Some eyewitnesses swore that the beasts walked on hind legs like men, and even used fragments of human speech. Other eyewitnesses, horribly, never lived to tell their tale. Murders were few and scattered, but horribly violent, striking terror in rural communities unlike anything they’d known in modern times.
The news from Romania was possibly even more unsettling.
After hundreds of years of quiet reformation, small communities of vampires were reportedly renouncing their Pact of Blood Temperance, refusing long-established voluntary blood depositories and returning instead to ancient midnight hunting practices. A team of Harriers had been assembled to confront the leader of one such community, a certain Count Domn Orpheus, only to be ambushed themselves by the Count and his guard. Three harriers had been bitten, bled, and then carried by their retreating mates to the nearest hospital some seventy miles away.
There, the three died, only to reawaken the next morning under the veil of the undead, hissing, befanged, and starved for blood.
Via the Shard, Zane informed James that his old mate from Bigfoot House, Wentworth Paddington, who was part vampire himself (though none would ever guess it), had been taken out of school by his parents in preparation for moving back to Romania. This was not because they intended to abandon their own Blood Temperance, but to get out of America before the rumours of “extranatural interment camps” came true.
The news from within the Giant communities was spotty, but equally worrisome. Many tribes had retreated from their ancestral communities, but clumsily, leaving behind copious evidence of their habitation. Muggle explorers were discovering giant footprints, tribal cave drawings, and even burial mounds. International magical response teams were dispatched to the sites to scrub as much evidence as possible, and obliviators did what they could to erase memories and alter reports.
Still, some leaks of giant-related material had proved impossible to contain. One Muggle explorer had actually dug up a giant skull from its burial mound and was displaying the ghastly object (purported to be five feet in diameter with a weight of nearly five stone) to any and all photographers and television news cameras. For now, as with the werewolf sightings, these reports were mainly met with skepticism from major media. But those in the magical world knew that such fortune couldn’t possibly last forever.
Perhaps most disheartening of all, wizarding thieves had begun targeting Muggle homes and institutions. Where magical safeguards had once made it impossible for adult witches and wizards to deliberately use their powers against Muggle establishments, now petty magical criminals easily thieved banks, vaults, and wealthy manors, all with increasing confidence, knowing that the magical community was too occupied to stop them, and Muggle locks and alarms were no match for their wands.
One particularly audacious heist of the United States gold reserve at Fort Knox was only thwarted because the American Magical Integration Bureau had shown the foresight to erect foe-glasses in their secret offices in that and similarly sensitive locations. The organized gang of witches and wizards, led, sadly enough, by a certain Luckinbill Fletcher of Herbertshire, was only temporarily captured. They eluded authorities en route to Fort Bedlam prison, vowing that next time no “hand-me-down magical trinkets” would stop them.
As a result, the Ministry of Magic had determined that the Magical Integration Bureau’s use of physical guards was worthy of consideration. Thus, as a “temporary safety measure” (or “desperate last resort” according to Scorpius), thirty particularly essential magical locations around Europe had been deemed Code Red High-Risk and fortified with twenty-four hour watchmen.
Hogwarts was one of those thirty.
“We have been kindly asked,” Merlin stated at the official announcement one Thursday evening at dinner, “that we not refer to our new watch as ‘guards’, since that term is feared to imply a certain,” he peered down his nose at a parchment in his hand, “‘antagonistic and/or fear-based response, rather than a mere benevolent vigilance for the welfare of all, both magical and otherwise.’”
Next to Merlin, albeit a step back, a blocky man in dark brown coat and beret nodded approvingly. He was the captain of the watch, apparently, a Mr. Hawtrey. James guessed that he, like many of the watch themselves, were retired wizards who had volunteered for this service, and showed, more than anything, the sort of dutiful zealotry that comes mostly from age and boredom.
A watchtower was quickly and economically erected along the shore of the lake and rounds were established throughout every hour of the day. The men of the watch were mostly amiable duffers often distracted from their duties by the temptation to tell tales, to anyone who would listen, of their own long-ago days at Hogwarts.
