"Mr. Potter," he said in a low, silky voice. "How did I know that you would be at the centre of this curious post-match gathering?"
James didn't answer. It wasn't that he was afraid. His cheeks burned with such a sudden surge of helpless anger that he feared that if he spoke at all he would shout in fury.
"Is anyone prepared to tell me what I might find in this trunk?" Grudje asked, addressing the crowd and raising his eyebrows inquisitively. A scattering of hands shot into the air.
"James and his mates told us there was going to be an attack!" a girl volunteered. James saw that it was Julie Minch, the Slytherin girl who apparently fancied Ralph. In the wake of Slytherin's tournament loss, however, all of her hopeful acquiescence had soured to petulant anger. "They said it was for our own safety to hide them away."
A rabble of voices agreed, while a Ravenclaw boy that James didn't know added, "They told us you were going to confiscate our wands!"
More voices roused in agreement, becoming agitated. Grudje stilled the crowd with a raised hand.
"And what," he asked mildly, "might you have to say for yourself, Mr. Potter?"
James pressed his lips together firmly. He could feel the heat on his face, turning his cheeks brick red with rage.
"Ms. Weasley?" Grudje inquired, flicking his eyes toward Rose. "Mr. Deedle? Mr. Malfoy? Anyone?"
"Would you really like the truth, sir?" Scorpius replied, giving the headmaster an appraising look.
"I would indeed," Grudje answered with cool magnanimity, spreading his hands slightly. "At least, whatever limited perception of the truth you and your persistently troublesome friends adhere to."
Scorpius cocked his head. "The truth, sir, is that no one trusts you. Even if we were wrong about what was meant to happen here today, the fact is that everyone here was willing to entrust their wands to us because they do not trust you-- either as their protector, or their leader."
The dead silence that followed this statement spoke as loudly as a chorus of shouts. James glanced aside at Scorpius, not sure if he was more impressed or mortified with the blonde boy's blunt candour. Scorpius merely glared up at the headmaster, his expression passive, almost bored.
"I would not be so quick to speak for those present here this evening," Grudje commented, allowing his gaze to roam over the assembled students. "They may not ascribe to your limited perception of current school events. They may, in fact, be mere pawns in your plot of discord and sedition. And yet, they have found themselves rather easily duped by your lies." Here, Grudje returned his gaze to James. "Mr. Potter, you invented the fiction that these unfortunate students were going to have their wands confiscated. Of course, I have harboured no such intention. In light of this situation, however, I find that perhaps yours is an idea worth some merit. If these students are so eager to hand their wands over to anyone with a fanciful tale, perhaps they should be taught the responsibility that comes with the privilege of wand possession."
Grudje studied James for a long moment, his eyes glittering meanly. Then, he lowered his gaze and flicked his wand once more. A stream of thick chains sprayed from his wand tip. Clanking and rattling, they coiled around the trunk at Grudje's feet, snapping tight and clamping shut with a large iron padlock.
"Until further notice," the headmaster said, pocketing his wand, "and by order of me, your headmaster, these wands are indeed officially confiscated. You may have them returned to you before the end of term, if--" he held up a narrow finger, quelling the growing protests, "you present to me an essay of no less than twelve inches of parchment titled, 'Why I Will Never Relinquish My Wand Again'."
The crowd redoubled its protests, shrill and furious.
"On second thought," Grudje amended, raising his chin and narrowing his cold eyes. "Perhaps sixteen inches would be more illuminating!" He glared around, challenging the students to continue their protests. Instead, the crowd fell silent, crackling with barely restrained fury.
"Much better," Grudje said softly, turning away. "Do enjoy your evening students. I look forward to your remorseful thanks in the years to come." As he paced toward the castle, the chained trunk began to follow him, clunking along atop its own shadow. Wind whipped Grudje's cloak and carried restless waves over the grass.
"Sixteen inches!" Graham Warton seethed, punching James in the shoulder. "One day before end of term and sixteen inches of essay! Thanks loads, you great idiot!"
