James Potter and the Morrigan Web

  James Potter and the

  Morrigan Web

  G. Norman Lippert

  BASED UPON THE CHARACTERS & WORLDS OF J.K. ROWLING

  CONTENTS

  TITLE

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  1. THE FOUR CABINETS

  2. BROTHERHOOD & TOLERANCE

  3. A FAMILIAR FACE

  4. THE COLLECTOR

  5. SUSPICIONS & SECRETS

  6. THE NIGHT LEAGUE

  7. ECHOES OF UMBRIDGE

  8. THWARTING GRUDJE

  9. THE MIDNIGHT ASSEMBLY

  10. A CLANDESTINE CHRISTMAS

  11. QUINN'S STORY

  12. MYSTERY AT THE WHITE TOMB

  13. DEAD WARLOCK'S CLUE

  14. AVIOR'S INNER SANCTUM

  15. ORIGINS UNVEILED

  16. THE WOES OF FILCH

  17. LAIR OF THE GOWROW

  18. THE MORRIGAN WEB

  19. HAGRID'S DETENTION

  20. TYRANNY OF FINAL DAYS

  21. THE THIRD MARKER

  22. AN IMPOSSIBLE BARGAIN

  23. COLLECTIVE CONSTANT

  24. THE MOST VEXING QUESTION

  25. THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY

  PROLOGUE

  A long, low boat pushed through the fog, accompanied only by the sloshing thump of the waves against its prow. No gulls followed the ship, or screeched their calls from the hidden shores. No sun shone through the caul of mist. Chilly silence lay over the leaden sea like a blanket.

  Four figures stood on the foredeck of the ship, all wearing dark cloaks and hoods. The wind switched restlessly, tugging at the fabric. One of the figures, somewhat shorter and slighter than the rest, clapped a hand to his head to hold the hood up. The drab light revealed his face, young and tense, his dark hair matted down by the heavy cowl.

  "How long does it take to get there?" he asked, keeping his voice unconsciously hushed.

  "It changes depending on the tide," the man next to him answered. "Just keep your cloak tight about you, James, and remember what I told you back at the pier."

  The young man, James, nodded, recalling his father's instructions. He didn't understand how it all worked, except that the cloaks were enchanted somehow. They shielded their wearers from the mysterious magic of the ship, which was powerful indeed. It was the only craft able to ply this uncharted region of the North Sea, for it was a ghost ship, cursed to repeat the same route endlessly, empty of occupants unless they wore the magical cloaks. If even one of the cloaks was removed from its wearer, the ship would sink like a stone, washing all of its occupants into the fathomless depths of the lake.

  James glanced back over the length of the boat. The wheelhouse was a small cabin amidships, elevated slightly against the fog. Its lamps were dark and broken. Inside, the ship's wheel turned ponderously, loosely, operated by no one. The deck creaked ominously as it rolled on the waves. James shuddered and turned back forward again, anxious for the passage—for the entire trip—to be over as soon as possible.

  The largest of the robed figures stirred and lifted his bearded chin. "There," he said in a gruff voice.

  James squinted ahead of the boat. A huge, blocky shape had begun to heave slowly out of the fog. It resolved into the silhouette of an enormous tower, flat-topped and almost entirely featureless. Its base descended into rocky cliffs and caves, plunging down into crashing waves. It was Azkaban, the most secure prison in the entire magical world. James knew the legends of the place. Some proclaimed that the prison's stony foundation was not an island at all, but a magically free floating mountain top, ripped from the shoulders of the Himalayas. Other legends told that the prison was not in the North Sea at all. They claimed that the Sea's mysterious fog hid a portal to an unplottable abyssal loch, bottomless and lost in time, whose depths were prowled by horrid leviathans from a forgotten age. There was even talk that the behemoths had magical gazes that could hypnotize people into jumping right into their gaping maws. James didn't quite believe the legends about the monstrous sea creatures, but he did avoid staring into the watery depths, just to be sure.

  As the ghost ship neared the prison, a low sound echoed out over the waves: a dull rumble, like water in the depths of a stone throat. Beneath this sound, however, was something even worse—a sort of warbling, keening wail, rising and falling on the wind.

