The great dragon came to rest a dozen feet from James, and something fell to the square between them. It was small and bony, with flapping ears and large hands.
It was Heddlebun the elf. She lay where she had fallen, unmoving.
And suddenly James understood: the elf herself had been the weapon. James’ dueling shot had expelled her from the hapless dragon, who now hunkered in distressed confusion, huffing the air, looking around to see where she was.
Merlin and James’s father appeared from the mouth of the alley, rounding Gringotts bank at a run, wand and staff raised. They paused when they saw the halted dragon, with James climbing to his feet before it.
“Beware, James!” his father called, wasting no time on chastising him for his disobedience. “If Norberta smells the male dragon before Merlin can mesmerize her again…!”
James glanced up. Norberta’s nostrils flared before him. Her gold-foil eyes widened. Her head began to rise on the serpentine length of her neck, into the light of the circus tents beyond.
Merlin approached from behind the dragon, his staff held high, its runes glowing with soft golden light. He began to speak to her, his voice low, the syllables indecipherable yet strangely haunting.
Norberta blinked. Slowly, her head swept to the side, arcing back to peer at the headmaster in the darkness. The glow of his staff pulsed hypnotically.
It was working. Norberta was very nearly under Merlin’s prodigious spell again, undoing the maddening trance that Heddlebun had spun in her mind.
But then, much to James’ surprise, the ground shook again. He glanced down, alarmed and confused: Norberta’s claws were still firmly planted on the cobbles. And yet the ground shook once more, forming an undeniable, low beat. Something else was moving in the square, something large enough to make the ground shudder and the marble fountain behind James rattle like a cupboard of crockery.
A chuff of hot air, redolent of brimstone, blew over James from behind, fluttering his hair.
He turned slowly, eyes wide.
A second dragon hove out of the shadows between the circus tents, swaying back and forth like a cobra, its eyes glowing amethyst purple.
James stumbled backward in fear, and then clambered aside, hurrying to get out from between the two dragons.
Norberta swung her head back, now forgetting Merlin and his glowing staff. Her eyes locked onto the second dragon and her nostrils flared. Slowly, she arose from her hunkered crouch. Her tail swayed back and forth, sweeping low over the cobbles.
The second dragon, clearly the very circus dragon, Montague Python, that Norberta had been sensing for months, approached her cautiously, flicking a snakelike tongue from its long, black snout. His body was rather smaller than hers, sleek and long, but with much larger diaphanous wings that glinted with oily pearlescence. A sinuous black tail curled up and then stamped down on the ground, clapping its steely barbed tip to the cobbles with a ringing clang.
A commotion of movement came from the circus tent as its entrance flaps were wrestled from inside. A figure clambered out, stumbling nearly between Montague’s fore legs. It was a large man with an impressively round belly, clad in an ivory vest and huge shirtsleeves gathered in tight cuffs with gold buttons. He wore black riding trousers with suspenders hanging and flopping about his knees.
“Oh bloody Nora,” he said in a high, breathless voice, looking up at the two dragons as they sniffed each other cautiously, drawing nearer and nearer, beginning to twine their long necks. “It’s love at first sight, it is!”
Montague raised his tail and clapped it down again, ringing its barbed tip to the cobbles in what was clearly a sort of mating dance.
James felt his father and Merlin join him at his side. Merlin lowered his staff to the pavement with a resigned clack. Harry put a hand on his son’s shoulder, heavily. James sensed in the gesture both cautious pride and weary rebuke.
The ringmaster—for that’s clearly what he was, Mr. Archibald Hokus himself —lowered his gaze from the twining dragons and looked over at James, Harry, and Merlin, his cheeks red and his eyes glistening.
“It’s just a beautiful thing, isn’t it?” he sniffed.
A pound of footsteps and distant voices approached from the mouth of the nearby alley. James glanced back to see Hagrid loping heavily into the shadow of the circus camp, where he slowed to a stunned, clumsy halt, his hands falling limp to his sides, dropping his pink umbrella. His black eyes stared up at the two dragons and his mouth opened in a gape of perfect, speechless delight.