“Back in my time,” one of them regaled James one day between classes, tapping him in the chest, “If we spoke out of turn, it was the tongue-screw we got!” He chuffed wheezing laughter at this. “We had real discipline back then! Not this namby-pamby drivel they coddle you lot with now.”
The man’s partner, much taller than him, with thin hair slicked black with pomade, nodded and narrowed one eye. “Argus Filch was a resident apprentice here in those days. Head-in-the-clouds Filch we called him. Always writing poetry and painting pictures, he was.”
“All he could do, since a wand was no good in the poor sod’s hand.”
“Hush! I don’t think we’re s’posed to talk about that,” the taller man chastised. “Filch may be a hopeless dreamer, but he’s got to command respect somehow…!”
James tried to back away without the men noticing. Ralph tugged his elbow as the two seemed to fall into a small squabble.
A few of the watchmen, however, were unrelenting in their grim dedication. They stalked the corridors and grounds with eyes of flint, apparently feeling empowered to enforce student rules, and even invent new ones in the name of security. One of these men, a gangly Welshman of about forty with the constipated face and rigid posture of a born rule-follower, ordered students back from a late spring wade in the lake, chastising them for crossing the boundary of the school. The same man, whose name James learned was Royston Brimble, insisted loudly that Hogsmeade weekends should be curtailed until further notice (a suggestion that Merlin, fortunately, did not so much as honour with a reply). Later, he called for the abandonment and “removal or demolition” of Hagrid’s hut on the grounds that it was “an eyesore and a superfluous extra domicile, needlessly complicating the scope of watch duties.”
At this recommendation, Hagrid simply smiled with all of his teeth, clapped the man on the shoulder hard enough to buckle his knees, and said, “Good luck with that, Mr. Brimble.”
A short time later, fortunately, Brimble was seen beneath the watchtower being spoken to very carefully by Mr. Hawtrey in his natty brown beret. Brimble abandoned the matters of Hogsmeade weekends and Hagrid’s hut, but continued to order and reprimand students at every possible opportunity, always with blazing eyes and specks of white spittle in the corners of his mouth.
A sign-up sheet for student volunteers to the watch was posted in the entrance hall. STAY UP LATE FOR A GOOD CAUSE! The heading ran. After a week, there were only three names on the parchment.
James was annoyed yet unsurprised to see that the names were Edgar Edgecombe, Polly Heathrow, and Quincy Ogden.
When he saw the three again, they sported small silver badges on their robes, carefully polished and prominently displayed. The badges were tiny shields with the letters J.W. stamped onto them.
“Junior Watch,” Edgecombe said, tapping his badge importantly as he waited outside a classroom watching others walk past, his eyes narrowed. “Counts as credit for Muggle studies, it does. Gets me out of Grenadine’s stupid class.”
“Curious, that,” Sanjay Yadev commented from nearby, “I’ve found Miss Grenadine’s class to be a lot less stupid without you three in it.”
Several others laughed (including James, passing on his way to Transfiguration) but Polly Heathrow glared at Sanjay, pushing up to her full height.
“We’ve been instructed to report any of a whole list of suspicious behaviours,” she said in her high, nasal voice. “Disrespecting authority is number twelve. You just might want to tread careful before you end up on any ‘official watch lists’.”
James turned when he heard this, but Rose caught his elbow even as he did. “Leave her be,” she muttered. “You don’t have time to start anything. And besides, Sanjay is quick enough to fight his own battles.”
Indeed, behind them, Sanjay spoke up, “Does the list include being three proper little gits? If so, I may need to do some reporting of my own.”
Ogden moved to confront Sanjay, but at that moment James’ line of sight was obscured by passing students. Somewhat regrettably, he turned back and hurried on to his own class. Rose was right that Sanjay was clearly capable of handling himself. And at least the trio of little bullies had turned their attention to someone other than him.
