James Potter and the Morrigan Web

by G. Norman Lippert

  "Somebody else is down here," Ralph said.

  "Maybe it's her," Rose suggested. "Crone Laosa."

  James didn't think so, but resisted the urge to voice this suspicion.

  Zane clapped Ralph on the back. "What say we follow them? It's the only lead we've got, right?"

  No one spoke up, either to concur or dissent. Thus, silently and carefully, the group crept forward, following the footprints. They led straight down the corridor and around a corner, where they met a second set of footprints. Together, these progressed along a narrow hall and toward a small, dark archway, blocked with a mostly closed wooden door. Firelight flickered teasingly beyond the cracked opening.

  "Voices," Rose whispered. "Is that her?"

  As quietly as possible, the students inched toward the door, huddling against the wall, careful not to scuff their feet on the dusty floor. Sure enough, faint and echoing, a voice seemed to be in mid-conversation.

  "I don't get many official visitors, you must understand." It was an old woman's voice, cracked and oozing with false sweetness. "I must say, I very nearly cursed you for an interloper. It is my only job, you know. Imagine. A witch of my capabilities, reduced to a mere custodian. Even so, my duties do offer the occasional indulgence. In fact, I was slightly disappointed not to practice my arts on you. I get so few opportunities these days. Still," she cackled teasingly, "the day is not yet done yet, is it?"

  Ralph met James' eyes in the dark hall. "It's her!" he whispered. "Crone Laosa! But who's she talking to?"

  James shook his head, confused and worried.

  Beyond the cracked door came the tinkle of silver and the faint clatter of plates. Another voice murmured, just out of the range of hearing.

  "My apologies," Crone Laosa simpered. "I am not accustomed to serving more than myself. I do hope that my humble abode does not offend."

  The second voice responded. James strained to listen, but couldn't make out the words. All he could be sure of was that Crone Laosa's visitor was a woman.

  "I see," Laosa answered, responding to some unheard question. "This is not to be a pleasant visit, then. You come to dig into the past. And yet I cannot help but wonder-- for good or for ill?"

  A response. James leaned close to the door but still could not hear it. The visitor was deeper in Crone Laosa's quarters, it seemed, around some hidden corner or behind some obstruction. He tried to peer through the crack of the door but could only see the faint flicker of fire, a simmering cauldron, the back of a blanket-draped rocking chair and a mass of blurry shadows.

  "Information, then," Laosa said, a suspicious smile in her voice. "It is quite popular today not to take sides, is it? I would almost prefer that your interrogation be for evil intent than for mere 'information'. I confess that I like to know where people stand. It makes things much simpler. But so be it. Ask away. I am obliged to respond."

  The visitor spoke immediately. James pressed his ear to the door's opening. There was something familiar about the voice. It was a woman, and he was almost certain she was not American. His eyes widened as a thought struck him. Could it possibly be the Lady of the Lake? If so, perhaps it would finally provide the proof Rose and Scorpius needed to believe that she was real. Avior may be the face of the Morrigan Web attack, but James was positive Judith was the one pulling the strings behind the scenes.

  "Ahh," Laosa breathed. There was a faint wooden creak-- a rocking chair, perhaps? "Straight to the crux of my family's sordid past, I see. To be honest, I was prepared to guard these secrets with great vigour and terrible magic. For many years I was primed to kill for them. I laid webs of misdirection, wove great protective spells, prepared vicious traps and counter-jinxes. And yet, amazingly, no one came. No one sought out the secrets I protected. Perhaps (I told myself), just perhaps the world has grown beyond the lust for such things. Perhaps my wardens were right when they assured me that there was no one left in the world mad enough to resort to such horrors." Laosa sighed deeply, mournfully. "Indeed, after lo these many decades, no one came. But now here you are, the very first. And even you do not come to threaten, to bargain, to murder. You come merely to seek information. How dreadfully, horribly dull. Pray, what has become of the world above?"

  The visitor's voice answered lightly. When Laosa spoke again, she seemed irritated. "Rumours and safeguards, pah. No one seeks such secrets without intent to use them. But so be it, my pretty young friend. Perhaps you are fool enough to believe what you say. I wonder if you will live to realize your mistake? But no matter. The decades have left me restless. I will give you what you seek."

