James Potter and the Crimson Thread Page 3

  James had grown both bolder and slightly more jaded over the past two years. He did not rise to her bait. “No one would believe it,” he sighed, glancing at the door behind Skeeter. “And it’s not my story to tell.”

  “Are you still friends with her, James? Are you in contact with Petra Morganstern?”

  James was not surprised by the question. He’d even prepared himself for its eventuality. He shook his head. “No. How could I be?

  She’s been in hiding for years now. She may not even be alive anymore, for all we know.”

  Without thinking about it, he closed his right hand into a loose fist, enclosing the thread of coldness he sometimes still felt there.

  The Quill scribbled on, capturing his words.

  “Now James,” Skeeter chided mildly. “You know as well as I that Ms. Morganstern is still alive. Reports of her sightings, along with her Muggle sister Isabella, show up regularly in the press. Surely your father, and therefore you, hear about even more sightings than the rest of us. And yet she somehow continues to elude capture. Just last month, in fact, there were reports that she had appeared in the International Armory of Forbidden Books and Artifacts. What do you believe she was looking for?

  James didn’t have to lie this time. He shook his head. “I don’t have any idea. I wish I knew.”

  “Many believe she is up to something far worse than the Morrigan Web. You and your family hosted her and considered her a friend. Do you have any insight into what her plan might be?”

  James sighed deeply. He wanted to say that Petra wasn’t the real enemy, that it was all a diversion created by a terrible watery demoness, an agent of chaos summoned by a broken magical bargain. He wanted to say that Petra had cracked the Vow of Secrecy in order to save his father and prevent further bloodshed. More than anything, he wanted to say that Petra was beautiful and innocent and the very reason that the Morrigan Web had been defeated. But the last few years had shown him that it would do no good. There was an inertia to these things. The world had decided that Petra was the focus of all villainy—the “She-Voldemort”, as some had begun to call her—and James now knew that there was no way to reverse such a tide without getting buried and drowned beneath it.

  And after all, in a sense, public opinion was correct about Petra, albeit in a way that very few could guess: she did carry the last shred of Voldemort inside her. She was the Bloodline, cursed to bear the last flicker of the villain’s soul inside her own, even if she had tamed it and forced it into submission, as she claimed, and James fervently believed.

  “I thought this interview was going to be about how young people like me were adjusting to some new perilous world?” He asked, looking up into Skeeter’s eyes where she still sat on the edge of the desk.

  He expected her to be perturbed but she gave no sign to that effect. Her smile, in fact, perked a little wider. Behind her, the Quill scratched and wrote.

  “Tell our readers about Headmaster Merlinus Ambrosius,”

  Skeeter said smoothly. “There is great curiosity about him. A figure of lore and legend, he is. Would you say that he lives up to the mythology?”

  James nodded, feeling that he was on slightly firmer ground discussing the headmaster, who was more than capable of handling himself, regardless of what the press said about him. “He does. He can be a bit scary sometimes, but never in a bad way. He always comes down on the right side, and he knows how to keep order, that’s for sure.

  And he does it without just piling on reams of rules.”

  “You Potters never did much care for rules,” Skeeter smiled.

  “Isn’t that right, James?”

  James shrugged, feeling slightly bold. “Like the rules about registering as an Animagus?”

  Skeeter’s smile snapped shut like a jewelry box. She glared at him, her green eyes nearly sparking. Of course, she was registered nowadays. But if it hadn’t been for James’ Aunt Hermione, Skeeter would likely still be secretly using her abilities to illicitly eavesdrop and report on delicate conversations. She glanced back at her Quill and notebook, then briskly produced her wand and tapped the Quill. It stopped, backed up, and scribbled out a long line. Then, with a practiced force of will, she turned back and smoothed her features. She seemed content to change the subject.

