James Potter and the Crimson Thread

by G. Norman Lippert

  “Oh,” James nodded and shrugged. “Now I understand.”

  Millie ignored him. “Norway is famous for their stave churches.

  It’s their most defining building style. At least, it was for hundreds of years.”

  “Then that is the sort of structure we shall be searching for,”

  Merlin agreed, turning and stalking onward again.

  Glancing around the switchyard, Harry said, “I doubt there are many stave churches in London.”

  “It doesn’t have to be an actual stave church,” Hermione suggested. “Norberta’s no architectural expert. She’ll just look for something that sort of reminds her of such a place.”

  The four tramped onward, climbing over humps of railroad tracks, moving into a warren of parallel switches dotted with lines of dark passenger carriages and tankers, looming like sleeping dinosaurs in the darkness. Trailing behind Merlin, who seemed to be following a sort of communal instinct all his own, they wended into the lines of railroad cars, cutting across wherever they could, climbing over iron connector knuckles wherever they couldn’t. Between the tracks, forests of dark gantries jutted up, each topped with boxes containing colored signal lights, currently all dark. A dizzying array of overhead wires connected the signals, stretching in every direction. James wondered how Norberta could possibly have navigated through those wires and gantries, had she attempted to land in this area.

  Finally, the troupe came out beyond the lines of switches to a row of complicated brick buildings lined with ranks of windows, festooned with smokestacks and conveyor ramps covered in corrugated steel, each more industrial and looming than the last.

  “Now where?” Ron asked, turning on the spot. “Any of these old places look large enough for Norberta to hide in.”

  “That one,” Harry pointed.

  James turned to look where his father was pointing. Sure enough, rising over the furthest roof, a tall structure hulked upwards against the clouds. It was a sort of silo tower with levels of steeply sloping roofs, all rusted to the color of Redwood. Running along the lowest roof were gigantic faded letters, barely legible: CROSTICK COAL.

  Millie shrugged a little uncertainly. “Vertical diminishing redundancy. In a manner of speaking.”

  Silently, with Merlin in the lead and Harry bringing up the rear again, the group picked their way along the edge of the dark brick buildings. Dead weeds and brush poked through sullen snowdrifts, diminishing to slushy bogs between the structures. Enormous smokestacks and mountainous piles of coal blotted out the breeze and noise and distant city lights, creating a sort of watchful gloom. Finally, the group picked their way across a pocked gravel parking lot toward the base of the Crostick Coal building. Signs posted to the chain-link fences rattled in the breeze. James turned to read one as they passed: CONDEMNED PROPERTY! KEEP OUT.

  He worried briefly that Hagrid was not there with them. Then, he shivered and worried more acutely that he and the rest of them were.

  The shadows surrounding the ancient coal work were dense and silent, leaving a distinct sense of unseen eyes peering from every broken window. And yet Merlin, for his part, seemed completely unfazed by the eeriness of the scene. Perhaps, James mused, the old sorcerer liked it here. After all, this was a section of the city that was slowly, irrevocably, being reclaimed by nature. The environmental predators of civilization—rust, weeds, and entropy—were hard at work here, reasserting the feral inevitability of nature. And the green wilds of nature, of course, were Merlin’s element.

  James couldn’t be certain, be he almost thought the headmaster was humming cheerfully in the deepening gloom.

  A not-unpleasant fact occurred to him: it was hard to be especially frightened in the presence of a happily humming Merlin.

  The six travelers followed a set of weedy railroad tracks into a sort of courtyard surrounded by huge, empty doorways, each large enough to drive a lorry through and as black as pitch. Hulking over the tracks was a monstrosity of metal hoppers and closed hatches, blotting out the clouds above.

  And there was a smell. It was not dragon dung, as James’ father had hoped. It was a high chemical smell, like the potions closet on a steamy day. James recognized it immediately.

  “It’s her breath!” he whispered, raising his nose to the still air.

  “That’s what it smells like when she flames! She must be here somewhere!”

  Merlin angled toward one of the huge open doors. As he did, a brief gust of warm air blew out of it, rippling his robes. A chuff of yellow firelight illuminated a scaly snout, a curl of tail, and a pair of gold-foil eyes peering out of the darkness.

