James Potter and the Morrigan Web

by G. Norman Lippert

  James understood his cousin's fears, and yet there seemed to be nothing for it but to wait. For her own part, Tabitha Corsica seemed to enjoy their prolonged anxiety. At the following Herbology lesson she favoured James and Ralph with a long glare and a subtly threatening smile.

  Finally, on Monday morning, Filch gathered James, Ralph, Rose and Scorpius after breakfast, herding them brusquely toward the headmaster's office, muttering under his breath while Mrs. Norris hissed at their heels. Dread settled slowly in James' stomach as they ascended the spiral stairs and approached the closed office door. Filch rapped on it with his knuckles.

  Putting an obsequious lilt into his voice that sounded as authentic as a tin galleon, he called, "The students you requested, headmaster."

  Grudje's voice rumbled through the door, which creaked open of its own accord. "Do send them in, Mr. Caretaker."

  Filch glared at the four students, pressing his lips into a mean, harried grimace. "In with you, then! Don't keep the headmaster waiting!"

  He shoved James on the shoulder, hurrying him along. As the four shuffled reluctantly into Grudje's office, the door swung shut with a resounding slam, leaving Filch in the antechamber.

  Grudje sat at his enormous desk, writing with a huge white quill, ignoring the students as they stood nervously as far back as possible. The office was as drab and cold as before, with no fire lit in the hearth and the window covered with a heavy velvet curtain, allowing only the faintest grey light to filter into the gloom. Glancing around, James was curious to see that the portrait of Merlinus Ambrosius had been hung despite its all-too-noticeable lifelessness. Perhaps even more curious, the nearby portrait of Albus Dumbledore was completely empty, showing only a dark chair, lost in shadow. Something about it implied that this was not unusual. The chair almost looked dusty, as if it had been undisturbed for quite some time.

  Grudje stirred, bringing James back to the moment. A single candle guttered on the headmaster's desk, making an orb of light that left the rest of the office dense with shadows.

  "Professor Corsica tells me a rather astonishing tale," he said without looking up. His quill scratched busily. "She tells me that the four of you managed to sneak into the cellars beneath the American Wizarding school of Alma Aleron, assisted by your cohort, Mr. Walker."

  James shuffled his feet. He opened his mouth to offer some defence, but realized that the headmaster had not actually asked for any.

  "Ms. Corsica showed professorial foresight in sensing that a plot was afoot," Grudje went on, his gravelly voice calm and cold. "Of course, I myself was not in the least surprised when she informed me of what transpired."

  "Headmaster," Rose said suddenly, stepping forward. "We--"

  Grudje silenced her with a raised left hand, its palm as white as a fish's belly in the candlelight. His eyes flicked up from his parchment, pinning her from beneath grey eyebrows. "I am not interested in your explanation, Ms. Weasley. Do hold your tongue, for your own sake, unless I ask you to speak." He waited, assuring that she meant to obey. Rose took half a step backward and lowered her head.

  Grudje observed this stoically. Finally, he lowered his quill and gave the students his full attention. "The four of you have been seen on several occasions banding about, engaging in hushed conversations and secret congress. This is against the rules, as you well know, but I have allowed it. Why, you may well ask? Because I was curious to know what you were up to. Now, however, you have passed beyond even my patient indulgence. Ms. Corsica has confirmed this. As a result, I can no longer allow you to thwart the rules of this establishment."

  He paused, shifting his glare from student to student, marking all four of them.

  Scorpius cleared his throat softly. "Are we," he asked, cocking his head inquisitively, "expelled? Sir?"

  Grudje flicked his eyes back to Scorpius. "Expelled, Mr. Malfoy?" he repeated. "Do you believe you are deserving of expulsion?"

  James glanced at Scorpius, but the blonde boy did not return his look. "No, sir. Not this time. Just trying to be clear, sir."

  "You may indeed deserve expulsion," Grudje said, raising his chin speculatively. "And perhaps I should make it so, despite the lack of a concrete reason. Your secret counsels here at Hogwarts have been suspect enough. But to take your meetings to Alma Aleron, to its most clandestine locations, completely outside the realm of our supervision, that I simply cannot allow." The old man sighed deeply, still ticking his gaze from face to face. "As you now know, Ms. Corsica was intrepid enough to follow you. She briefed me on everything she witnessed: your clandestine meeting in the caverns, adjourning your cabal of malcontents. She tells me that she listened intently, hidden in the shadows. And she tells me, rather unfortunately, that despite her best efforts… she was unable to overhear your secrets."

  James stared at the headmaster, his mind spinning. Tabitha had not told the headmaster everything! He could scarcely bring himself to believe it. Was this, perhaps, a trick? Was he teasing them? Dimly, he realized that Grudje was glaring at him, silently measuring his response.

  "Oh," James said suddenly, groping to sound angry, offended, anything. "Er. That sneak! Why, I can't believe she listened in on us…!"

  Grudje pressed his lips into a thin, sceptical line. "Is there anything," he growled slowly, "that you would like to tell me, Mr. Potter?"

  "Anything to tell you," James repeated, his face burning red. "Er…"

  "I think I know what this secret counsel of yours was about, young man," Grudje interrupted impatiently, picking up his quill again. "There is no need to lie. It will only make matters worse for you.

  Admit it and I may let you off easily. Relatively speaking."