  “As we said earlier, James, we live in a world where the Vow of Secrecy crumbles more every day. You were there two years ago when Hogwarts hosted its first Muggle exchange students, the very spearhead of the Ministry’s plan to soften the blow to Muggle society, should the veil between our worlds finally fall. While that program was not considered a smashing success, more such programs are attempted elsewhere each day. Do you and your friends support such measures?”

  James began to grasp Skeeter’s real reason for the interview. She had an agenda in mind, as she always did, and she meant to either pressure him into agreeing with it, or outing himself as its small-minded detractor.

  “You said it yourself,” he said, glancing at the window to hide the mixture of unease and growing anger on his face. “The Hogwarts Muggle exchange wasn’t tried again after the whole disaster in the Great Hall when everyone, students and world leaders alike, were almost killed by the Morrigan Web. That doesn’t give me a load of faith in any other programs like it. But if you want to know what my ‘friends’ think, there are loads of them right here on the train. Feel free to ask.”

  “I may do that,” Skeeter replied smoothly. “But even without deliberate programs to manage the revelation, many wizarding spaces are less secure than ever, despite the Ministry’s efforts to shore them up.

  Muggles stumble into formerly unplottable and hidden wizarding spaces with increasing frequency, requiring the response of ever-more-harried squads of Obliviators. Elsewhere, there is serious concern that the confines around sanctuaries for magical beasts have weakened and frayed. There is legitimate fear that someday the residents of London may awaken to an Acromantula terrorizing their streets or a sea serpent prowling the Thames. The Centaurs, it is rumoured, have sensed the degenerating boundaries of their forests and plan a deliberate incursion into the Muggle world, whether to serve as ambassadors or claim dominion no one knows for sure. And yet, many young witches or wizards like yourself consider all of this a good thing, a sign of progress.

  Where others see a loss of political power and potential chaos, they see open doors for cultural exchange, careers, and commerce in a newly integrated world. Do you agree with them, James?”

  James drew a sharp breath to respond, not sure exactly what he was about to say except that it would be terse and angry and probably exactly the sort of emotional outburst Skeeter was hoping for, when a shape arose beyond the window of the door behind the blonde woman, momentarily distracting him. James recognized the small figure as it ascended slowly into view, hand-made and ridiculous by design, its cloth head flopping like a doll’s and its stubby arms waving clumsily in the shifting sunlight.

  It was a hand puppet. The Hufflepuffs had been making them ever since James’ first year, putting on silly shows with them, sometimes in the great hall at official functions, more often spontaneously from behind tables in the library or the backs of sofas in common study areas.

  The Hufflepuppet Pals, as they called their little troupe, had developed quite a popular following, even among some of the staff and teachers.

  The puppet beyond the glass of the door was the Voldemort figure, with stitched orange and red eyes, a rather pointed, bald head, and a small, ridiculous smile. It flopped back and forth as if it was dancing to its own secret song, a stick of a wand glued to one limp hand.

  “James?” Skeeter prompted quizzically. She read the direction of his gaze, and then glanced back over her shoulder.

  The Voldemort puppet (commonly known as Voldy to the other Hufflepuppet Pals) dipped quickly from view before Skeeter could see it.

  She frowned at the empty glass, and then turned back to James.

  “I, uh…” James stammered slightly, tryi
ng to recollect his thoughts. “I don’t expect the threats are quite as bad as the newspapers make them out to be. We’re a long way off from seeing any dragons breaking free into the Muggle world. Although I suppose it would make a pretty good news story, wouldn’t it?”

  Skeeter tried to hide her disappointment. “No one wants chaos and mayhem just for the sake of ‘a good news story’, James,” she clucked her tongue. “But even if the threats of incursions by magical beasts or centaurs are overblown, what do you think of the prospect of mingling the magical and Muggle worlds once and for all? Do you agree that it would be a good thing?”

  James let out a breath, his anger diminishing to a sort of bland impatience. “It wouldn’t be the first time our worlds had been mixed, would it? And if I know my history, there was a good reason why we decided to split them up.”

  Behind her spectacles, Skeeter’s eyes brightened. “Is that so, James? What have you been taught about that, then?”