  Merlin didn’t hesitate, didn’t even slow his step. But he did begin to speak. James recognized the sound of the sorcerer’s old Welsh, only low and muttered, like words sung to a half-sleeping baby.

  The dragon’s huge eyes were only visible where they reflected the distant city lights. They seemed to open wide and elevate, watchful and wary as Merlin approached.

  Merlin raised a hand, as if to offer a benediction to the dragon.

  Then, amazingly, he lowered it to the dragon’s hard, scaly snout.

  Norberta lowered her head again and her eyes seemed to slit shut in the darkness. Low and rumbling, Merlin spoke to her, his tone lilting and hypnotic.

  Almost to himself, James said, “Looks like Heddlebun isn’t the only beast whisperer in town.”

  His father looked at him. “Who?”

  James glanced up and then shook his head. “This elf that Hagrid brought along when we first came to collect Norberta. She could talk to beasts, soothe them, like. But she used her powers to set Norberta off when we got out onto the river. She wanted to make a point about elf rights or something.”

  Millie frowned. “By setting a dragon loose in London?”

  Hermione gave a brisk little sigh. “People will resort to whatever gets attention when they feel that every other option’s been taken away.”

  The earth thumped faintly as Merlin backed away from the dark doorway, leading Norberta out into the faint nightglow. Her head emerged first on its long, serpentine neck, sweeping low over the ground. Then her shoulders hove into view, carrying the muscular bulk of her chest. Finally, her rear legs and tail appeared. Her claws clattered on the frozen gravel and her footsteps made faint tremors, but otherwise she was completely silent, her golden eyes half-lidded, contentedly following Merlin and his gently glowing staff.

  A little awed, Ron said, “Back to the ship, then?”

  “Indeed,” Merlin answered. “But not the way we came. Our dragon friend will never fit through the alleyway. Nor could she cross the thoroughfare that we traversed. We shall have to forge an alternate route through the city proper.”

  “That’s, like, an actual dragon…!” Millie said, her eyes bulging at the enormous creature. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one this up close and personal!”

  “A privilege we would like to reserve for as few people as possible,” Hermione commented, a little worriedly.

  Merlin nodded. “Which means we shall have to tread very carefully. Our dragon friend is quite docile at the moment, but make no mistake: beneath her current calm lies a hungry and terrified and deeply driven dragon, responding to the most fundamental and undeniable instincts of all creatures. Her male counterpart, the redoubtable Montague, is nearer than ever. We must increase the distance between them while she is still, nominally, under our influence.”

  Harry gave the old wizard a sidelong grin. “I assume that you have some suitably cunning subterfuge in mind, Headmaster?”

  “You speak well, Mr. Potter,” Merlin nodded, meeting Harry’s smile with a small one of his own. “I sometimes wonder if perhaps there is some trace of sorcerer in your lineage.”

  Harry bobbed his head and shrugged. “Medieval Muggle royalty, I once was told. But sadly, no sorcery.”

  Merlin narrowed his eyes at this, unsurprised, and then turned his attention back to the dragon who stood nearby, her head hovering
just over his shoulder.

  “I beg your pardon, Madame Norberta,” he said in a low voice, and patted her again on the snout. “Do try not to be too offended…”

  Ten minutes later and three blocks away, a huge metal gate shuddered slightly, shaken by a golden flash. The padlock securing the gate snicked open, releasing its loops of chain, which unwound and slithered to the ground with a ringing chime of metal. The gates eased inward, opening onto the unmistakable depths of the railroad switchyard beyond.

  James stepped out into the buzzing streetlight, his eyes wide, his hair buffeting in a sudden gust of wind. He looked around, up and down the narrow street. Cars lined the far curb, parked bumper to bumper, but no one was currently in sight.

  “All clear,” he called back, cupping his hands to his mouth.

  A moment later, Millie crept out into the light, hurrying to join James, her face a mask of mingled excitement and trepidation. Ron and Hermione came next, followed by Harry Potter and Merlin, the former glancing around alertly, his wand just visible in his sleeve, the latter walking with calm, even strides, moving straight out into the empty street, leaving no footprints on the sheen of melting slush.