"That's the last time I ever listen to a Potter about anything!" Fiona declared loudly. This was greeted with a murmur of angry assent as the crowd began to trickle toward the castle.
"Well, there's one good thing to come from all this," Scorpius commented, clapping James on the back. "At least now you weren't wrong about why we hid the wands."
James could not bring himself to respond. He was so numb with rage and frustration that he couldn't imagine ever feeling cheerful again. Silently, he began to follow the crowd as it drifted toward the castle, snatches of angry comments carrying back to him on the cooling wind.
22. AN IMPOSSIBLE BARGAIN
Dinner in the Great Hall was a rushed affair, as a much grander dinner and conference for the worldwide delegates was planned for later that evening. House elves, rarely seen during mealtimes, were bustling about the hall in their Hogwarts napkins and tea-towels, hanging bunting, cleaning the high windows on tottering ladders, and replacing any of the floating candles that were more than a third burned. The four school vanishing cabinets had been removed, making the area along the front of the house tables seem strangely empty.
The most noticeable difference, however, was on the dais that ran below the rose window and the enormous five-faced clock. The teacher's tables and chairs were gone, replaced with dozens of brass easels, all arranged in a neat semi-circle, and each bearing a framed portrait. These, James recognized, were the headmaster portraits that normally adorned the wall of the headmaster's office. Each portrait seemed unusually alert, some with bright curiosity, others with haughty disdain, most chattering avidly amongst themselves.
In the centre of the dais, positioned directly below the clock and looking wildly incongruous, a reflecting pool had been erected, filled with rippling water and adorned with six golden statues. James recognized the arrangement, for he had seen it dozens of times on his visits to the Ministry of Magic. It was a replica of the Fountain of Magical Brethren, showing a handsome wizard and beautiful witch, along with an adoring centaur, goblin and house elf, all spouting cascades of glittering water, the witch and wizard from their wands, the others from various bodily extremities. Added to the collection, however, was the unmistakable figure of a Muggle man, most noticeable for his lack of an upraised wand. This sixth figure was positioned between the witch and wizard, his arms lifted, palms up, capturing the cascading water from the spouting wands, his face upturned in grateful rapture.
"Did you see Mum," Albus asked, passing James on his way out of the Hall.
"Yeah, but only for a minute," James acknowledged, turning back to the stew he was idly picking at with a fork. "She was in the Entrance Hall talking to Flitwick and Debellows. She and Debellows left straightaway, headed back to the Ministry to try to get dad, Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron released right away. Titus won't even meet with her. Says he's too busy. I think he's just dodging her."
Albus nodded dourly. "Any idea where he's got them locked up?"
"No clue," James admitted darkly. "Could be anywhere, and he's keeping it a total secret. Doesn't want anyone breaking them out while he's busy with the big banquet tonight."
Albus sighed angrily. He seemed to want to say more, but couldn't think of anything. After a long moment of shuffling his feet and watching the house elves straighten the headmaster portraits, he continued on his way.
Glancing back at the portraits, James could not help noticing that the portrait on the far end, the one showing the stern visage of Merlinus Ambrosius, was still as unmoving as stone. He was somewhat surprised that it had been included in the arrangement
at all-- the paintings were obviously meant to inspire wonder and awe in the Muggle attendees. Perhaps the name alone would be enough. According to Zane, Muggles were quite familiar with the legendary sorcerer, albeit through myth and legend.
The portrait of Albus Dumbledore, however, was nowhere to be seen. This was not particularly surprising, James supposed, since the last few times he had seen the painting it had appeared completely abandoned.
Despite the bustle of the room and the palpable air of anticipation, the atmosphere around the house tables was tainted with sullen anger. Even the Hufflepuffs, who under normal circumstances would have been celebrating their tournament victory, sat in a shroud of subdued gloominess. Not only had their trophy been stolen and destroyed by unknown vandals, the entire team had given James their wands-- and seen them subsequently confiscated-- at the behest of their captain, Gabriel Jackson. Even now, she glared at James from the Hufflepuff table, still wearing her Quidditch tunic, her hair pulled back in a frayed ponytail.