As classes progressed, James confronted for the first time, and with great unwillingness, the reality that final N.E.W.T. examinations were, in fact, going to happen, no matter how hard he pretended otherwise. With the enthusiasm of a man going to the gallows, he began to devote himself to studying and preparation, thankful for the spontaneous study groups that began to gather in the library most evenings. Graham, Deirdre, Ralph, Fiera Hutchins, Fiona Fourcompass, and Trenton Bloch were almost always there. Often, they would be joined by other seventh years, including Nolan Beetlebrick, Julian Jackson, Ashley Doone, Patrick McCoy, Millie, and George Muldoon, creating a large and occasionally boisterous gathering that often, James noticed with some degree of relief, bordered on the edge of becoming a football scrum (when they argued vigourously about a debatable technique) or a kitchen raiding party (when the argument was over and everyone was feeling restless and peckish). The evening librarian eventually gave up trying to contain and quiet the group. Long-accustomed to the ebbs and flows of school life, she simply herded the students into a large bay-window area far from the main floor. Here, window seats were covered in cushions and pillows, high curtains and shelves baffled extra noise, and the rugs probably still bore the biscuit crumbs and soda stains of decades-past study sessions.
One Monday morning, with the late spring sun blazing down from the rafters of the Great Hall, James finally found the time and determination to confront Albus about his interactions with Petra, if for no other reason than to prove to his brother that he now knew about her plans, too. His intention was sidetracked, however, when he arrived in the Great Hall and learned that Albus’ relationship with Chance Jackson had been ended that weekend, by her choice.
Chance sat in her normal place at the end of the Gryffindor table, solemn but surrounded by her doting entourage of friends. They cooed over her and leaned to offer commiserating touches, clearly enjoying the delicious pathos of her drama. Albus, on the other hand, sat alone in the darkest corner of the Slytherin table, on the opposite side of the Hall, not eating breakfast, nor talking, not doing anything much besides glowering at everything and nothing, his head low between his hunched shoulders.
James decided to approach him anyway, but Albus saw him coming and hurled himself to his feet, dragging his knapsack with him and slinging it angrily over one shoulder, stalking toward the door.
“He’s really upset,” Fiera Hutchins observed to Nolan Beetlebrick, who leaned back to watch as Albus shoved through the double doors.
“That’s what comes of dating outside one’s house,” Beetlebrick agreed sagely, cocking one eye aside at James. “Nothing but betrayal and heartbreak.”
James pretended not to hear. Clearly, for reasons that were entirely his own, Albus had allowed himself to become hopelessly enmeshed with Chance Jackson, and was sincerely, if angrily, bereft about the ending of their relationship. James couldn’t bring himself to understand it in the least. Chance was cute and all, he supposed, but she was hardly worth jumping off a cliff over. Come to think of it, though, neither was Albus.
Returning to his seat at the Gryffindor table, James decided that he could wait just a little longer to learn what Albus knew about Petra’s plan, and whatever part he, Albus, was meant to play in it.
It was fully three weeks after their midnight trip to London on Hagrid’s blockade runner that James was summoned to Merlin’s office on what appeared to be disciplinary charges. He got the message from a smugly gleeful Filch during breakfast on a Thursday morning, just as he was taking his first bite of sausage.
“The headmaster requires your presence at half-past six this evening in his office,” the old caretaker growled from behind him, leaning close in a parody of confidentiality. “Half past six, sharp. And I must say, he didn’t seem especially pleased about it. Dear me, no.” He sucked his teeth thoughtfully and shook his head.
Coldness fell over James as he glanced back at Filch, absorbing this sudden news. Then he turned toward the head table, looking for Merlin himself. Only he wasn’t there. His high chair in the centre of the table was empty, his place cleared.
“What’ll that be about, eh?” Ralph asked quietly as they made their way out of the castle toward Care of Magical Creatures. “Have you been up to something I don’t know about?”
“Haven’t the faintest idea,” James answered worriedly.
“It’s probably that stupid Night Quidditch,” Ralph nodded soberly to himself. “You know he’s bound to put a stop to it. He has to, sooner or later. All the prefects are on the lookout for you lot. Me, too, come to think of it. I don’t want to do it, but responsibilities is responsibilities.”