“Oh, Norberta!” he said, his voice suddenly choked with happy tears.
James drew a helpless, exhausted sigh and turned his attention back to the dragons. They circled each other slowly, sniffing each other, Montague flicking his purple tongue, Norberta flaring her scaly nostrils.
They growled to each other, making low, purring gurgles deep in their throats.
James glanced down. Heddlebun still lay where she had fallen, one limp ear flattened over her face. Cautiously, he approached her, pocketing his wand as he went. He wondered if she was dead, but then he saw the hitching rise and fall of her chest.
He felt his father coming alongside as he lowered to one knee over the elf.
She was sobbing. James sensed that she was lying there not because she was injured, but because her plan—a last resort borne of abject desperation—had come to ruin and failure. Hopeless to begin with, now she was hopeless and without any recourse.
Quietly but firmly, Harry asked, “There were others of your kind in the alley. How many are in your little elven uprising?”
Heddlebun’s sobbing paused. She lifted one large hand weakly and pushed her ear away from her face. James expected her to look up with remorse and defeat, or even fear. Instead, when she lifted her huge eyes to them, though still thick with tears, her gaze was hard. Her mouth turned down in a trembling scowl of bitter resentment.
“All of us,” she said in a low, emphatic voice. “The Elven Uprising is every… single… one.”
20. – World in collapse
The ship ride back to Hogwarts was a long and solemn affair, despite the happiness borne of Norberta’s unscheduled union with Montague Python. Archibald Hokus had insisted that Norberta, being lamed already with her wounded wing and long accustomed to the ministrations of humans, join their traveling circus as an accompaniment to Montague’s act.
“She will revitalize our entire program!” he had proclaimed after corralling both dragons in the safety of Montague’s paddock. “We’ve wanted a second dragon for years! Montague’s our star performer, of course. Now, with Norberta his grand love added to the show, we shall truly be a wonder of the wizarding world! I can see it now!” He raised his arms and framed his hands, as if envisioning a tent-sized placard, “Montague & Norberta! The Beast-Wedding of the Century! Of the Millennium!”
At Harry’s insistence, Hokus had vowed to have Norberta officially registered the very following day, as “a rescued orphan beast of origins unknown” as per Ministry regulations.
In response to this, Hagrid had offered his tearful goodbyes, blowing his nose prodigiously on a hankie provided by Ron from one of his coat pockets.
“Keep it, Hagrid,” Ron had said as the half giant offered it limply back to him. “Think of it as a, er, memento of the night.”
Harry took Heddlebun into custody, magically shackling her with a lanyard charm as they returned to the Gertrude, much more quickly and stealthily now that Norberta was no longer part of their entourage. Thus, less than twenty minutes later, back on board and standing on the gently rocking bow, James’ dad had quietly consulted with Ron and Hermione, explaining why he’d returned with a captive house elf in tow rather than a lovesick dragon, and debating what they should do with her.
“Officially speaking, we’re all home snug in our beds right now,”
Ron reminded them. “We can’t just pop over to the Ministry with a magical prisoner all of a sudden. Things like that require explanatio
ns.”
“Titus is on duty tonight,” Hermione suggested. “He could bring her in. But can you trust him, Harry?” Things had been better lately between James’ father and his partner, Titus Hardcastle, but everyone still remembered that, for a brief time during James’ fourth year, Titus had sided with his superiors at the Ministry against his boss and friend.
“I can,” Harry answered, “But I won’t. Even if Titus was willing to guard our secrets, this little elf has no such obligation or concern.
More importantly, I don’t think the Wizengamot would have the slightest clue what to do with her. There are no laws on the books regarding rogue house elves, simply because there has never been any need. What she represents is an all new dilemma for the wizarding world, and one that no one is prepared to confront. Not with so many other, larger cauldrons to boil at the moment.”
“Well, we can’t just set her free,” Ron said, frowning.