  “I’ve been taught the same as everyone else,” James bristled. “A thousand years ago, the good witches and wizards realized that it was almost impossible to keep the bad witches and wizards from trying to take over the Muggle world by force. The temptation was just too great for the magical people who wanted nothing more than power. And even a lot of Muggle kings and emperors and villains were willing to hire magical mercenaries to bully their enemies, to make their armies invincible, to curse anyone who opposed them. The balance between the magical and Muggle worlds was too skewed to maintain. So we went into hiding, used our powers to live in secret among the Muggles, unseen by them. The laws of secrecy protected the Muggles from the worst of us, and from the worst of themselves, the ones who would throw the door open for power at any cost.”

  “You’ve learned all of this from Headmaster Merlin, I assume?”

  Skeeter asked, cocking her head slightly.

  “I learned it from my history books,” James said, raising his eyebrows challengingly. “From Professor Binns’ classes, ever since my first year. We all take those lessons. I assume you did, too, at some point.”

  Skeeter laughed lightly. “It’s been a long time since my schooling, I’m afraid,” she waved a hand dismissively. “And yet I do remember enough to know that Headmaster Merlin features prominently in many of those ancient stories you reference. A thousand years ago, he himself was the sort of mercenary wizard who hired himself out to Muggle kings, willing to curse whomever they wished, willing to feed their sometimes fanatical desire for power, no matter how it might poison their societies.”

  “Yeah,” James admitted, unfazed. He had had the exact same discussion with Rose on a few occasions. “But he’s different now.

  Everyone can see that. Otherwise he’d never have been given the job of headmaster of Hogwarts. He’s changed since the person he was back then.”

  Skeeter was nodding even as James finished his response. “So you believe that Merlinus Ambrosius can change over a span of a thousand years,” she suggested, bowing her head to look at him over her spectacles. “But humanity and wizardkind cannot?”

  James sat up in his seat, exasperated, opening his mouth to say that it was one thing for a single person to change and quite another for the entirety of human nature, when the Voldy puppet arose slowly into view again just past Skeeter’s shoulder, again knocking all the words right out of James’ head.

  The Voldy puppet wasn’t alone this time. Next to it appeared the old headmaster puppet, Dumbledore, complete with tiny spectacles, a snowy white beard and pointed purple hat. On Voldy’s other side, another puppet leapt into view, this one with lank black hair and bored hand-drawn eyes: the Severus Snape figure (inexplicably known to the others as “Snape-a-doodle”). Both the Dumbledore and Snape figures clutched blunt miniature clubs between their stubby arms. They began to pummel the Voldy figure with classic Punch and Judy vigour.

  James tried desperately not to smile, which of course only made the inexplicable puppet antics immeasurably funnier. A laugh boiled up in his chest, even as he struggled to hold it in, compressing his lips into a grim, trembling line.

  Skeeter glared at James, her curiosity turning to suspicion, and then whirled around again.

  The Hufflepuppet Pals dropped instantly from view.

  “Something interesting in the corridor, James?” Skeeter asked, still looking back over her shoulder.

  “No, ma’am,” James answered perhaps a bit too quickly, unable to completely hide the laughter in his voice.

  She slid an eye slowly back at him, her head still turned toward the door. Impatient now, she slipped off her perch and stalked to the compartment door, shuttling it noisily open. She glanced along the corridor in one direction, and then the other. James watched, waiting for her to capture whoever it was that was putting on the private performance. Instead, she merely glanced back at him from the doorway, her eyes narrowed, as if she expected him of goading her somehow. Clearly, whoever James’ secret entertainers were, they were no longer present in the carriage. Again, Skeeter composed her features, closed the door much more gently than she’d opened it, and returned to the table, now merely leaning on it.