James ate as quickly as he could and left the Great Hall by himself, unable to bear the silent anger of his classmates any longer.
Unexpectedly, Nastasia joined him as he climbed the stairs to the common room.
"How'd you get in?" he grumped under his breath. "All the vanishing cabinets have been stowed somewhere. Probably shut down, too."
"Oh, they haven't been disenchanted yet," she answered, matching his footsteps up the swivelling staircase. "There are still a few students out and about, finishing up last minute assignments. Besides, I've been here all day. I wanted to see what happened."
"Must be nice to be able to turn into a snake and slither around unseen," James muttered.
"I told you," she said primly, "I don't turn into a snake. But yes. It's handy."
They reached the top of the stairs and angled toward the portrait of the Fat Lady.
James said, "So I suppose you saw everything."
Nastasia shrugged noncommittally. "I saw that things didn't go how you'd planned."
"That's an understatement," James barked a sardonic laugh. "My dad, aunt and uncle arrested, imprisoned somewhere in the castle until Titus can take them back to the Ministry… half the school's wands confiscated and everyone blaming me for it…"
"I wouldn't say half the school's wands," Nastasia commented. "You aren't that persuasive. More like a third."
"Thanks," James groused. "You're a great help." He stopped in front of the portrait and spoke the password. The Fat Lady swung open with a faint creak.
"Are you going to invite me in?" Nastasia asked.
James looked back at her. "Why should I? I've got sixteen inches of essay to write."
"You aren't writing any essays tonight," Nastasia said with a knowing smile. "And I think you could use a friend."
James paused on the threshold of the common room. Nastasia was right on both counts. "Fine," he sighed. "Come on in. But I'm not going to be especially good company tonight."
"That's all right," Nastasia laid a hand on his shoulder and gave him an apologetic look. "You never are."
James rolled his eyes and ducked through the portrait hole. Nastasia followed.
If anything, the common room was even more moody than the Great Hall had been. Even those who did not have essays to write seemed strangely subdued, considering that the term was virtually over and summer holiday was upon them. Part of it was likely the weather. Darkness pressed against the windows, which rattled with sudden, whistling gusts of wind. The fire had been stoked against the strange chill outside. James spied Rose seated at her usual corner table, along with Deirdre Finnegan and Shivani Yadev, all bent dourly over parchments, quills in hand. Scorpius was nowhere in sight, likely still down in the Great Hall finishing dinner.
As James and Nastasia threaded toward the fire, Lily came skipping down the stairs of the girls' dormitory, resplendent in her dress robes, her red-blonde hair neatly parted with a jewelled clip.
"I'm off!" she announced giddily. "We're going to sing for all the international leaders and the Minister of Magic and all the Aurors! Oh, I'm so nervous!"
"Well, you look simply wonderful," Nastasia assured her with uncharacteristic warmth. "If you sing half as nicely as you look, you'll knock their socks off."
Lily tittered at this, soaking up the compliment. James was in no mood for cheerfulness, even from his sister.
"Don't you have an essay to write, too?" he said grumpily.
Lily cocked her head and drew something out of the pocket of her dress robes. It was her wand.
"Headmaster Grudje gave mine back," she said sweetly, batting her eyes. "Me and all the other student ambassadors. Didn't want us distracted from our duties, he said. Maybe he's not so bad as everyone says." She glanced at the clock over the fire and exclaimed, "Oh! I need to go! We're all meeting in the entrance hall just before seven! Professor Heretofore will let us in all at once. In a procession, no less!" She grinned, beside herself with excitement. With a quick wave goodbye, she dashed toward the portrait hole.
"She doesn't know, I assume," Nastasia asked in a low voice.
"About dad?" James replied, "No. We kept her out of it. She has no idea who got arrested today."
Nastasia nodded. "Good for her. I'm sure it will all be worked out before she ever needs to know."
James wasn't interested in Nastasia's meaningless assurances. He threw himself into a sagging armchair before the fire while she settled onto the end of the sofa nearest him. Neither said anything further on the subject.