“Allow me to be her charge,” Merlin suggested from the nearby shadows, an ominous note in his voice. “After all, she has apparently corrupted at least one of the elves in the employ of Hogwarts School. I should very much like to interrogate her about who else might be a part of her secret cabal.”
Harry shook his head. “I’ve considered that, Headmaster. And it’s a tempting idea. But our prisoner has already answered that question, at least as much as I am certain she ever intends to. According to her, all house elves are part of her cabal. And I have a sinking suspicion that she is telling the truth. At least, as far as she knows. No, I have another warden in mind for Miss Heddlebun.”
With that, Harry drew his wand from his pocket and flicked it lightly toward the sky. “Curatio,” he said quietly, firing a narrow pencil-beam of deep purple sparks high into the sky. The spell emitted an almost sub-audible chime, like anchor chains clattering in bottomless depths.
“You rang, sir,” a gratingly deep voice suddenly said from directly behind James. He knew the voice instantly, but couldn’t help jumping on the spot, startled by the ancient elf’s sudden, noiseless appearance.
“Kreacher,” Hermione said, understanding dawning on her.
“Thank you for coming so quickly, Kreacher,” Harry said, “I have a task for you, but it’s up to you whether you want to accept it or not.”
James turned to the tiny old elf and watched as a dozen extremely subtle expressions flitted, almost imperceptibly, across his stony, curmudgeon face. The elf was no more accustomed to the egalitarian attitudes of his master now than he was over two decades ago, when he had first come into Harry Potter’s employ. But he had at least learned that it was pointless to say so.
“Master’s wish is Kreacher’s command,” he said for possibly the millionth time, drawing upon a well of stubborn patience that James thought was likely as inexhaustible, and cold, as space itself.
Harry nodded, “And yet, according to this particular member of your kind,” he gestured toward the shape of Heddlebun, who sat hunched in the shadows, her knees clutched to her chest and her head lowered atop them. “You are part of a secret universal coalition of elven resistance, led, in part, by she herself.”
Kreacher’s head swiveled so slowly and ponderously that James thought he could hear the tendons of the elf’s neck creak. “Does she say so, Master,” he asked in his deep, monotone voice, although it wasn’t really a question.
“Indeed,” Harry replied, “She says that all members of your kind are part of a new elven uprising. Thus, my request—which is for you to take her back to Marble Arch, guard her, and provide her with some suitable service until a better plan presents itself—may place you in the uncomfortable position of having to decide between loyalties.”
James knew that Kreacher couldn’t possibly be a part of Heddlebun’s Elven Uprising. And yet, as the old house elf regarded his younger, female counterpart, his pinched, inscrutable face as stoic as an anvil, James had to wonder. Perhaps Kreacher had heard of the Uprising. Perhaps his loyalties were, if not in question, then at least sympathetic.
Instead of answering directly, Kreacher said, “Master is certain that Mistress will welcome this new development?”
“I am certain of no such thing,” Harry sighed. “But ‘Mistress’ has learned to be extremely resilient over the years. I will speak to her myself. But do, perhaps, try to keep our new guest a secret until morning? Let me break it to Ginny over tea.”
“So to be clear,” Hermione said carefully, turning from Heddlebun back to Kreacher. “Is there any truth to what she says?”
Kreacher arched one heavy brow at Hermione, apparently weighing whether he was required to answer her or not. Then, as if submitting to Harry’s unspoken urging, he raised his chin stiffly and said, “Kreacher’s allegiance is always and forever to Harry Potter and the house of Black.”
“Blimey, Harry,” Ron muttered, shaking his head, “you collect stray house elves the way Rose used to collect dogerpillars in the back garden.”
Without a word, Kreacher took custody of Heddlebun and vanished away with her, their departure marked only by a faint, airy pop.
Quietly, Hermione asked, “What will you do with her?”
Harry shrugged. “Keep her busy, if nothing else. Especially for elves, it would seem that idle hands really are the devil’s playthings.”