“It’s not about Night Quidditch,” James snapped irritably.
“And I really wish you’d lay off about it. It’s just a game. It doesn’t hurt anybody.”
“It’s breaking curfew, for starters,” Ralph replied. “And it’s threatening our security nowadays, it is. All of you out there with your glowing Bludgers and Quaffles and such. And now I’m told you’re using loads of those ridiculous sport magic spells you picked up last year at Clutchcudgel. Gravity wells and knucklers and other dotty stuff that’s in no self-respecting spellbook. What if some Muggle campers happen to see all that magic and those flying glowing balls from across the lake?”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” James hissed, rolling his eyes. He was quite proud of the addition of sport magic to Night Quidditch, and still considered himself one of its best practitioners, though Julian Jackson would be a close second. “Nobody’s going to see us, no matter what spells we use. Would you come off it, already?”
“I’m Head Boy, James—”
“As if you’d let me forget that for more than thirty seconds.”
“And I’ve got a future to think about. As a Dolohov, I could have a solid career at the Ministry, or even in the States. But I’ve got to start living up to it now. And sometimes that means putting duty before friendship.”
“Look, Ralph,” James declared, stopping on the grass and turning on his friend. “If this is more of this ‘finding the true Ralph’ stuff, I get it. I really do. But you are dangerously close to crossing a line I don’t think you really mean to cross. It was one thing when Zane was here to help reign you in—”
“Reign me in!?”
“But I’m just one person and you’re full steam ahead into…whatever it is you’re on about. I don’t even know. I want to support you, Ralph. We’ve been mates since forever. But if you think your duty to that stupid badge is more important than your friends, well, all I can say is I guess you’ve finally proved yourself a Slytherin.”
“Whoa,” Graham Warton said, impressed, as he passed the two of them. “The fangs are out now, aren’t they?”
“Give ‘em hell, James!” Ashley Doone called from some distance away, walking backwards to watch. Next to her, Patrick McCoy sniggered.
James rolled his eyes and took a step back.
Ralph stood like a statue for a long moment, his cheeks brick red, his eyes both hurt and defiant. He opened his
mouth to reply, but before he could a girl stepped between them, placing a hand on each one’s chest.
“Shake hands and say sorry,” she said quietly. It was Rose. She glanced aside at James, and then at Ralph. Neither boy moved.
“Do it,” she said in the same tone of voice. “You both know you want to. Tensions are high right now and everybody’s at their frayed edge. But you need each other. And I can’t muster the energy to get between you both if you go to war. So shake hands and say sorry.”
James drew a long breath through his nose. Rose was right. And yet a fiercely stubborn urge held him back.
“Sorry,” Ralph said, his eyes lowered but his hand held out.
“Really. You’re right. I’m sorry.”
James blew out the breath he’d been holding and reached to shake Ralph’s hand, briefly but firmly.
“I’m sorry, too, Ralph. I’m just… you know.”
“You’re worried about Merlin’s summons,” Ralph nodded.
“And… everything else. I know.”
To Rose, James muttered, “Since when did you turn into our mum?”
Rose rolled her eyes, bemused and relieved. “Since you both proved you need one.”
The rest of the day went by in a fugue of slowly increasing tension. James had no idea what the summons from Merlin was about.
What he did know was that it was just like the headmaster to make the request first thing in the morning so James had ten long hours to stew over it. His final class of the day, Transfiguration with Professor McGonagall, seemed to stretch into nearly infinite lethargy, each minute taking approximately a year as he struggled, halfheartedly, to change a China teapot into a half dozen teacups. McGonagall herself showed off the technique with frustrating ease, tipping her steaming pot and transforming the spout into a line of six dainty cups, catching each one deftly as it appeared and setting them on the desk, even as the teapot emptied both its water and itself into the final receptacle.
James hissed and yanked his hand away, burning his fingers with hot tea for what felt like the thousandth time, but producing no teacups from the pot in his hand.
James Potter and the Crimson Thread Page 48