  Following Merlin at a low, grumbling idle, was what looked like, for all intents and purposes, the largest, dirtiest, most conspicuous refuse truck that James had ever seen. The truck’s tyres bumped down over the curb, thumped in icy puddles, and angled out onto the road to join Merlin as he chose a direction, seemingly at random, and began to walk.

  The refuse truck followed him, its engine throbbing throatily, rolling along at his very heels. Behind the filthy glass of its windscreen, the steering wheel pivoted by itself, with no driver. This, however, was perhaps less strange than the fact that the truck was driving backwards, leading with its open rear compactor, currently empty but looking hungry enough to swallow a small car whole. James wasn’t sure if this detail was due to Merlin’s unfamiliarity with the operation of municipal fleet vehicles, or if the wily magician simply preferred a challenge.

  The drone and honk of far busier streets could be heard from very nearby. The troupe would be avoiding those streets however possible, sticking to less populous, albeit narrower side streets and avenues. This did mean, however, that their route to the river would be much longer and more circuitous than preferred.

  “Hermione, Ron,” Harry said, turning to his friends, “why don’t you two head back to the Gertrude and pilot her to London Bridge City Pier? That will be a more convenient place to embark from our new route.”

  Ron nodded his agreement, but Hermione looked concerned.

  “Should we separate, though?”

  “It’s probably for the best at this point,” Harry said. “We’ll be less conspicuous this way.”

  “And what could possibly go wrong?” Ron grinned, throwing an arm around Hermione’s shoulders.

  Hermione grudgingly agreed. “But perhaps we should take Millie and James with us, then. They’ve done their part.”

  “No way!” Millie exclaimed, and then composed herself. “I mean, I’d much rather stay and watch. If you don’t mind, Madame.”

  “Ugh,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “Don’t call me Madame.”

  “I’m with Millie,” James said, “And Uncle Ron’s right. What could go wrong? We’ve got the great Merlinus Ambrosius with us!”

  Harry nudged his son and muttered, “I think ‘the great Merlinus Ambrosius’ is fairly immune to flattery.”

  “You would think wrongly,” Merlin observed idly from some distance away, not turning around.

  “So be it,” Hermione said, raising both hands. “But just remember, without me or your friend Ralph here, it’s up to Millie to be the voice of reason.” She glanced at James, then his father and Merlin.

  “Because I know none of you three will be.”

  “Come, love,” Ron said, offering Hermione his arm. “Allow me whisk you away on a winter’s moonlit boat ride down the romantic and pristine Thames River.”

  Hermione smiled at his roguish grin and took his arm. Together they turned and hurried away, returning the way they had come.

  James and Millie watched them go.

  “They’re so cute,” she sighed.

  James shrugged. “Cute is relative, I suppose.”

  “We should keep moving,” Harry said briskly, turning and resuming their walk along the footpath. Merlin strode onward down the centre of the road, and the magically disguised Norberta budged forward to follow, her engine throttling, her air brakes hissing and squeaking their release.

  “Patience will be our ally,” Merlin reminded them. “We have nothing to fear so long as we all keep our heads about us and our feet on the ground.”

  “Or our wheels on the road,” Millie added, skipping forward with what James considered far too much glibness.

  “As you say, Miss Vandergriff,” Merlin answered calmly.

  With painstaking deliberation, the group walked along the street, turned left, away from the brighter lights and thrum of nearby traffic, and maintained a steady, sedate pace into an area of multi-level parking structures, closed office buildings, occasional pubs (open and thumping with music), and corner groceries (closed and barricaded for the night).

  As they meandered from street to street, Merlin walked down the centre line with Norberta the refuse truck prowling along right behind him, backwards and grumbling deep in her engine, with the remainder of her entourage walking beside her on nearby footpaths. Occasional cars passed them, usually hurrying to get around the slow-moving truck, their drivers barely sparing a second glance at the strange assembly. As they neared crossings or small roundabouts, Merlin would first consult quietly with Harry Potter, who seemed to know these streets extremely well, and then turn to speak calming, indecipherable words to the refuse truck at his heel, which thrummed its engine, shuddered on its dirty tyres, and hissed from its air-brakes.