  Laosa paused. Her chair creaked, rocking thoughtfully for almost a minute. Then:

  "It was my mother who created it. She did not mean to. It was what some ironically refer to as a 'happy accident'. She was seeking a way to prime a wand, to augment its powers for those weak in the magical arts. She had a talentless sister, you see, my aunt Tempestra. Despite her name she was nearly impotent, barely one notch above a squib. My mother wished to help her. Thus, she used a magical power source-- in her case, an enchanted ring which had once belonged to her grandfather, a warlock of great talent, highly revered and feared in his day, but alas, long dead. My mother distilled the power of her grandfather's ring, steeped it, and channelled it into her sister's wand…"

  Another pause while Laosa seemed to ruminate on this. Her visitor spoke again, briefly.

  "Of course it did," Laosa answered. "It was too much, too undirected. But that wasn't the worst of it. My mother had overlooked one important detail. The steeped magic had absorbed more than the strength of the old, dead warlock. It had absorbed his intent. It was very nearly alive. Fortunately, so long as it was imprisoned in the ring, amplified as it was by my mother's arts, it was harmless. It wasn't until my mother released it, gave it an outlet in my sister's wand, that its true power became known. But I get ahead of myself. The true story starts before that, as you surely know…"

  More murmured words from Laosa's visitor. More creaking from Laosa's rocking chair.

  "You truly do not know, then?" Laosa said wonderingly. "And yet, why should you? All records of the disaster have been destroyed. Only two others kept the secrets. And what has become of them? Dead. And not of curses and attacks, as one might expect. They were not killed by those hungry for the sort of power that can only be won via the artful use of terror, but by simple old age. Consequently, their secrets have been absorbed into the dust of history, forgotten by most, discounted by the rest." She chuckled drily to herself. "Well, by most of the rest. Some still believe. Some seek the secrets. Some wish to wield the power of the Morrigan Web, and reap its deadly reward."

  Next to James, Rose gasped at the mention of the Morrigan Web. He glanced at her, wide-eyed, as she clamped a hand over her mouth.

  "Sounds like somebody beat us to the punch," Zane whispered, frowning.

  "But who?" Scorpius rasped, eyes narrowed.

  "Shh!" James hushed them, raising one hand. Beyond the door, the voices were speaking again.

  "So be it," Laosa seemed to agree, a grin in her voice. "You shall hear the tale, and do with it what you will. My mother was the first to bear my duty here in the cellars, cursed to dwell these depths, forbidden from ever again appearing in daylight. It was a kindness, they told her. After all, she hadn't meant to commit any crime. She could not be executed for what was, quite simply, a terrible, disastrous mistake. Her genius had merely opened a door, unleashed a power that simply could not be contained. Thus, the only option was to banish her. And with her, her only daughter, the only other witness to the terror she had wrought."

  Laosa's chair rocked more quickly now as she warmed to the topic. "But all of that happened afterward. Before the terrors of that night, my mother, Princippia Laosa, was a highly regarded professor at the institution above us. Her treatises on the interconnected magical constants of the natural world were ground-breaking, earning her world renown and a position of great honour. Thus, when she announced that she had
perfected a theory regarding the transfer of magical energies, the wizarding world listened with great interest. After all, such a discovery could, in theory, grant normal lives to the magically weak, and even to squibs. Some went so far as to conjecture that Muggles could be empowered, allowing them to utilize magic that was utterly absent from their own nature.

  "Satisfied with her theories, my mother finally prepared a human trial. This would be conducted on her own sister, Tempestra, using the energy long steeped from my aforementioned great-grandfather's warlock ring. Representatives from magical institutions the world over gathered to witness the event. Nearly one hundred of the wizarding world's smartest and most accomplished technomancers, arithmaticians, and healers convened in the medical theatre, breathless with anticipation.

  "Tempestra was fearful, but excited. She had always been ashamed of her weakness, her inability to fly, to so much as transfigure a teaspoon out of a thimble. Now, finally, her life was about to change.

  "If only she had known…"

  Laosa paused again. Her voice was growing hoarse with so much unaccustomed speaking. There was a faint clatter as she seemed to take a drink, firming her voice. Her visitor spoke again, briefly.

  "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, coul
d 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.