  "All is well," the bearded man said, nodding toward a flickering green glow that suffused the fog at the tower's peak. "Relatively, speaking."

  "I know what you mean, Titus," James' father agreed. Harry Potter lifted his face to the tower, letting the pale green light shine dimly on his face. His distinctive scar was barely visible beneath the sheaf of his still-unruly hair. "I'm always secretly surprised to see the brazier's green flames. I've never seen the beacon torch glow red for danger, but I can imagine it all too well every time I take this boat trip. This place may be necessary, but it certainly isn't pleasant."

  "What is that horrible noise?" the fourth man asked. He had an American accent, and it had become even more noticeable as his nervousness increased. James glanced up at him and saw the man's narrow prow of a nose flared in distaste. He held a wide-brimmed black hat under one arm and had a long black broom clutched beneath the other.

  "The noise?" Harry answered, as if he himself hadn't noticed it. "Oh, that's just the sea washing through the caves. When the tide comes out, it creates quite a thunder. I hope it doesn't bother you too much, Mr. Quizling."

  The American narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together. He didn't answer Harry's question, but neither did he ask any more of his own. James was glad. He knew that the noises were not entirely due to the water in the caves. This was Azkaban, after all. Beneath the rumble and crash of the waves was the faint collective shriek of the Dementor pit, buried deep inside the prison's rocky base. The Dementors were creatures of shadow, parasites that fed on human misery. They had once been the jailers of Azkaban, but had been deemed untrustworthy when they had sided with the Dark Lord Voldemort during his final days. As a result, they had long ago been cast into the lightless depths of Azkaban's deepest pit, imprisoned forever and raving mad with hunger. Their keening, tortured wails sent a chill down James' spine.

  "I don't understand why we couldn't just Apparate directly to the prison," Quizling said a little too loudly. "This seems ridiculously inefficient. As you may imagine, this is not at all how we do things in the States."

  "We cannot Apparate to the prison," Titus Hardcastle answered with stony patience, "for the same reason that its prisoners cannot Apparate out of it. What you call inefficient, Mr. Quizling, we call secure."

  "It's the fog, sir," Harry added. "It is not a naturally occurring phenomenon, as you can imagine. It is of ancient magical origin, infused with all manner of hexes and jinxes. Any normal ship that attempted to navigate through it would find its compass useless and its rudder guiding itself. Any witch or wizard who attempted to Disapparate through the fog would find themselves reappearing right back where they started, or worse, in the depths of the lake itself. These may seem antiquated measures by your standards, Mr. Quizling, but they work very well. Escape from Azkaban is virtually unheard of."

  "But not impossible," Quizling added, raising an eyebrow. "By contrast, there are magical prisons in America that have never been broken out of at all. And this without bottomless abyssal lochs, ghost ships and cursed fogs."

  Hardcastle squared his shoulders meaningfully. "See if you can say the same after fourteen hundred years," he growled.

  "We are nearly there," Harry said.

  A pall of cool air emanated from the huge tower as the boat hove toward its base, approaching a yawning black cave. The thunder of the wav
es became a subdued thrum as the boat entered the calmer waters of the cavern. Lanterns glowed on ancient iron buoys, nodding slightly as the ghost ship passed. After a minute, a stone pier came into view, lit by a single torch. As James peered at it, he saw that the torch was held aloft in the hand of a very thin wizard in heavy black robes. A badge glinted from a belt that crossed his chest and he seemed to be wearing a sort of metal helmet on his head.

  "Names," the wizard called out sternly, his voice echoing over the glassy water.

  "Potter, Harry, and Hardcastle, Titus, aurors," Harry called back immediately. "Potter, James, and Quizling, Monroe, witness and arbiter."

  The wizard on the pier did not respond, and James decided this was probably a good sign. The man was as skinny as a skeleton, but the fist that bore the upraised torch looked as large as a pineapple. Apart from a stern scowling chin, his face was shadowed beneath the helmet.

  The ghost ship drifted sideways as it approached the pier, docking silently without the aid of rope or anchor. Wordlessly, the four occupants began to climb out.

