James Potter And The Morrigan Web (13 page)

“For the remaining details,” he bellowed, “I leave you in the very capable hands of your new headmaster. Enjoy your adventures abroad, ladies and gentlemen, and do us proud!”

With that, Knapp backed away from the podium, still beaming and waving as the students erupted into fresh throes of excited confusion. Headmaster Grudje, James noticed, had arisen from his seat. He stood nearly a head taller than the Minister of Magic as he stepped around him, approaching the podium stoically. He did not attempt to speak over the babbling throng, but simply stared out over the tables, his face as grim and cool as a gravestone, his grey eyes unmoving, seemingly fixed on the far wall. Slowly, eventually, the Hall quieted, settling into a sort of strained, expectant silence.

When Grudje finally spoke, his voice was very deep, grating like millstones in a well. “You will each,” he stated mildly, in a near monotone, “sign up for no more than four and no less than two classes at the school or schools of your choice. Classes will earn the appropriate grade in the equivalent Hogwarts subject, except in the case of Yorke Finishing Academy, which will be handled appropriately by Professor Grenadine Curry.” He paused and lowered his eyes, peering slowly around the crowded house tables. “As the better of you have hopefully already realized,” he went on a bit less severely, “most of these schools occupy very different time zones than do we. For your convenience, I have arranged for a small gift to the school, a very old tool, used under identical circumstances in centuries past, which will guide you as necessary to your various international appointments.”

Here, Grudje turned slowly. Unlike the Minister of Magic, the new headmaster’s gesture was slow, deliberate, and eerily powerful. He extended an open hand toward the black-draped object below the rose window. Then, with a snap of his fist, the cloth fell away, billowing down behind the head table. Every eye in the hall watched.

It was a clock unlike any clock James had ever seen. It was easily as tall as the headmaster himself, made of polished black wood and carved with a mind-boggling array of designs, curlicues and symbols. There was one large face, white as the moon and adorned with ornate black hands showing the current time (this face was labelled “HOGWARTS” in glowing blue letters). Four smaller faces surrounded the main face, each of these showing a different time and labelled with the names of the four other schools. Behind the largest face, ticking and whirring busily, was a mass of gears, cogs and flywheels, protected by a daunting iron padlock affixed to a hasp on the hinged clock face. An enormous brass pendulum hung from the bottom of the clock, swaying ponderously from left to right.

“That,” Deidre breathed in awe, “has to be the most gloriously ugly thing I have ever seen.”

“I trust your instructions are quite clear,” Grudje said, turning slowly back to the house tables. “Are there any questions?”

Despite the clamouring of voices mere moments earlier, the Great Hall now remained nervously quiet. Somehow, it seemed that, despite everyone’s curiosity, no one felt quite prepared to engage the new headmaster. James glanced around, waiting for a hand to go up. Finally, with a hard swallow, he raised his own.

Grudje saw this and his eyes, if it were possible, both narrowed and sparkled. “Mr. Potter, then,” he growled. “Do go on, young man.”

“I, er… I think some of us might be wondering, sir…” James stammered, shifting his gaze from Grudje to the strange metal locker at the end of the Gryffindor table, “I mean, I myself have never heard of any school called Yorke Finishing Academy. Can you, maybe, tell us what magical government it’s connected to?”

Grudje stared hard at James for a long moment. “Mr. Potter, I am surprised at you,” he said in his deep, rattling voice. “Yorke Academy is not connected to any magical government. Yorke Academy will earn you credits with Professor Curry, you may recall. Madam Curry is your professor of Muggle Studies. Yorke Academy, you will therefore not be surprised to learn, Mr. Potter… is a Muggle school.”

“This isn’t a wee little change,” Deidre hissed as the assembly broke up and drained into the Entrance Hall. “It’s a bloody upheaval! Muggles in Hogwarts!? Wait ‘til I tell my mum and dad!”

“What are
we
supposed to learn at a
Muggle
school?” Graham complained in a shrill whisper. “How to be a lot of boring, telly-watching… car driving…” He waved his hands vaguely, “Er…non-broom-flying, wandless--”

“Shut
up
, Graham,” Rose hissed at him, pushing her way through the crowded Entrance Hall.

