James Potter And The Morrigan Web (21 page)

Ralph puffed, red-cheeked and sweating, behind James. “It’s not her that made us late,” he wheezed, “it’s her fan club. And yours, too, apparently.”

James scowled in embarrassment.

Some years ago, Professor Revalvier had, of course, written a series of fictionalized books about the adventures of Harry Potter. These books had been published in the Muggle world under a different name, becoming immensely popular. Somehow, the Muggle students from Yorke Academy had learned that Revalvier was the actual author, and had signed up in droves for her Wizard Literature class. After class, the throng of admirers gathering for her autograph had merely been a nuisance, blocking the library exit, until Graham had loudly pointed out that James was the son of the famous Harry Potter himself.

The result had been rather disconcerting. James had never experienced such a swarm of attention and questions. He had not entirely disliked it, even if it did seem rather silly and unwarranted. Still, it had been a difficult crowd to detach himself from, leaving him and Ralph less than five minutes to dash across the castle.

The Durmstrang cabinet door clapped shut on the last student just as James and Ralph skidded to a halt in front of it. A bright green flash lit the cracks around the door frame and the cabinet shuddered, as if a weight inside had suddenly popped out of existence.

James gulped and reached hesitantly for the door handle.

“We’d better go together,” Ralph suggested, “The Durmstrang professors don’t like tardiness, and I hear they’re always looking to make examples straight away.”

James nodded. He pulled the heavy door open, revealing a blank wooden interior. It seemed too dark inside, as if the green lacquered wood absorbed light rather than reflecting it. It still contained an eerie mossy smell, like dead seaweed on a stony beach. The two boys shouldered inside together and turned to face the light and noise of the Great Hall. No one was watching from outside-- the vanishing cabinets had already become mundane. James saw Willow Wisteria and Devindar Das walking toward the rear doors, deep in conversation, having just returned from classes at Beauxbatons. Ralph shouldered his bag and reached for the open door, but it swung shut of its own accord, slamming with a loud clunk and blocking out all light.

A split second later there was a blinding green flash and the floor dropped out of the cabinet. James’ stomach leapt up into his throat as his feet fell into nothing. Violent black wind roared up around him, flinging his robes all around and buffeting his hair. And then, just as quickly as it had dropped away, the floor slammed up beneath their feet again, propelling them up and out. The cabinet door burst open and both boys rocketed out into cold whiteness.

James fell atop Ralph, saving himself from tumbling onto an expanse of rough stone cobbles. Ralph, of course, was less fortunate.

“Owf!” he exclaimed, his voice muffled against the frosty stones. He rolled over, throwing James off. “That’s the second time you’ve used me for a bloody floor mat!”

James scrambled to sit up and found himself staring up at dozen people, all of whom had turned to look back at him.

“
And
there’s James and Ralph,” Ravenclaw Ashley Doone muttered, rolling her eyes.

“Hey guys,” Trenton Bloch called with a grin, “Have a nice fall?” He chuckled at his wit.

Among the group were a few other Hogwarts students, some rather disgusted looking Beauxbatons girls, and, to James’ small relief, Zane, decked in a long woollen coat and a yellow and black stocking cap. He seemed, somewhat unsuccessfully, to be restraining a burst of laughter.

A tall, forbidding figure stepped around the line of students. Obviously an older Durmstrang student in characteristic furs and cap, he regarded James and Ralph for a moment, his dark eyes and block-like jaw inscrutable.

“I zee ve haf latecomers,” he said calmly. “Haffing missed ze orientation, zey vere unprepared for ze difference in altitude. A helpful demonstration of how not to travel by cabinet, yes?”

“The trick is to jump just as the doors close,” Ashley whispered helpfully, hopping once in demonstration.

James and Ralph clambered quickly to their feet, red-faced both with embarrassment and cold. As they joined the line of students, James took in their surroundings for the first time. They seemed to be standing atop a high, narrow rampart, lined with low, crenelated walls and leading to a stark, square tower. Grains of snow skirled in the air, scouring the cobbled walkways and forming small drifts against the walls. The wind was hard and bitter, blowing through a ring of nearby mountain peaks whose sharp pinnacles stabbed at a steely sky.

“Follow me, please,” The Durmstrang escort said, turning swiftly on his boot heel so that his long furs swayed. He stalked toward the squat, square tower. Haltingly, the gathered students hurried to follow.