  Harry introduced the man on the pier. "This is Mr. Blunt, chief administrator of Azkaban."

  "Nice to meet you," James said hesitantly. Quizling stepped past him, pushing back the hood of his cloak and jamming his wide-brimmed hat back onto his head.

  "Mr. Blunt," he said stiffly, jutting out his hand like a blade. "Greetings from the wizarding court of the United States of America."

  Blunt's eyes lowered to Quizling's outstretched hand, which he ignored. His gaze climbed slowly upward again, stopping on the broom beneath the man's left arm.

  "I'm afraid you will need to check that and explain its presence, Mr. Quizling," Blunt said with cool courtesy. "All brooms, Portkeys, wands and any other magical paraphernalia must be declared at the perimeter. No brooms allowed within the tower proper, sir. I am sure I need not explain why."

  Quizling lowered his hand and glanced aside at Harry, his face etched with annoyance. Seeing no help there, he looked back at Blunt and smiled frostily. "Fine. Of course. I am in rather a hurry, Mr. Blunt, thus I will be returning directly to my embassy once we are finished here. I trust it is safe to fly a broom through your fog, sir?"

  Blunt shrugged noncommittally. "'Safe' isn't a term I'd use exactly, but yes, it is possible to navigate a broom through the fog. If you will just allow me, sir…"

  Blunt held out his left arm while still holding the torch aloft in his right. Quizling sighed impatiently and handed over his broom. Blunt held the broom at arm's length, studying it critically, and finally nodded to himself. He turned toward the edge of the pier, hefted the broom over his shoulder like a spear, and deftly threw it out over the water.

  "Hey!" Quizling shouted, waking echoes in the low cavern.

  James listened for the splash of the broom in the dark water, but no sound came. Blunt smiled tightly to himself.

  Harry said, "It's all right, Mr. Quizling. Your broom is quite safely stowed until our return." Turning to Blunt, he added, "Mr. Hardcastle and I vouch for our companions. None of us carries any other magic but our wands."

  Blunt nodded slowly. "This way then. Keep your wands away at all times and do watch your step."

  James walked between his father, in front, and Titus Hardcastle, behind. He could feel the cold darkness of the cavern pressing against him from all sides, and was quite glad when Blunt led the troop through a heavily locked door and into a more brightly lit curving stairway. Lanterns lined the way, glowing on the cracked stone walls. Even here, the lonely drip of water was a constant sound. The stairs were worn smooth and shiny with mist.

  As they ascended, James asked his father in a quiet voice, "So, like, is this the only way in here?"

  Harry glanced back and nodded. "The tower was designed with only one entrance. Its walls are thirty feet thick all the way around, without a single window."

  James gulped. A sense of creeping claustrophobia squeezed his shoulders and throat, but his dad smiled back at him.

  "Don't worry," he said. "This will be over before you know it, and we'll be back home in Marble Arch. I'm proud of you for coming along."

  James nodded unenthusiastically. A week ago, when he'd first been asked about coming to Azkaban to identify the villain his father had captured, it had seemed like a rather exciting adventure. Albus had been dead jealous about it, thus James had, of course, agreed instantly. Now, climbing the narrow stairs into the throat of Azkaban itself, he would have gladly traded places with his brother.

  He shivered to himself. "I just wish Zane and Ralph could have come along," he muttered, hoping only his father would hear. "They were there too, you know, on the night of the Unveiling, back in New Amsterdam. They saw just as much as me."

  "Sorry James," Harry answered quietly. "They're still back in the States. It was hard enough for us to arrange for you to come along. If it was just the Ministry of Magic we were dealing with, things would be a bit easier."

  James knew what his father meant. The prisoner in question was an American, even though he'd been captured in London. By international law, a representative from the American wizarding court had to be present for any interrogation. Quizling, the American arbiter assigned to the prisoner's case, had been reluctant even to allow James to accompany them. Fortunately, the Department of Ambassadorial Relations had been pressed to file a formal request with the International Magical Police, claiming that James' recollections might provide essential insight into the prisoner's guilt or innocence. They had agreed to the interrogation, on the grounds that Arbiter Quizling be allowed to cut it short at any time that he felt that his "client" was being unfairly condemned outside of a court of law.

