James Potter And The Morrigan Web (97 page)

Several shapes launched into the air after them-- Titus Hardcastle and his squad of Aurors, of course. They hurtled upwards, wands extended, red Stunning spells lancing into the sky.

“They’re stealing the Quidditch trophy!” Nolan Beetlebrick shouted, pointing. “Get them!”

“Wait!” Albus cried, understanding dawning on him, but his voice was drowned in a chorus of angry shouts.

Cabe Ridcully blew his whistle frantically as both the Slytherin and Hufflepuff teams sprung into the air, following the Aurors in pursuit of the still rising trio of apparent thieves.

“
Dad!”
James called up, stumbling into the centre of the field. He could no longer make out the shapes of his father, uncle and aunt. They were lost in the swirling cloud of Aurors and Quidditch players trailing after them. “Dad! Stop! Don’t--!”

A flare of white light and a concussive blast filled the air high overhead, repelling the nearest pursuers, who tumbled back momentarily before righting themselves again.

“They destroyed it,” Cabe Ridcully declared wonderingly, his voice clearly heard in the momentary shocked silence that followed. “Why would anyone destroy the Quidditch trophy?”

“It took us twelve years to locate that Chalice,” Lyddia Vassar said, her voice dull with shock.

“Capture them!” Someone in the Hufflepuff grandstand called shrilly. “Don’t let them get away!”

It was the only encouragement the crowd needed. A massive, angry roar exploded overhead, followed by a forest of raised wands. Red bolts peppered the air, even as the Aurors circled in on their quarry, surrounding them high overhead. James craned his head to see, squinting helplessly, unable to make anything out from such a distance without his glasses. Dimly, he was aware of Scorpius and Rose joining him on the centre line.

“Did we win?” Rose asked breathlessly, shading her eyes with the flat of her hand as she stared straight up. “Did they destroy the Chalice before it could go off?”

“They totally lied about not using their wands,” Scorpius said, shaking his head.

James dropped his gaze. Above and across from him, his mother stood in the VIP box, both hands over her mouth, her eyes wide and tense as she craned up at the milling broom riders. In front of her, the Minister of Magic looked completely stunned and horrified. Headmaster Grudje, however, merely glared down at James, a wry twinkle in his grey eyes.

Suddenly Scorpius grabbed James’ shoulder and pointed to the side. “Look out! Here comes Corsica!”

Ignoring Scorpius, Tabitha Corsica joined the gathering in the middle of the pitch, peering mildly up at the gawking, swooping Quidditch players. In the centre, Titus Hardcastle and his Aurors lowered slowly, their wands trained on the three dark-clad figures.

“You know, James,” Corsica said, pocketing her wand. “This reminds me of your first year, when you tried to steal my broom.” She sighed lightly and shook her head. “You really
do
have a thing for ruining Quidditch tournaments, don’t you?”

Slightly over two hours later, James, Scorpius and Rose met Ralph and Albus at the edge of the pitch. The match had finally concluded with a Hufflepuff victory, much to Albus’ compounded disgust. Bedraggled and sweaty in his green tunic, he dragged his broom behind him, fuming blackly as the fivesome ducked beneath the Gryffindor banner, seeking the trunk hidden at the rear of the grandstand.

Wind whipped capriciously around them, snapping the banners high overhead and carrying grit into the air. A pall of clouds had pushed in over the course of the match, blotting out the sun and dropping the temperature by ten degrees, as if the weather itself was competing with the confused darkness of James’ own mood.

No one spoke of the fiasco which had preceded the match. The one small mercy to come from it was that Titus Hardcastle had allowed the three “thieves” to remain in their cloaks and hoods during the course of their arrest, thus preserving the secret of their identities. Lucinda Lyon had taken charge of security for the remainder of the match while Titus and a second Auror escorted the three figures back to the castle at wand-point, accompanied by resounding boos and jeers from the uniformly furious crowd.

Mingled with the deep disappointment about the arrest of James’, Albus’ and Rose’s parents was the strange and unexpected relief that, in spite of everything that had gone wrong, everyone had survived the Quidditch Summit. There had been no attack. James’ dad, uncle and aunt had been willing to sacrifice themselves, triggering the Morrigan Web at a safe distance from the crowd gathered below. But the Chalice had not been the trigger after all. There was no Morrigan Web. In all the feverish worry and preparation for disaster, this was the one outcome that James had completely failed to consider-- that he had been, quite simply, wrong.

But Avior
said
he was going to attack the Summit
, he reminded himself. Had the twisted old wizard simply been lying? Was he, perhaps, insane? Delusional? Surely that was a possibility, considering the cracked nature of his past, and yet...

As the five students rounded the corner of the grandstand, James was not exactly surprised to find a gaggle of waiting students, all looking terse and impatient. More seemed to be approaching from the exiting throng as the grandstands emptied, accompanied by a distantly echoing fanfare of Professor Flitwick’s band.

“That was some ‘attack’!” Fiona Fourcompass called accusingly, spying James. “It was nothing more than a stupid prank! Who were they, anyway?”

A chorus of angry shouts followed this as the crowd milled around James, Ralph and Rose, demanding both explanations and their wands back.

