell, meant to uncover hidden objects or secrecy charms. Harry spoke as he swept the room. "You'd be amazed how dull an Auror's job can be, Rose. Just ask your father. Tomorrow night's meeting really will be dead boring. I would skip out on it myself if I could. Come and join you in the attic and play Winkles and Augers or Exploding Snap. Count yourselves lucky."

  "I don't believe that for a second," James pressed firmly. "What's with all the secrecy then? Leading everyone else to believe we'll be at the Burrow, smokeless Goblinfire in the hearth, security sweeping every room. This is more than regular old Ministry business."

  "I didn't say it wasn't serious," Harry replied mildly. "I just said it would be boring. It isn't like the old days when there was a single evil bent on world domination. In some ways that was easier. I'd sooner put out one giant inferno than a thousand little brush fires."

  "What about the Collector?" Ralph asked, watching as Harry inspected a suspiciously glowing drawer revealed by the purple light. "He sure seemed bent on some pretty evil world domination."

  Harry pulled open the drawer, revealing a tiny poltergeist in the shape of a fat, horse-faced woman with bat wings. It glared up at Harry, grabbed a pair of tarnished spoons larger than itself and began to bash them together noisily. "Viktor Krum told me about that," Harry said, raising his voice over the clanging spoons. "He and the Harriers are still in New Amsterdam keeping an eye on Merlinus' staff, which is still stuck fast in the footpath. It's boring work guarding an old stick. If this Collector person shows up again, believe me, they'll know it." He tapped the Poltergeist with his wand, surprisingly gently, and the tiny spectre dropped the spoons with a clatter. Its eyes crossed and it keeled backwards into the drawer, seemingly asleep. Harry shook his head at it. "Daft things are popping up in the strangest places, lately. Harmless enough, if a bit of a nuisance."

  "Dad," James said earnestly. "The man calls himself the Collector. He enslaved a bunch of poor Muggles and made them help him build something, possibly a super-weapon of some kind called the Morrigan Web. He said he had a Warlock helping him."

  "That's what Warlocks do," Harry commented, passing James as he headed back into the hall. "Magical warfare is their job description. But seriously James, there're almost none of them left. Most were imprisoned years and years ago, back when the Deatheaters all started turning each other in to save their own skins. I'd sooner believe this Collector bloke has a pink unicorn than a Warlock partner."

  "But what if it's that vicious spod that escaped Azkaban?" James persisted, following his father down the hall. "Worlick! The whole reason you captured him was that he was brewing up all sorts of evil dark spells and potions, right? And then the Lady of the Lake breaks him out of prison! What if he's one of the last Warlocks around and they needed him to help make the worst magical weapon of all, the Morrigan Web?"

  Harry stopped in the hall and looked back at his son. "Who's 'they'?"

  James paused. "Well, the Lady of the Lake and the Collector. We think… well, I think they may be working together."

  Harry studied his son for a long moment, and then looked around at Rose and Ralph. "When I was a boy," he said, giving them his full attention, "I didn't tell the adults in my world everything I knew. I didn't talk about the basilisk I heard hissing in the walls. I didn't ask for help deciphering Tom Riddle's diary. I kept Dobby's attempts to 'help' me mostly to myself. And do you know why?" He raised his eyebrows. "Because I feared no one would believe me. Growing up in the family that I did… well, let's just say that it didn't lead to a particularly high opinion of the trustworthiness of adults."

  Harry turned and dropped to one knee, drawing his son, Rose and Ralph closer. "You lot are better than I was then, though. You've brought your concerns to us. And the last thing I ever want to be… is the adult I always feared when I was your age. So hear me now. I believe what you saw in New Amsterdam. In fact, I believe it so firmly that I have been seriously hard pressed to know whether to punish you for going there in the first place, or to commend you for your perfect dumb luck in escaping those rogue beasts. If Krum and the Harriers had not been there…" he shook his head and glared at them. "Well, suffice it to say I have told your mothers a rather edited version of the story, saving all of you the indignity of having Lanyard Charms tethering you to Hogwarts." To Ralph, he added, "Your father knows the whole thing, of course. He was with me when Viktor gave his briefing. If I had to guess, he was… both angry and proud at the same time. I can rather appreciate his response."

