James Potter And The Morrigan Web (50 page)

“Really? Christmas at the Burrow?” Rose chimed excitedly. “That’s excellent! How did you find out?”

“Post from Mum and Dad,” he answered, fumbling a wrinkled letter from his knapsack. “Just got it this morning. Told me to spread the word to all of you. Lily and Victoire nearly split in two when I told them. I still need to find Louis, though.”

“If we don’t tell him does that mean he won’t be there?” Rose asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Rose!” James exclaimed, stifling a laugh.

“I’m joking,” she admitted reluctantly. “But if he tries to ‘practice’ any more of his
artis decerto
on me, I swear I’ll fill his presents with slugs.”

“You’re invited, too, Ralph,” Albus added, stuffing the letter back in his knapsack. “Your dad will be there. He signed the letter himself, along with my parents and Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione. I guess they were just trying to get all of us in one swoop, what with the hang-ups with the post.”

“Does that mean Grudje read the letter before us?” James asked pointedly.

“Him or Professor Votary,” Albus shrugged. “I got the letter via inter-house post. Beetlebrick delivered it from Grudje’s office, since he’s a prefect. But here’s the kicker: we won’t be going home on the Hogwarts Express!”

“What?” Ralph frowned. “Why not?”

Albus glanced excitedly from face to face. “We’re traveling by Portkey!”

“No!” Rose breathed. “But… why?”

“Your Mum pulled some strings at the Department of Magical Transportation,” Albus said. “Figured it would save loads of time trying to coordinate travel for everybody. I guess it’s good to have parents that work in high places, eh?”

“So where’s the Portkey?” James asked, a surge of excitement welling in him. “Did they send it already?”

Albus grinned. “They totally did! It came with the letter. It’s just some ratty old Christmas sweater. I think grandma Weasley made it for Uncle Ron back when he was still a student here. It won’t work until the right time, and it won’t work at all here on Hogwarts grounds. We’ll have to hitch a ride out to Hogsmeade station with everyone else and use it there.”

“So no packing, then,” Rose said thoughtfully. “We can’t carry luggage via Portkey.”

“I guess our families will bring along whatever we might need,” James suggested. “They’ll be traveling by normal means, probably.”

“Either way,” Albus concluded happily, “this is going to be bloody brilliant!”

James overslept the following Saturday morning. He was awakened by a rattling bash at the window next to his bed. Blearily, he blinked into the blinding, snowy glare, and then startled as a shape banged clumsily against it. It was Nobby, unsuccessfully scrabbling for a perch on the icy ledge outside the window. James threw off the covers, already realizing what had happened and cursing to himself.

“Sorry, Nobby!” he said, opening the window and letting in the snow-dusted bird and a gust of wintry air. “I was up too late trying to raise Zane on the Shard. I wanted to see if he was going to be at Burrow with us. Sorry you can’t come along. Owls can’t go by Portkey.”

Nobby fluttered to the bedside table and shook snowflakes from his feathers. Impatiently, he stretched out his foot, revealing the note tied there. James retrieved it hurriedly.

WHERE ARE YOU? HAGRID LEAVES IN FIVE MINUTES!

It wasn’t signed, but James recognized Rose’s handwriting, of course. He tossed the note aside, jammed his legs into a pair of jeans, and squirrelled into a sweater as he ran down the spiral staircase. On the last step, however, he remembered Petra’s dream story. He was in the habit of carrying it with him everywhere he went, for reasons he did not fully understand but which felt important nonetheless. He turned on the stairs and bolted back up to the dormitory.

“Oh!” he said, spying Nobby still standing on his bedside table. The bird cocked a head at him sardonically. James shook his head and ran to the window. “Off you go. Have a good Christmas! Eat tons of mice and all that.”

Nobby clucked his beak and almost seemed to roll his great, golden eyes. With a clap of his wings, he launched from the table and lofted out the window. James slammed it shut and shot the bolt. A moment later, he fell to his knees in front of his trunk and began rooting messily through it. His right hand found the lump of Petra’s parchment at the same moment that his left hand brushed against an unexpected scratchy shape. He yanked both hands out and examined his left. A faint abrasion formed a white line across the back of his thumb. James frowned at it then peered into his trunk, looking for the object that had scratched him.

A small, dense shape was embedded in the hem of his school robes. James drew them out and pulled the folds apart, revealing the snared object.

“The Yuxa Baslatma,” he said to himself. He remembered being snagged by the burs from the magical prophecy plant in Professor Avior’s classroom, remembered the Professor confiscating them, claiming that Zane had stolen them. One of the burs, however, had remained, embedded in James’ robes all this time, just waiting to be found. James thought back to that day, tried to remember which prophecy plant the burs had come from.

“The Question Which Most Vexes You,” he whispered, his eyes widening as he stared down at the spiny brown bur.

Carefully, he extricated the bur from his robes. Glancing into the depths of his trunk again, he found a very old piece of Droobles Best Blowing Gum. He unwrapped it, popped the rock hard hunk of gum into his mouth, and then folded the bur into the wrapper.

Pocketing both Petra’s dream story and the wrapped bur in his jeans, James scrambled to his feet and pelted down the spiral stairs.

Hagrid delivered the seven of them to Hogsmeade station along with the last of the departing Hogwarts students. James jumped down from the huge carriage, joining Albus, Lily, Rose, Ralph, Louis and Victoire on the icy platform.

“Have a good Christmas, now,” Hagrid bellowed from the high driver’s seat, and then leaned aside and winked theatrically at James.

James blinked up at him. “Er, you as well, Hagrid.”