A sort of dull shock hovered over the entire gathering as they funnelled, murmuring in agitation, toward an arrangement of four large, framed parchments hung opposite the main entrance. Written across the tops of each parchment in flowing script were the names of the four schools. Beneath the names were listings of that school’s available classes, with spaces for students to sign up for them.

“Here, Ralph, make a way for us,” James said, pushing the bigger boy in front of him and using him as a battering ram to press through the throng. Ralph shouldered uncomfortably toward the front of the group, coming out near the Durmstrang parchment. James peered around his friend. No one had signed up for any classes yet. In fact, most of the attention was being focussed on the Muggle school’s sign-up sheet. At the edge of the crowd, Fiona Fourcompass was staring with unmasked distaste.

“‘Algebra two’,” she read, her voice dripping with disdain. “What kind of daft subject is that?”

“And how about this one?” Trenton Block called out, pointing, “‘History of the United Kingdom’! What, without any mention of the Goblin uprising? Or the War of the Red Mages? More like ‘History as the Muggles know it, with all the good bits chopped off’.”

More voices called out derisively, blending into a tirade. Scorpius suddenly pushed past James and approached the sign-up sheet for Yorke Academy, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

“Here’s one,” he called, glancing back over his shoulder with a half-grin and pointing with his quill. “‘Biology Studies’. I’ve heard about such things. They study dead animals by cutting them up into smaller and smaller bits. Hearts and lungs, muscles and tendons, eyeballs and brains…” He turned back to the sign-up sheet and sucked the tip of his quill speculatively. “Bloody hell, sign me up.”

With that, he stepped forward and signed his name to the parchment, underlining it with a scribbled flourish. The crowd pressed forward in his wake, babbling rather more tentatively. Rose and James exchanged quick looks.

“He likes to push people’s buttons,” she said quietly.

“Yours, I’d wager,” James nodded, supressing a grin. She punched him hard on the shoulder and whisked away, toward the Beauxbatons parchment.

Ralph approached James. “We could sign up for something at Alma Aleron. Maybe get a class with Zane, eh?”

James nodded enthusiastically. “Perfect! I’ll try to raise him on the Shard and see what he’s taking this year. Then we can sign up tomorrow morning before breakfast.”

Agreed, both boys stepped forward and scanned the other parchments. After a short consideration, they each signed up for a class at Durmstrang (
Practical Prophecy
, the Durmstrang equivalent of Divination) and were just scrawling their names to a class at Beauxbatons when Rose appeared again, peering around James’ shoulder.

“You’re not
actually
signing up for Theoretical Arithmancy?” she said archly.

“Just done it,” James answered, admiring his name on the parchment. “It allows us to avoid any Arithmancy classes here with Professor Shert. Any time I can avoid him, I will.”

“I considered staying in the States this year just to get out of his class,” Ralph nodded.

“Do either of you have the slightest idea what Theoretical Arithmancy even is?” Rose asked, cocking her head and arching an eyebrow.

James and Ralph glanced at each other and shrugged.

Rose nodded curtly and smiled. “See you in class, then!” She turned breezily and marched off toward the stairs.

Ralph frowned in her direction. “Maybe we should start checking with her before we do anything.”

James shook his head in annoyance. “Ignore her. She doesn’t know any more than we do. Come on, let’s go see what’s left at the Muggle school.”

The two drifted toward the last parchment, which was now surprisingly full of names. The crowd still hovered near it, chattering with mingled curiosity and scorn.

“At least it’ll be an easy O.W.L.,” Joseph Torrance commented, signing his own name to the parchment. “No matter what crazy Muggle subject we take, it just counts for Muggle Studies. We can nap through every class if we want.”

James nodded uneasily. He leaned toward Ralph. “You think any of this would be happening if it wasn’t for Night of the Unveiling?”

Ralph shook his head. “My dad says the whole magical world is teetering on the edge. The Vow of Secrecy is cracked. People are keeping quiet now mostly out of habit, but it can’t last forever. It makes sense to be prepared.”

