James Potter And The Morrigan Web (49 page)

Ron shook his head dourly. “We’ll check in with Viktor, believe me. But the Morrigan Web… that’s just a myth, a scary tale to frighten children. It’s not a real thing.”

“I’ve done research, Dad,” Rose interjected pointedly.

“You and your mum,” Ron exclaimed in exasperation, although James felt sure there was a note of pride in his uncle’s voice. “All right, so what did you find out?”

Rose explained her discovery of the historical Alma Aleron professor, Principia Laosa, and her discovery of the mythical Morrigan Web. “Apparently there’s a witch that lives in the bowels of Alma Aleron’s administration hall named Crone Laosa. She might be related to the original Professor Laosa and have some information about what the Morrigan Web does and how it might work.”

Ron was already shaking his head. “You lot are totally incorrigible, you know that?” he sighed to himself. “Now I know how mum must have felt when Harry, Hermione and I were kids. Blimey, it’s hard work being the responsible one.”

“But Uncle Ron,” James insisted, “Zane’s already figured a way for us to get down into the basements of Alma Aleron to find Crone Laosa, if she really exists. If this Collector wizard really is planning to set off some magical super-weapon--”

“Then your dad and Titus Hardcastle and the rest of us will stop him,” Ron interrupted. “Really! What do you lot think you’re going to do that loads of grown and trained Aurors and Harriers can’t?”

“So…” Ralph said slowly, “Does that mean… you believe us?”

Ron turned to look at Ralph from the coals of the fireplace. “Is that what this is about? You think us grown-up types don’t trust you because you’re just a lot of kids?”

Ralph shrugged and glanced around at the others. “Well… it crossed our minds, I guess.”

“Look,” Ron said, lowering his voice and looking at each face in turn. “Remember just who you’re talking to here, eh? I ain’t so old that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be on that side of the floo. We know there are some seriously sketchy things going on at Hogwarts, as well as in the Ministry proper. Frankly, there are some bloody good reasons why security has been cranked up as high as it has. Ever since that whole mess in New Amsterdam, the vow of secrecy has started falling apart all over the place. Why do you think there’ve been all these annoying diplomatic missions all over the world for your dad to attend?” he asked, looking at James, Albus and Lily. “Muggle governments are catching wind of our existence. Difficult questions are being asked. Slipshod, temporary treaties are being signed. Worse…”

Ron paused, looking earnestly around at the gathered students, as if unsure whether to go on. He lowered his voice again so that it was barely above a whisper. “Worse, there are reports that Muggle governments are already being infiltrated by dark witches and wizards, looking to gain the upper hand wherever they can. The ones that use Imperius curses and polyjuice potions, they’re the easiest to find. Potions leave a trail of evidence, and curses can be sensed by competent Aurors like us. But some of these wizards are really cunning, leaving no trail whatsoever. If they get a foothold in a major Muggle government, well… there’s no telling the disasters they could wreak.”

James looked askance at Rose and Scorpius, his face pale. “That’s why we need to find out everything we can about the Morrigan Web,” he whispered, turning back to his uncle. “It might be part of just that sort of plan!”

“We’ll look into it, James,” Ron nodded. “Trust me. You lot have already done your part. If there’s anything to be concerned about, we’ll uncover it. It’s our jobs, after all.”

“But--” Rose said.

“No buts!” her father exclaimed, overriding her. “
Your
job is to lay low, keep a watch on the goings on there at school, and report back to us when you can. We’ll discuss it soon, over the holidays. For now, maintain a low profile, stick to your studies, and stay out of Filch’s way.”

Albus nodded. “I’ll definitely put that one on my to-do list.”

“Don’t be glib, Albus,” Ron said seriously. “And who the bloody hell are all these other people?”

“Herman Potsdam, sir,” Herman announced. “Ravenclaw. A pleasure to meet you. I’ve read all about you.”

Kendra turned toward him. “
You’ve
read those stories? I don’t believe it.”

“They helped us send the message to dad,” James explained with a sigh. “They’re safe.”