  "The Collector isn't just some deluded wizard making trouble in New Amsterdam, Dad," James insisted in a low voice. "He was powerful."

  "And smart," Rose added gravely. "He knew who James was."

  That caught Harry's attention. He blinked at her. Finally, he nodded, and sighed. "I wish I could devote all of my resources to digging into it," he admitted. "But we are spread terribly thin already. Still, we will look into it. I promise. Along with… everything else." He shook his head.

  Ralph accepted this stoically. "I guess that's good enough for us, then. Right?"

  Rose and James shrugged.

  "So can we come to the meeting tomorrow night, Uncle Harry?" she asked, smiling sweetly. "Please?"

  "No." Harry smiled. "But I'll tell you what I will do. I'll post Kreacher outside the attic door to make sure you are all safe from any attempts to sneak down and eavesdrop. How's that?"

  James rolled his eyes. "You really are a bit of a killjoy, dad."

  "That's what dads are for, son," Harry stood and brushed off his knee. "Now if I am not mistaken, I believe I hear your Aunt and Teddy Lupin returning with the Christmas tree. Come. That tree won't decorate itself."

  "Actually," Ralph said thoughtfully as Harry led them down the stairs, "With Kreacher around, it very well might."

  Christmas morning turned out to be a singularly raucous and crowded occasion, what with so many people crammed into the narrow house and so many sweets being eaten, so many presents being unwrapped, and so many new sweaters, toys and games being tried on, tried out, and played with. Voices rang from the walls in a cacophony of genial argument as Rose, Albus and Louis played a new wizarding board game called Hex the Hag, wherein a tiny clockwork hag ran around the game board stealing cauldrons. This got rather out of hand when the tiny Hag escaped the board, darted under a nearby sofa, and was promptly pounced upon by Aunt Hermione's old ginger cat, Crookshanks, who ran off with the screaming clockwork imp. Nearby, James saw his Aunt Fleur trying on a pair of elbow-length red gloves, happily modelling them on her slender hands while Victoire sulked jealously, already bored with her own new boots and magical dancing locket.

  James received a new sweater from his Grandmother, as had virtually every other member of the household, each one different and unique to the wearer, and each one, of course, hand-knitted and marvellously warm, even if they were not what Victoire called "fashion forward". Most members of the family donned theirs and wore them throughout the day, ev
en as they crowded into the dining room for Christmas dinner.

  "Help me out with this, would you Ron?" Harry announced as James, Ralph, Albus and Rose elbowed toward the heavy table, which was already laden with steaming bowls, platters and tureens. "I can never keep the corners plumb with a room this size. Too much raw space."

  "No problem, mate," Ron nodded, raising his wand toward the far corner of the room, aiming over the enormous, roaring hearth. "On three, then?"

  Harry nodded, and then glanced down at the children, nodding for them to step back. James retreated half a step, pushing Ralph and Rose behind him. Everyone watched as the two men firmed their grips on their wands and counted off.

  "One..." Ron began.

  "Two…" Harry added.

  "Three!" both said in unison. The upraised wands fired simultaneously, producing beams of soft, nearly invisible orange light. The floor shuddered beneath James' feet as the far wall began to move, taking the burning fireplace and gaily decorated mantel with it. The walls creaked on either side as they elongated, slowly turning the high dining room into a long hall. The single frosted window stretched, its glass rippling like water, and then, with a gentle pop, divided into two windows. There was a long creak as the room nearly doubled in length. Along with it, the table stretched, sprouting matching new chairs like mahogany popcorn. The house groaned deeply, wearily, and then there came the unmistakable sound of a muffled scream.

  Ron and Harry extinguished their wands immediately.

  "Who was that?" Ron asked quickly, wide eyed.

  "It came from behind the wall," Rose volunteered, pointing toward the end of the room.

  "You incompetent clods!" a woman's voice cried furiously, muffled behind the fireplace. James glanced at his father. It was Aunt Hermione. There was a thump, a clatter, and a series of rather unladylike curses. "You engorged the dining room right into the downstairs bath!"

  A look of pure mortification fell over Uncle Ron's face. He lowered his wand instantly and bobbed up on his tiptoes. Trying to keep the panic out of his voice, he called, "Are you all right, love?"