“Hey fellas,” Zane muttered from the corner of his mouth. “Way to make an entrance.”

James huddled against the wind and struggled to keep his teeth from chattering. “What’d we miss?”

“That there’s Volkiev,” Zane nodded toward their escort. “He’s their version of a prefect and he’s our guide while we’re here, meaning that if we wander off anywhere without him, we’ll probably end up hanging by out thumbs somewhere.”

“Where are we?” Ralph asked in a low whisper. “What mountains are these?”

“Beats me,” Zane replied, “and I expect that’s for the best. Something tells me that asking too many questions around here isn’t exactly healthy. This place is more cloak-and-dagger than that joint in Knockturn Alley that just sells cloaks and daggers.”

“Oooh,” Ashley cooed, glancing back over her shoulder, “The Elegant Assassin? I love that place! My uncle took me there, once. My mum had a whole litter of nargles about it, but it was worth it.”

One of the Beauxbatons girls shushed them harshly as they neared the entrance to the tower.

Volkiev didn’t pause at the heavy wooden door but simply raised his wand in one black-gloved hand. The door swung swiftly open, revealing a low, torch-lit stairway. Volkiev marched through and turned to descend the stone stairs.

“Durmstrang Academy velcomes its visitors,” he called, his voice echoing up the throat of the tower. “Please, if you vill stay behind me, you vill avoid becoming lost in ze school’s many halls and corridors. For your, ahh,
zafety,
if vould not be vise to loose your vay.”

Volkiev led the troop down many flights of stone steps, then through an arched doorway into a long corridor. His pace was swift and unbroken, causing the students to occasionally trot to keep up. James looked around curiously, but there was very little to see. The doors along the corridor were tall and arched, but all firmly closed, lit only with crackling torches. Volkiev’s marching boots clacked on the flagstone floor, echoing loudly.

They turned right at an intersection, marched another hundred yards, and then turned left again. They passed through a second large, unmarked doorway, this one guarded by a pair of very intimidating suits of red armour, their squared helmets watching blindly, their gauntlets resting on the hilts of enormous, glittering swords.

“Nothing to see, folks,” Zane muttered, “Move along, move along.”

James shook his head. “It’s like he’s purposely taking us the long and boring way, so we either don’t see anything they don’t want us to see, or can’t get out on our own.”

Zane sniffed thoughtfully. “Next time bring some bread crumbs, Hansel,”

Ralph sidled between them. “So what’s going on back at the Aleron?” he asked under his breath. “How’s everybody adjusting to life after the Night of the Unveiling?”

“Too much to tell,” Zane answered with uncharacteristic seriousness. “Short answer, all the wrong people are as pleased as punch. Ask me more later and I’ll tell you what I can.”

James glanced around Ralph’s shoulder. “Speaking of the wrong people, what’s the deal with that Nastasia girl?”

Zane grinned. “She’s great isn’t she? I can’t believe she’s a Pixie. That girl’s got Zombie written all over her if you ask me.”

“So are you two, like…” James persisted, shaking his head vaguely. “Together, or something?”

“Dunno. Maybe. I did already ask her to the Halloween dance,” Zane shrugged. “I was thinking of doing something different this year. What do you think of this:” he held his hands up, framing an invisible scene, “Star Wars Meets Classical Horror-- ‘the Phantom Menace of the Opera’! I’ll be the singing ghost alien, Nastasia can be the prodigy queen chorus girl. Eh? Eh?” He waggled his eyebrows meaningfully.

“That’s idiotic,” Ashley volunteered.

“I kind of like it,” Ralph admitted.

“You’re both daft,” James muttered. “The point is, Nastasia is trouble. You know that, right?”

Zane sighed happily. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

James rolled his eyes as Volkiev led the troop through one more doorway into a much larger and brighter corridor. Here, finally, Durmstrang students could be seen walking to their classes or gathered in small knots beneath monstrous iron chandeliers. High tapestries lined the walls showing larger-than-life wizards with extremely impressive beards and moustaches, their dark eyes staring down above rich layers of velvet and fur. The vaulted ceilings were dim in the high distance, full of flitting, shadowy movement and distant chitters.

“Bats,” Ashley shuddered. “I hate bats.”

“They’re all boys,” Ralph muttered as they followed Volkiev through the crowded corridor.

Ashley craned her neck nervously, peering up at the distant ceiling. “How can you tell from here?”