Ron considered this and seemed to accept it. “All right then. To bed with all of you. And remember what I said! I’m not brushing you off-- you have an important role to play. But let us do our part and we can all work together. Understood?”

James nodded tiredly. The others joined in.

“Good, then,” Ron smiled. “Everyone else sends their greetings, and Rose, Hugo wanted you to know that he’s taken over your room completely for his pet garden gnomes and there’s nothing you can do about it. His words, not mine.”

Rose looked mortified. “Dad!”

“We’ll see most of you come Christmas, which will be here before you know it. Remember what I said!”

“We will,” the students agreed unenthusiastically. A moment later, the coals of the hearth crackled into senselessness. Ron had gone.

“Well,” Albus said with a shrug. “That was fun, I guess. Come on, Ralph, let’s get back to the dungeons. Fiera, Beetlebrick and the rest will want an update. For whatever it’s worth.”

As they all clambered to their feet, Kendra caught James’ eye. “So, that story about you lot going to New Amsterdam and running into some vicious wizard, that wasn’t just a ruse to cover up for you missing Quidditch try-outs?”

“It wasn’t
just
that,” Scorpius answered. “But it did provide James with a convenient excuse.”

Herman tilted his head sceptically. “The Morrigan Web, eh? This Collector person is probably as loony as a Lobalug. Your uncle’s right. It’s probably nothing.”

“Those Wendogoes weren’t nothing,” Rose said with a shudder.

Albus shrugged. “If you ask me, this whole thing was a bust. I don’t see why we had to go to so much trouble just to have a chin wag with Uncle Ron.”

“It was
supposed
to be Dad,” James insisted.

Lily sighed. “He would have said the same stuff, most likely. He and Uncle Ron are in the same boat, you know, working at the Department of Aurors.”

“But Dad’s
head
Auror,” James sulked. “Uncle Ron is a coordinator.”

Rose perked up at that. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you calling my dad a desk donkey?”

“No, no, Rose,” Lily replied quickly. “His job’s super important, too! My dad couldn’t do anything without your dad following all those potion trails, coordinating interviews with shady witches and wizards, tracing Gringotts transactions, all of that sort of thing.”

Rose sighed weakly. “He is a bit of a desk donkey, isn’t he?”

Albus threw an arm around his cousin’s shoulders. “But he’s the best bloody desk donkey there is. And Lily’s right. Dad says he couldn’t do anything with him. If anything, your dad knows more about what’s going on behind the scenes than even my dad does.”

“Well,” Kendra commented, “if this is a peek into the exciting world of Potter family adventures, I think I’ll happily give it a pass from now on.” She angled toward the door, shaking her head.

“Next time just come and chat with me,” Herman agreed. “I can tell you the same stuff your uncle said and save us all a cauldron of trouble.”

James plopped back onto the sofa as Herman followed Kendra, Albus and Ralph out the portrait hole. It clapped shut behind them.

“What was that all about?” an eager voice begged. James glanced aside as Cameron bounded onto the sofa next to him. “That was Ron Weasley in the hearth, wasn’t it? I heard Willow Wisteria talking about the message you sent last night out on the Quidditch pitch! That was dead brilliant!”

“So much for ‘nobody talks about Night Quidditch’,” James sighed.

“Leave it be, Cameron,” Scorpius announced warningly. “You didn’t see anything.”

“Oh, I know!” Cameron enthused. “You can totally trust me! My lips are sealed! So what did he say? What’s going on?”

Rose shook her head. “He said to stick to our studies, let the grown-ups do their jobs, and stay out of Filch’s way.”

“Oh,” Cameron blinked. “Well. That’s… pretty good advice, I guess.”

A few minutes later, James bid the others goodnight and climbed wearily to the fourth years’ dormitory. It occurred to him that they had not quite mentioned
everything
to Uncle Ron. He hadn’t mentioned the fact that the words
The Morrigan Web
had appeared on Petra’s magical parchment, her former dream story, along with a name he did not recognize: Marshall Parris. In fact, he hadn’t told anyone about that, since he had promised Petra to keep the dream story a secret.