Hagrid tugged up the Gertrude’s anchor and shortly they were back underway, returning via the mysterious subterranean rivers that had brought them there.
Millie fell asleep on the bench next to James as the ship swooped and rocked its way back. He realized that part of the magic of the journey lie in the fact that whatever time you conserved on the way there, you earned back on the return trip, making the final trek seem tiresomely long and exhausting. He looked aside at Millie where she lay curled on the bench, rocking obliviously with the motion of the hull, her blonde hair partially obscuring her face. He was jealous of her fitful sleep, even if it was rooted in a sort of numb shock. Even now, her brow was creased faintly, her lips downturned in a worried frown.
“I was wrong,” she’d said to him after boarding the Gertrude again. “Wrong about all your adventures. They’re only fun in books.
Rose can have them from now on.”
James didn’t argue with her. He’d known she was wrong from the beginning. And yet the bland finality of her words still gave him a faint pang. He wanted to say he never asked for deadly and scary adventures, they just seemed to seek him out. But he knew there was no point. There was nothing to salvage with Millie. And she was better off away from him. Whatever it took.
Back at the moonpool, James said goodnight to Hagrid, his dad, aunt, and uncle, and then walked Millie through the eerily dark and silent corridors of the school until their paths parted.
She turned to him but didn’t look up at him. “Well.
Goodnight, James.”
“Goodbye, Millie,” he sighed.
She gave a sigh of her own and nodded.
A moment later, she was merely a shadow trudging tiredly away from him. A moment after that, she was gone around a corner.
James stood and stared at the empty corner for a minute. He had kissed Millie, and made her giggle, and held her hand, and shared long, intense gazes with her across classrooms and the library. But in the end, she couldn’t look him in the eye as they said goodbye. And that, James thought, too exhausted to feel particularly sad, was probably the story of most of life’s loves: brief moments of blazing romance, followed by two people standing over the spitting, cooling coals of their spent passion until one of them got uncomfortable enough to walk away.
Until the love that mattered. The one to end them all, the one whose coals would never cool or lose their spark.
This thought offered James no consolation, however. He had found his one perfect love, the one whose fire would forever burn. And further, he now knew that she loved him back. Yet even that golden, pristine love would end with one of them walking away forever, never looking back.
He sighe
d, long and hard, and the sigh was half shudder.
He didn’t remember walking back to the Gryffindor tower and falling into his bed. He barely even remembered saying goodbye to Millie. All he remembered was the feeling of emptiness, of having been, if not loved, then really, really liked, and then losing that affection forever, with nothing to replace it with.
It wasn’t a nice feeling. But, as James went into the last, breathless, portentous weeks of his Hogwarts career, he had an idea that it was possibly the most grown-up feeling he had ever yet known.
Spring settled over Hogwarts with languid extravagance, freshening the air, melting the snow, unlocking the lake from its pall of ice, and breathing green buds throughout the Forest and grounds. This was greeted with renewed excitement and energy by most students, though not by James himself, who felt the mingled weight of Petra’s impending departure, and the uncertainty of her dark plan, along with the more general worries about the continued erosion of the Vow of Secrecy and the magical world in general.
Part of the reason that Norberta’s appearance in London hadn’t made greater news, James now knew, was that stories of the breakdown of wizarding boundaries were becoming increasingly commonplace.
Thousand-year-old safeguards and protections were gradually discovered to be weakening or broken entirely. This was met with dismay by the Ministry, with increasingly feverish articles by the wizarding press, and with secret, dark glee by certain unsavoury denizens of the magical world.
Every morning’s post brought more worrying news: Werewolves were prowling small Muggle communities with growing boldness, testing ancient boundary hexes and finding them threadbare or entirely gone. Mainstream Muggle news outlets mostly ignored such fantastical stories (for the time being), but tabloid papers and local news programs picked up the slack, giving breathless, incredulous reports of attacks by “unusually large and vicious wolves”.
James Potter and the Crimson Thread Page 47