  The troop finally reached another door. It stood atop a short landing, framed on both sides by greenly glowing lanterns. The door was no less than twenty feet high and comprised entirely of black metal, studded with rivets. There was no handle or lock as far as James could see. Blunt approached the door with his torch still held aloft. It crackled faintly, casting his skeletal shadow far up the wall on his left.

  "Dad," James whispered, watching raptly. "How does it even open? I don't see any hinges or bolts or anythi—"

  The words froze in his throat as Blunt neared the forbidding door. He did not stop when he reached it, but continued forward, and James feared for a moment that the little man might bounce right off the cold iron. Instead, Blunt's torch flared bright green for a moment, bursting its light over the entire width and breadth of the door. In response, the studded iron rippled in the air, like something seen through a heat shimmer. As the torch's green flames unfurled into darkness, the great door broke apart into curtains of smoke, which quickly vanished, revealing a cavernous entryway, heavy with shadowy depths.

  "Intriguing," Quizling admitted, tilting his head. "So the iron door was just a mirage of some kind."

  "Not exactly," Harry said, following Blunt into the bowels of Azkaban proper. "The door is exactly as real as it looked. Mr. Blunt's magical torchlight is the real mirage. It creates the illusion that we can pass through the impregnable door. And thus, we can."

  Quizling frowned sceptically. James suspected that his father's answer was a much simplified version of the truth, but he didn't really care about the actual Technomancy behind it all. It's all quantum, as Zane surely would have said.

  The main hall of Azkaban was surprisingly large. Monstrous pillars leapt upwards, each as thick as redwood trunks. Crouched atop the pillars were ancient stone gargoyles, their downturned faces scowling and their shoulders supporting the buttresses of lofty vaulted ceilings. The walls were nearly featureless, comprised entirely of rough, cracked stone. Lanterns lit the hall far too insufficiently for James' taste, leaving enormous shadowy gaps in the echoing depths.

  "Why's there no hearth," he shuddered, hugging himself.

  "Because we are wizards," Hardcastle answered quietly. "For us, hearths are more than light and warmth, they are a means of transport. Catch my meaning?"

>   "Oh," James said, nodding his understanding. "Right. No hearth means no Floo Network. No easy way out."

  As Blunt led them toward a distant archway, James' eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. He noticed other people in the massive hall, most dressed similarly to Blunt, but there were far fewer than he would have expected.

  "Dad," he whispered, sidling up to his father. "Where's everybody at? I figured this place would be crawling with guards. For that matter, where's all the doors? This doesn't look like a prison at all."

  Harry glanced at his son, his eyes serious behind his glasses. "It's like I said, son. There's only one way in. One way in, and one way out."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Harry opened his mouth to answer, but at that moment Blunt turned left, into a low hall. Harry, James, Hardcastle and Quizling followed him, and then stopped abruptly as they met a blank stone wall. James blinked and shaded his eyes against the room's sudden illumination. Bright lanterns were embedded into the walls behind thick glass blocks, all glowing with nearly painful whiteness.

  Blunt approached the blank wall and produced his wand. He tapped the wall with it, and a series of intricate carvings began to unfurl onto the stone, emanating from the tip of Blunt's wand. The carvings, James noticed, formed the shape of a small door, surrounded by indecipherable symbols and shapes. With a scraping grate, the door swung open, revealing only a small, dark alcove. Deftly, Blunt lowered his torch toward the alcove. Its flame flickered and buffeted as if in the teeth of a sudden hard wind. Then, with a hollow fwump and a flash of green, the torchlight leapt from the end of Blunt's torch and into the alcove. There, the fire swirled and spun, forming a bright, flickering orb. Instantly, the stone door clapped shut over it.

  "The entrance flame must stay hidden for the duration of any interaction with the prisoner," Blunt said gravely, turning back toward the troop. "From the time we open the cell tower until the moment it is secured again, we are as much prisoners here as the inmates. Is that understood?"