  The truck still smelled of the fiery brimstone guts of Norberta, now exhaling from the huge open rear compactor of the truck.

  At one angle in the narrow street, a pair of young men, one skinny and one fat, emerged from the neon glow of a questionable-looking basement pub, each carrying nearly empty bottles of ale and swaying slightly on their feet. They stumbled out into the path of Merlin and the gently throttling truck, both of which came to a halt under the red glare of a traffic light.

  “Blimey,” the skinny man said, pushing his long ginger hair out of his face. “This bloke is huge.” He stopped in the street and pointed up at Merlin with the hand still holding a brown ale bottle. “Are you seeing this bloke? He’s bloody hyooge!”

  “I don’t think either of you are seeing anyone,” Merlin suggested, arching an eyebrow for subtle emphasis. “Huge or otherwise. Merely a common city vehicle about an honest night’s work.”

  “Yeah,” the fatter man said, frowning and squinting. “I don’t see nothing but a bleedin’ refuse truck. Come on, yeh piker.” He tugged his ginger mate on the elbow, nearly pulling him off his feet.

  The ginger man recovered, shrugged, and then tossed his bottle into the open rear compactor of the refuse truck. With a hiss of hydraulics and a shimmy-clatter that shook the entire truck, the compactor closed on the bottle, chewed it up into tinkling bits, and then let out a strangely brimstone-smelling belch.

  The traffic light overhead clicked green. The troupe walked forward again, angling into an alley lined with parked cars glinting under streetlamps.

  “Dad,” James said quietly, “I heard something over the holiday that I wanted to ask you about.”

  Harry ambled easily, scuffing his boots on the footpath. “What’s that, son?”

  James turned and glanced back at Millie who was walking behind them, watching the gently rolling Norberta-truck. “I spoke to Millie’s grandmother. Or, she spoke to me, actually. She told me some stuff about Grimmauld Place.”

  “You met the Countess?” Harry smiled aside at his son. “She’s quite an impressive Lady, I’m told.�
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  James nodded and shrugged. “She says that when you inherited the Black mansion, you inherited a sort of… er… title with it.”

  “Did she say so,” Harry commented. There was no curiosity in his voice, and James wondered if perhaps his dad did know more about the Black estate than he’d ever admitted. “A title. Well, blimey.”

  “She said it’s more than just a title, though,” James went on, frowning as he thought back. “She says that it’s a responsibility. A sort of ancient guardianship over some huge, elemental human force.

  They’re lots of them, she says, and they’re all colours. Red was the Barony of Love, Green was for ambition and greed, that sort of thing.

  Except that a lot of the titles have died off or something, leaving their forces unguarded, just running all out of control in the world.”

  “Sounds serious,” Harry nodded, pursing his lips.

  “Grandmother Eunice is a little, er, eccentric,” Millie commented, approaching from behind and falling in beside James. “She believes all sorts of crazy old things. She’s never read the Quibbler, but she’s got loads in common with it.”

  “Sure didn’t sound like the Quibbler to me,” James muttered.

  “Grandmother can be very convincing,” Millie said, her tone turning lofty. “After all, one doesn’t usually expect a Countess to be a bit of a wee barmpot. But there’s a reason she no longer brings up such things with my parents, or Bent and Mattie.”

  From the centre of the narrow street, Merlin said, “I knew the Viscount Blacke in my time. A thoroughly vicious and duplicitous man, capable of deeds legendary in their capriciousness and vanity. We were friends, in a sense.”

  “Is that so?” Harry asked, still in an oddly banal voice, as if he was only marginally interested. “The Black family is a thousand years old?”

  “The line of Blacke is far older than that, I would wager,” Merlin said. “And I would not be so quick to dismiss the legends of their charge. The guardianship of the polarities of human nature was once an established magical institution, inviolate and deeply respected, forming the very pillars of humanity, without which civilised culture would be impossible. It is a curiosity of this new age that because one finds an idea intellectually offensive, one assumes it cannot be true.”