How, James mused to himself, glaring into the fire, how could he have been so totally wrong? It wasn't just that Avior had admitted his plan to attack the Quidditch Summit. It was the arrangement of wizard chess pieces on his desk, seeming to signify some on-going conflict, each piece representing real people: himself, a knight; his father, the diamond king, and Rose inexplicably the queen. And on the other side of the board, ranged against them, Petra/Judith as the dark queen, the Collector as the king…
Could it possibly all have been a sham? The lunatic ravings of Avior's broken mind? Wouldn't Petra have told him? After all, when she had met him in the mysterious gazebo, she had warned him that he was getting too close, figuring too much out. If it was all just a madman's delusion, wouldn't she simply have said so?
James frowned at the fire, his mind spinning. It simply didn't make any sense. There had to be something he was missing…
He had been so sure that the Crystal Chalice would be the trigger for the Morrigan Web. It had made such perfect sense. But was it possible that that had been his biggest mistake?
"Like Hagrid's cage," he muttered to himself. "Scorpius said it was too obvious…"
"What?" Nastasia stirred next to him.
James shook his head, trying to clear it, to arrange his thoughts. "When dad and Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione snuck into the tournament," he murmured, still frowning into the fire. "Rose and I thought they were hidden in Hagrid's cage, buried in all those Pygmy Puffs…"
"Bluh," Nastasia stuck out her tongue. "Sounds like a form of torture. Those things stink when they sit in the sun too long."
"But Scorpius said it was too obvious," James went on, ignoring her. "He knew it was a… a diversion…"
James sat up in the armchair, thinking furiously. Was it that simple? Had the Crystal Chalice purposely been included in the tournament as a decoy? A diversion, meant to flush out anyone who planned to stop the Morrigan Web? If so, it had worked perfectly. And after all, the Summit wasn't over. Even now, world leaders and magical administrators were gathering in the Great Hall below, along with a collection of student ambassadors, teachers, and Aurors. Perhaps Avior had purposely misled James, allowing him to believe the attack would occur during the tournament in order to distract him from his real plan…
"But what could it be, then?" he asked himself. "I've got to think!"
"What are you talking about?" Nastasia asked, raising one eyebrow at him. "You're not still on about the Morrigan
Web, are you? Give it a rest already."
Something that once belonged to a powerful witch or wizard, now dead, James' mind raced, trying to find something that fit. Something that's a centrepiece, that everyone would notice…
Could it be the new fountain and statues on the dais? No. They were too recent. Because according to Tabitha Corsica the third marker was time. The object needed to have been there for months, right out in the open, seen by everyone…
Time…
James' mouth dropped open with sudden realization. He nearly leapt out of his chair.
"What?!" Nastasia demanded, taken aback.
"It has to be it…!" James muttered tensely, his eyes bulging at the fire. "Oh no! Lily!"
With that, he did leap from his chair, turning to dash for the portrait hole.
"Wait!" Nastasia exclaimed, grabbing him by the elbow. "It's too late, whatever you're talking about. Look." She pointed at the clock over the fireplace. "It's a quarter after seven. Lily and her procession of little ambassadors marched into the Great Hall fifteen minutes ago. Ten Jacks says the doors were locked after them, and probably guarded by a couple of those wand-happy Aurors of yours."
James stared at the clock in mute frustration. "We have to get in there somehow!"
"What's going on?" a voice whispered at his shoulder.
James glanced aside to see Rose standing next to him, her essay forgotten on the table behind her.
"It wasn't the Crystal Chalice," he rasped at her. "But I know what it is! We have to get down there right away to stop it!"
Rose's frown deepened with confusion. "What are you talking about? Down where?"
"The big formal dinner in the Great Hall!" he explained, nearly bursting with impatience. "The Morrigan Web was never meant to go off at the Quidditch match! That was just a trick to throw us off track, and it totally worked! It's meant to go off tonight, downstairs, and I know what's going to trigger it!"
James Potter and the Morrigan Web Page 70