Hurriedly, Ralph dropped to one knee before a large, mossy boulder. Scrabbling behind it, he retrieved his own hidden wand, and then tapped the boulder with it. A shimmer of light transformed the boulder into an old Quidditch trunk, which Ralph then wrenched open. A pile of wands lay inside like pick-up sticks. The crowd collapsed upon the trunk, dozens of hands reaching for their wands. Suddenly, a horribly familiar voice called clearly over the noise, startling the crowd into silence and making James jump.

“Back away from the trunk, if you please,” the voice commanded sternly, brooking no argument. As if to emphasize this, the trunk slammed shut of its own accord, nearly chopping off a number of reaching fingers.

James turned, a weight of deep dismay descending on him like lead. The crowd of students parted behind him, backing away to reveal the much taller figure of Headmaster Grudje, his wand held lazily in his thin fingers. He flicked it. In response, the trunk lifted into the air, soared down the aisle formed by the parted students, and plunked neatly at Grudje’s feet.

“Mr. Potter,” he said in a low, silky voice. “How did I know that you would be at the centre of this curious post-match gathering?”

James didn’t answer. It wasn’t that he was afraid. His cheeks burned with such a sudden surge of helpless anger that he feared that if he spoke at all he would shout in fury.

“Is anyone prepared to tell me what I might find in this trunk?” Grudje asked, addressing the crowd and raising his eyebrows inquisitively. A scattering of hands shot into the air.

“James and his mates told us there was going to be an attack!” a girl volunteered. James saw that it was Julie Minch, the Slytherin girl who apparently fancied Ralph. In the wake of Slytherin’s tournament loss, however, all of her hopeful acquiescence had soured to petulant anger. “They said it was for our own safety to hide them away.”

A rabble of voices agreed, while a Ravenclaw boy that James didn’t know added, “They told us you were going to confiscate our wands!”

More voices roused in agreement, becoming agitated. Grudje stilled the crowd with a raised hand.

“And what,” he asked mildly, “might you have to say for yourself, Mr. Potter?”

James pressed his lips together firmly. He could feel the heat on his face, turning his cheeks brick red with rage.

“Ms. Weasley?” Grudje inquired, flicking his eyes toward Rose. “Mr. Deedle? Mr. Malfoy? Anyone?”

“Would you really like the truth, sir?” Scorpius replied, giving the headmaster an appraising look.

“I would indeed,” Grudje answered with cool magnanimity, spreading his hands slightly. “At least, whatever limited perception of the truth you and your persistently troublesome friends adhere to.”

Scorpius cocked his head. “The truth, sir, is that no one trusts you. Even if we were wrong about what was meant to happen here today, the fact is that everyone here was willing to entrust their wands to us because they do not trust
you
-- either as their protector,
or
their leader.”

The dead silence that followed this statement spoke as loudly as a chorus of shouts. James glanced aside at Scorpius, not sure if he was more impressed or mortified with the blonde boy’s blunt candour. Scorpius merely glared up at the headmaster, his expression passive, almost bored.

“I would not be so quick to speak for those present here this evening,” Grudje commented, allowing his gaze to roam over the assembled students. “They may not ascribe to your limited perception of current school events. They may, in fact, be mere pawns in your plot of discord and sedition. And yet, they have found themselves rather easily duped by your lies.” Here, Grudje returned his gaze to James. “Mr. Potter, you invented the fiction that these unfortunate students were going to have their wands confiscated. Of course, I have harboured no such intention. In light of this situation, however, I find that perhaps yours is an idea worth some merit. If these students are so eager to hand their wands over to anyone with a fanciful tale, perhaps they should be taught the responsibility that comes with the privilege of wand possession.”

Grudje studied James for a long moment, his eyes glittering meanly. Then, he lowered his gaze and flicked his wand once more. A stream of thick chains sprayed from his wand tip. Clanking and rattling, they coiled around the trunk at Grudje’s feet, snapping tight and clamping shut with a large iron padlock.

“Until further notice,” the headmaster said, pocketing his wand, “and by order of me, your headmaster, these wands are indeed officially confiscated. You may have them returned to you before the end of term, if--” he held up a narrow finger, quelling the growing protests, “you present to me an essay of no less than twelve inches of parchment titled, ‘Why I Will Never Relinquish My Wand Again’.”

The crowd redoubled its protests, shrill and furious.

“On second thought,” Grudje amended, raising his chin and narrowing his cold eyes. “Perhaps
sixteen
inches would be more illuminating!” He glared around, challenging the students to continue their protests. Instead, the crowd fell silent, crackling with barely restrained fury.

“Much better,” Grudje said softly, turning away. “Do enjoy your evening students. I look forward to your remorseful thanks in the years to come.” As he paced toward the castle, the chained trunk began to follow him, clunking along atop its own shadow. Wind whipped Grudje’s cloak and carried restless waves over the grass.

“
Sixteen inches
!” Graham Warton seethed, punching James in the shoulder. “One day before end of term and
sixteen inches
of essay! Thanks
loads
, you great
idiot
!”

“That’s the last time I ever listen to a Potter about
anything!”
Fiona declared loudly. This was greeted with a murmur of angry assent as the crowd began to trickle toward the castle.

“Well, there’s
one
good thing to come from all this,” Scorpius commented, clapping James on the back. “At least now you weren’t wrong about why we hid the wands.”

James could not bring himself to respond. He was so numb with rage and frustration that he couldn’t imagine ever feeling cheerful again. Silently, he began to follow the crowd as it drifted toward the castle, snatches of angry comments carrying back to him on the cooling wind.

22. AN IMPOSSIBLE BARGAIN