“Not the bats,” Ralph whispered, nudging James and nodding toward the Durmstrang students. “Everybody else.”

James glanced around as the Durmstrangs swept past, each one eyeing the newcomers with stony curiosity or open suspicion. All of them were indeed boys, each one dressed in matching slate grey uniforms with high collars and furlined capes, all of them eerily quiet in the huge, echoing corridor. Even the younger ones seemed somehow large and intimidating. Some had dark hair and depthless black eyes. Others were white-blonde with eyes of cold blue or vivid green.

“No girls,” Ralph confirmed quietly. “And no… er…
Weasleys
.”

Volkiev suddenly turned to the right, using both hands to push open a pair of enormously tall doors. Sunlight flooded the corridor from the room beyond, making James squint as he turned to enter. When his eyes adjusted to the sight before him, he stopped for a moment, his mouth dropping open in surprise.

The drab, narrow corridors he had seen so far could not have prepared him for the sheer scope and wonder of this room. The floor was marble tile, shaped in a huge half-circle, reflecting a vaulted dome of iron-framed windows that formed the far wall. Each glass pane was etched with frost around its edges, making a hazy lace of black iron and white ice against the sprawling mountain vista beyond. Positioned below the wall of windows, looking tiny and dark by comparison, was a wooden block of a desk with one ornate, high-back chair pushed against its middle.

“Whoa,” Zane breathed, stepping further into the room and turning, raising his eyes. James followed his gaze. A twin pair of wrought iron stairs spiralled up on either side of the doorway, leading to curving balconies on either side of the room. Each balcony was loaded with a freight of objects. On the left side, James recognized a collection of enormously oversized instruments of divination: a desk-sized crystal ball on a complicated golden stand; an ancient mirror with tarnished, cloudy edges, embedded in a baroque gilt frame; a stone bowl the size of a millstone that could only be an enormous pensieve, and other strange, monolithic artefacts and devices of obviously ancient origin.

The right balcony, however, was freighted with what seemed to be plants. Each was massive, alien-looking, and embedded in its own enormous ceramic pot, some with roots and vines bubbling over onto the grated floor below. Eerily overgrown flowers, leaves and vines bobbed subtly, nodding to the students as they filed toward a row of tables in the centre of the floor below.

“It’s a greenhouse,” Trenton Bloch said, frowning slightly. “I thought this was a divination class.”

“Practical Prophecy, in fact,” an aged, wispy voice answered from the front of the room. Every eye turned toward the sound. A tall figure stood before the front desk, silhouetted against the blinding whiteness of the glass wall beyond. James could just make out a very long white beard threaded with iron grey, and a peaked hat of rich burgundy brocade. The figure waved for the class to assume their seats. “Divination and prophecy, you will discover, are quite different things. Quite different things indeed.”

James, Ralph and Zane sidled into seats in the middle of the three large, high tables. As Ralph unslung his bag and began to unpack his quill and parchment, he whispered, “Where’d he come from? He wasn’t there when we came in, and there’s only the one entrance.”

“It’s
maaagic
,” Zane explained dismissively. “Maybe he Apparated there or something.”

“You can’t apparate in Hog-” James began, and then interrupted himself. “Oh. Yeah. Things are probably way different here, aren’t they?”

The figure at the head desk waited for the students to produce their quills and parchments. Finally, when the room fell fully silent once again, he drew a deep breath and approached the tables.

“As you can see, there are none of my regular students in attendance this day,” he said calmly, indicating the many empty seats at the tables. “For the first time in the history of this class, I have granted them… a day off. It was necessary, you see, for me to apprise all of you on the rather different methods you will encounter here, methods which are quite standard procedure to my fellow Durmstrangs.”

The professor (who James realized had not yet given his name) began to pace around the perimeter of the tables. As he did so, his visage emerged from silhouette. James watched him with growing curiosity. There was something strangely familiar about him. He searched his memory as the professor went on.

“There are two primary differences between how we do things and how you are likely to have been taught. Firstly, many practitioners of the art of divination mistake it for an independent study. They trust their own singular interpretation of the sometimes frustratingly obscure mists of prophecy. This, as any scientist can tell you, is a haphazard and foolhardy method. Here, we follow a rigorous protocol of group divination, pooling our observations, averaging them, determining the validity of any prophecy by the unanimity of those who divine it.”