Hagrid nodded, his cheeks apple red and his wild hair matted with flecks of ice. His beetle-black eyes twinkled. “I’ll see you lot
when you get back
, then, eh?” He winked again, twice.

“Sure thing, Hagrid,” Lily replied, furrowing her brow. She glanced aside at James and Rose.

Behind them, Louis hugged himself against the cold. “Come on, let’s go,” he said. “It’s cold as a banshee’s bum out here.”

“Such language,” Victoire huffed, her words forming white puffs in the air. She adjusted her little fur hat and stuffed her hands into a matching muff. “But Louis is right. This cold is no good for our complexions.”

“That’s not what I said!” Louis protested.

“Let’s get under the awning where there’s less snow,” Albus said briskly, brandishing a soft package wrapped tightly in paper and twine. “The Portkey will be active at exactly ten o’clock.”

The troupe made their way along the snowy platform as the Hogwarts Express began to chug noisily, belting masses of black smoke into the sky. Its huge crimson wheels spun on their tracks, screeching metal on metal, and then slowed to a laborious crawl, inching the great train out of the station and steadily picking up speed. James watched the windows go by, saw the glimpsed faces of its passengers, his classmates, laughing as they settled into their seats, stuffing their coats and hats onto the overhead racks. Soon enough, the caboose swept past, dragging a pall of snow-flecked air and smoke, and the train was gone, its shrill whistle already echoing from the valley below.

“I hope you’ve been keeping a close eye on that thing,” Louis commented as Albus laid his parcel on a bench and untied the twine.

“No, I lent it out for Winkles and Augers,” Albus replied. “I let the rest of the Slytherins use it for target practice in the casting range. What do you think, genius?”

“Well,” Louis huffed, “It
is
our only means of getting home now. If the Portus spell has been altered or tampered with in any way, there’s no knowing where we’ll end up.”

Victoire shook her head in annoyance. “I’m sure Albus has been careful with it. He is not in the habit of allowing important magical tools to fall into the wrong hands.”

“You mean like James, here?” Louis said pointedly, turning to his sister. “We’ve all heard about how Filch ended up with the invisibility cloak. Real smooth, that one.”

“Belt up, Louis,” Lily said mildly, “or Rose here will belt it for you,”

Louis glanced at Rose, who glared at him. He looked back at Victoire for help, but she merely shrugged imperiously.

“What was up with Hagrid?” Ralph asked. “He sure was acting weird, wasn’t he?”

“He is Hagrid,” Victoire sniffed. “What is unusual about him acting weird?”

Just then, the bell in the Hogsmeade clock tower began to toll, its echo pealing across the bare trees and snow-crusted rooftops.

“That’s it,” Albus said excitedly, pulling open the wrapping and revealing a neatly folded, if somewhat threadbare old sweater. It was burgundy with a large golden letter R knitted in the centre. Albus looked from it to the others gathered round. “You’ve all travelled by Portkey before,” he said as the Hogsmeade bell continued to toll. “This is it, then! Everyone grab on and hold tight!”

He reached forward, as did six other hands. Each grabbed a fistful of the old sweater. An instant later, James felt the familiar (albeit rather unpleasant) sensation of a hook grabbing his middle and tugging him sharply forward.

His last thought, as Hogsmeade station whipped past him and vanished into a speck, was that he had forgotten his glasses and his mum would probably kill him for it.

A cold blur blasted over him as he held on tight to the sweater. An instant later, a hard floor materialized beneath him and he stumbled, barely keeping his footing. He let go of the sweater and banged into Victoire, knocking her hat off.

“Ouch!” she scolded shrilly. “Watch your gigantic feet! You stamped on my toes!”

“Sorry,” Ralph said, still flailing for balance. “I never get used to that.”

Albus was still holding onto the sweater in the darkness. James could barely see his brother’s face in the gloom as he peered around, his eyes tense.

“Where are we?” Albus asked. “This isn’t the Burrow. Is it?”

“I told you!” Louis exclaimed. “The Portkey got damaged somehow! Who knows where we ended up?”

“Quiet, Louis!” Lily scolded worriedly.

“It looks like an attic,” Rose commented, moving slowly forward. She pushed a mass of draping cloth aside. It fell heavily, throwing up a cloud of dust and revealing a round window, opaque with grime and pale with daylight.

“It
is
an attic,” James said, joining Rose near the window. “But it’s not the Burrow, that’s for sure.” He reached toward the window, meaning to rub the grime off and peek out, when a long, juddering creak came out of the darkness behind them.

All seven students jumped and gasped, turning toward the sound. There was nothing to be seen but a steeply canted roof on both sides, leading into impenetrable shadows. Then, creakily, footsteps began to approach out of the dark.

“Wands!” Victoire whispered sharply. James heard her, sensed her whisking hers out of her muff. He scrambled for his own, as did the others. Slowly, they backed away from the darkness as the footsteps grew closer, thumping slowly on the old wooden floor. James felt the cold glass of the window against his back as he bumped against it. He raised his wand shakily in his outstretched fist. Next to him, Ralph’s wand vibrated in his hand, its lime green tip bobbing against the dark.

A pair of large, naked feet began to emerge from the shadows, followed by surprisingly short, knobbly legs and a filthy old loincloth. As the figure emerged fully into the light it peered up at the students, its squinty eyes showing nothing but weary patience. It was holding a platter in its right hand, laden with seven steaming mugs.

“Mulled cider for the young masters and mistresses,” it said in a deep, croaking voice. As a sort of reluctant afterthought, it added, “and may I be the first to wish them all… a happy Christmas.”