But they had also failed to mention the mysterious Durmstrang professor Avior and his uncanny resemblance to the deceased Albus Dumbledore. Considering everything else, it was probably the least of their concerns. And yet, as James changed into his pyjamas and settled onto his four poster, his mind warring sluggishly against the exhaustion of his body, he couldn’t help wondering if Professor Avior was not, somehow, the greatest and most important mystery of all.

Snatches of remembered voices followed James uneasily into sleep…

It would be best, Mr. Potter,
Professor Avior’s voice instructed calmly, almost kindly,
if you did not tell your father about this. Harry might be a bit… conflicted…

You can’t trust me,
Nastasia pled in a sort of desperate whisper.
Don’t you see? The parts of me, they don’t always agree…

But the voice that chased him into sleep was his own father’s, from several weeks earlier:
It was Petra, son… Petra Morganstern… she flickered on and off… and then… she was just gone…

The final weeks before Christmas holiday unwound like a Weasley’s Wizard Wheeze’s trick clock whose hands moved slower with each passing minute.

The last week of class at Durmstrang was cancelled due to inclement mountain weather (“Nine feet of snow and sixteen-inch icicles that grow
sideways
because of the wind!” Kendra regaled them breathlessly, having overheard a conversation between Hagrid and Professor Debellows. “
Sideways icicles!
Can you imagine?”).

Classes at Beauxbatons, on the other hand, had ended a week earlier due to differences in holiday schedules (“They take almost a month for Christmas,” Graham announced wistfully at dinner one evening. “A whole month!
And
they spend half that time fairy-skiing and quaffing spiced hot chocolate in the Alps! That’s it, I’m going to see about transferring there full time.”)

James did not at all mind missing his Beauxbatons class-- he still did not grasp the slightest thing about Theoretical Arithmatics, with its monstrous abaci and its inexplicable goals, despite the constant, smug explanations offered by Yorke’s Morton Comstock, who enjoyed an eerie (and annoying) affinity for it.

He was, however, disappointed to be shut off from Durmstrang for the final week. He had finally made up his mind to visit Professor Avior in his offices, as per the professor’s suggestion, and was rather nervous about it. Now that he had decided to go through with it, he wanted it to be over as soon as possible, and did not relish worrying about it all through the holiday.

To that end, he had once attempted to make the trip through the Durmstrang cabinet on his own, class or no class, despite the warning sign nailed across its top. Waiting until the lazy hours between lunch and dinner, he had stolen up to the baroque Durmstrang cabinet door and unlatched it, only to have it blow wide open in front of him, blasting him with gale force arctic winds and stinging snow. By the time he wrestled the door closed again he was caked with nearly an inch of ice crystals, a fan of which covered the floor behind him, spreading up and over the end of the Slytherin table. Nearby, the ghost of the Bloody Baron shook his head in cruel amusement.

Classes became drudging affairs as the windows filled with blinding white snow and crisp frost, begging for snowmen to be made and snowballs to be thrown. The ceiling of the Great Hall became infused with rolling grey clouds, heavy with yet more snow to come. Fires were stoked to the maximum, so that the castle was simultaneously bitter cold (whenever one was not within twenty feet of a stove or hearth) and unbearably hot (whenever one was). As per tradition, Hagrid felled and erected a monstrous pine tree in the corner of the Great Hall, where it was busily decorated by Professor Flitwick and his first year Charms class. The wild scent of fresh pine needles mingled with the aroma of the warm gingerbread and peppermint cookies that filled most evenings’ dessert platters.

On the last Wednesday before Christmas, James, Rose and Ralph were wending their way disconsolately toward the astronomy tower when Albus ran breathlessly up to them, his cheeks burning red in the chilly daylight.

“You’ll never guess!” he panted, grinning. “We’re all spending the whole holiday at the Burrow! Grandma Weasley and Uncle George and Aunt Angelina and everyone will be there! Even Luna Lovegood and that walking stick she married! No Dominique-- she’s spending the holiday skiing with a load of her Beauxbatons friends, but that’s no great loss, is it?”