  "Er," James said again, glancing desperately from Ralph to Scorpius. "Er…"

  Scorpius sighed. "Night Quidditch, sir," he said resignedly. He hung his head.

  James held his breath, his eyes wide.

  Grudje's eyes were like chips of ice as he watched Scorpius, suspicion rolling off him in waves. The moment seemed to last hours. Finally, the headmaster sat back and nodded, eyes narrowed.

  "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. I am pleased that one of you, at least, shows enough sense to speak up. Such truly inane foolishness, this Night Quidditch. After the dismissal of Mr. Longbottom, I assumed it would naturally come to an end. Apparently my expectations for good sense are too lofty for some of you."

  With an imperious flourish, he signed his name to the parchment on his desk. "This, students, is the terms of your probation. According to it, none of you shall be seen interacting with the other at any time. No two of you will study together, sit next to each other in lessons, or engage in conversation during lessons or private hours. If you do so, believe me, I shall know, and there will be no further warnings. Breaking the terms of this probation will result in immediate expulsion from this school. Have I made myself exceedingly clear?"

  Next to James, Ralph and Scorpius nodded. Rose muttered assent. James took a small step forward.

  "Just curious, Headmaster," he said, steeling his nerve. "How will you know if we break the probation?"

  Grudje regarded him before answering. "Surely you don't expect me to answer that question, Mr. Potter."

  James' cheeks burned. "I… thought I might ask, sir. If we knew that there really was no place to sneak off to, I just thought it might help us to, you know, avoid temptation. We're, sort of, incorrigible that way."

  "I have my ways, young man," Grudje said dismissively, returning his attention to the parchment before him. "I do not need to explain my methods to assure you that there is no part of this school beyond my benevolent eye. You should thank me for this. By my vigilance, I may yet save you from your worst enemy: yourself."

  "Yes, sir," James answered, stepping back and pretending to be mollified. "Er, thank you, sir." He lowered his eyes, but his mind was suddenly racing.

  Grudje tapped the probation notice with his wand, creating a small stack of exact duplicates. "I shall distribute these to your teachers,
heads of houses, and prefects within the hour. For now, you may return to your lessons. And please, let there be no talking along the way. I will know if you disobey."

  "Yes, sir," James said again, more emphatically this time. His eyes were narrow with growing suspicion as he stared at the floor.

  Behind them, the headmaster's door creaked open again, announcing their dismissal. Silently, Scorpius led the other three from the room, quickening his pace as he reached the antechamber. Four sets of footsteps rang on the spiral stairs as they descended.

  James knew that what he should be feeling most was relief. For some reason, Tabitha Corsica had not told Headmaster Grudje the most damning parts of their trip to the cellars of Alma Aleron-- neither the bit about the Morrigan Web nor the part where Ralph had threatened her with toothy monster death. Normally, Corsica would like nothing more than to see James, Ralph and his friends kicked out of the school, humiliated and defamed. Why she had avoided such a golden opportunity was a mystery of truly epic proportions. As he stalked along the corridor making for the stairs, he sensed Rose's eyes on him, expressing her own surprise and shock at this inexplicable development.

  And yet what James was feeling most was a sudden, vindictive certainty.

  As he reached the top of the stairs, he glanced back, assuring that Grudje had not followed them. The halls were completely empty, punctuated only by the dull, echoing warble of classes in progress behind closed doors. Satisfied, James turned to a very large painting that overlooked the staircase. The painting depicted a group of witches reclined around a boiling cauldron, most sipping enormous tankards or dozing in the morning sunlight.

  "It's you, isn't it?" he whispered harshly, leaning close and addressing a tall but otherwise nondescript witch in the background. "You're the one spying for Grudje. Admit it."

  The witch regarded James sternly, defiantly, offering no response.

  "James!" Rose hissed, pulling on his sleeve. "Come on! What are you doing?"

  "You look rotten as a witch, you know," James went on, ignoring his cousin. "You can't fool me now that I know what to look for. The whole school is lousy with paintings of you. You're the gardening monk in the greenhouse painting in Professor Longbottom's sitting room. You're the knight in Professor McGonagall's portrait of King Kreagle. It's you who's spying for Grudje, telling everyone's secrets. Admit it."

  Rose boggled at James, and then leaned to look closer at the painting. Scorpius joined her, putting on his glasses and squinting through them. Ralph nodded over James' shoulder.

  "You're right!" he said, realization dawning on him. "Blimey, he does look awful as a witch."

  "Oh, do step back, the four of you," the witch said in a strangely low, drawling voice. "And consider investing in a good anti-pimple potion."

  "Headmaster Snape?" Rose breathed in an awed voice. She suppressed a giggle. "Is that really… er, you?"

  The painted figure sighed irritably. "I see you are as good at keeping secrets, Potter, as you are potion making. Make your way to your classes, the lot of you, before you get yourselves into even worse trouble."

  "How can you be helping him?" James demanded furiously. "I thought you were our friend!"

  The costumed visage of Snape sneered at James. "I have never been your 'friend', Potter. I am, however, one of your guardians, and for that you should thank me. Headmaster Grudje is quite right. You need someone to save you from your own disregard for the rules and pathological delusions of grandeur. I am all too willing to assist in that endeavour."

  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 ill-fated 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…"