“But… this is what
they’ve
always wanted,” James whispered. “All those Progressive Element rabble-rousers like Tabitha Corsica-- they’ve been pushing for revelation of the wizarding world forever, just so they can finally take over the Muggle world without any interference from their own magical governments. They’re going to get their way if the Vow of Secrecy totally falls apart.”

“Well,” Ralph shrugged, “If this is what the P.E. have always wanted, it’s Petra who handed it to them on a silver platter.”

James sighed darkly. He didn’t want to be reminded of that.

Ralph stepped forward. “Might as well jump in, eh?” he said, producing a quill. He scanned the mostly filled parchment. “How about… physical education?”

James shook his head dourly. “Whatever. I don’t have the slightest idea what that is.”

Ralph signed his name to the parchment. “You want I should put you down, too?”

“I don’t care. Just hurry up. I want to go see if we can raise Zane on the Shard.”

Ralph scribbled James’ name on the Yorke parchment.

“I need to get down to the dungeon,” he said, turning. “First night is always a big deal, and I have to admit, I sort of missed the old place. Want to come down for a bit? Things have got to be a little less hinky now that Corsica’s gone, along with most of her Fang and Talons.

James shook his head. “Thanks. I should get upstairs and make sure Lily gets settled in all right. Besides, er--” he stopped himself, realizing he was about to mention the mysterious package from his father. “Er… I should unpack. Get settled in. You know.”

Ralph nodded, distracted. “It’s good to be back, isn’t it? Despite everything.”

James agreed, but couldn’t help feeling a resurgence of the vague dread he had sometimes felt during the previous year. Things were changing so fast that even Hogwarts felt different. He bid Ralph goodnight at the staircase and trotted up, following a group of excited, gawking first years. As they passed the Heracles window, James was pleased, in spite of his worries, to see that the stained glass visage of Heracles still bore a sneaking resemblance to Scorpius Malfoy. Some things, he mused wryly, would likely never change.

The landing outside the Gryffindor common room was crowded with younger students, most arguing and shouting at the Fat Lady as she sat primly inside her frame, looking stubbornly away. James spied Heth Thomas, a fifth year and long-time Gryffindor Beater, leaning against the wall nearby. He glanced up as James approached.

“None of them know the password,” Heth explained with a shrug.

James blinked and glanced at the portrait. “Who’s got the password, then?”

“New Prefect, I guess.”

“So where might he be?” James asked, scanning the crowd.

“You’re talking to him,” Heth grinned, producing a shiny badge from his robes and holding it up. “Who’d have guessed, eh?”

James glanced at the badge, then at the taller boy. “So then, Mr. Prefect… can I have the new password?”

“I was just waiting for somebody to ask,” Heth replied, pushing away from the wall. “Step aside everyone! New Prefect coming through, and I don’t mean Potter here, although you can thank him for knowing authority when he sees it. That’s it. Form a nice single-file line or something.”

Heth pushed through the disgruntled throng and stood up straight before of the portrait of the Fat Lady.

“Prantzvigor!” he announced firmly.

“About bloody time,” the Fat Lady muttered, swinging open and revealing the noise and warmth of the familiar common room.

“It’s a Bulgarian energy stimulant,” Heth explained as the crowd shoved him and James forward. “I’m trying to get my hands on a batch for the Quidditch season. If you decide to show up this year, maybe you can try it out for yourself.”

“I’ll be there,” James said firmly, stepping toward the fireplace as the throng clambered into the already crowded room.

Heth nodded sceptically, but his reply was drowned out by a sudden burst of shrill song. James turned curiously at the noise, and then realized that the anthem was aimed at him. Cameron Creevey stood beneath a home-made banner bearing the words “WELCOME BACK JAMES” in glowing golden letters. Flanking Cameron were half-a-dozen young Gryffindors, all grinning at James as they sang. James was grateful not to be able to understand most of the lyrics, but the chorus was clear enough as they reached it and redoubled their volume: “A Potter’s back in Gryffindor! It never was the same! We missed him here in Gryffindor! And Potter is his name!”