  “A lot of wizarding families,” she said, ignoring the interruption, “struggle with accepting the idea that their children might choose to pursue vocations in the Muggle world. One doesn’t need to be of strictly pureblood heritage to see that many would view this as a step down, a denial of one’s magical traditions. Do you agree with those of your generation who believe that such attitudes are outdated and prejudiced? An outmoded view based on obsolete stereotypes?”

  “Look, if you just want me to repeat a bunch of handbill slogans and Progressive Element posters, I can find one and just read it to you,”

  James said, his annoyance finally overriding his sense of propriety.

  “There are usually three or four of them on the notice boards, next to the Wanted Witch posters for Petra Morganstern. You don’t need to talk to me to find the stuff you want to hear.”

  Skeeter’s expression of smug victory was just barely hidden beneath a mask of wounded shock. “Why James, I’ve no idea what you are getting at. I’m merely asking you to respond to the concerns of the day, the concerns that you and your classmates are most affected by—”

  “The concerns you most want to pump up to make people as angry and afraid as possible,” James interrupted, rolling his eyes. “Sure.

  Fine. So maybe a bunch of centaurs and giants and beasts will break out of their weakened boundaries and run through the Muggle streets.

  Maybe the old wizarding families are chock full of stuffy, backwards elitists who think the Muggles are all lower class rabble unworthy of their marvelous magical kids. And maybe none of it matters because Undesirable Number One, Petra Morgantstern, will soon wipe us all out with some all new… doomsday… thingie…” He threw his hands up, growing flustered, but not losing his head of steam. “What are you doing about any of it? Getting people all in a lather? Selling fear and worry and suspicion like candy? Even if all that stuff is true, all you’re doing is making it worse. People like my dad and Merlin and Denniston Dolohov are working to make it better. But you’re just adding to the problems. You’re piling rubbish on the people trying to make a difference. And you,” he shook his head, suddenly realizing that he’d said far more than intended, not quite wishing he hadn’t, but knowing he probably soon would. He drew a deep breath and blew it out, deflating slightly. “You have the gall to stand there and look all superior about it.”

  Behind Skeeter, the Snape, Dumbledore, and Voldy Hufflepuppets applauded, flailing their limp hands wildly but silently, seeming to leap up and down behind the glass window. James saw them and felt his cheeks redden in mingled anger and embarrassment. He’d had an audience for his final outburst. This reminded him, of course, that soon enough that audience would encompass most of the magical world.

  “Thank you, James,” Skeeter smiled indulgently at him as the Quick-Quotes Quill finally finished record
ing his diatribe on the notebook behind her. “I think we’re done here. Good day.”

  When James exited the compartment feeling prickly and disgruntled and yet somehow perversely satisfied, leaving Skeeter to pack up her Quill and notebook, he was bemused to see no sign of the Hufflepuppet Pals or their puppeteers. There was, however, a folded note lying on the floor of the corridor, flashing in the flickering sunbeams as the train passed through dense forest. His name was printed on the front in small, flowing script. He stooped to grab it, thankful that Skeeter hadn’t decided to accompany him back to his compartment, although even he knew how unlikely that was.

  As he walked, nearly fleeing the staff carriage en route to his own, he unfolded the parchment and read the short note.

  Good on you, James! You put that obnoxious twit in her place. Thank us later for the well-timed distractions.

  Your friend,

  Millie and the HufflePuppet Pals

  James frowned at the note, blinking. He knew who Millie was.

  Millicent Vandergriff was a Hufflepuff seventh-year with whom he’d had a few passing interactions over the last few years. Blonde and willowy with a surprisingly silly, quick wit, she had dated Graham Warton briefly late last term, breaking up with him after only a few weeks and leaving him in a morosely dejected mood for days. James knew almost nothing more about her.

  Shrugging, curious about Millie but dreading the article that would likely appear in the next few days in the Daily Prophet, James refolded the note and stuffed it into his robe pocket.

  Considering how everything could have gone if puppet Voldy and Dumbledore and Snape-a-doodle hadn’t shown up when they did, he decided that he did probably owe Millie and her friends his thanks the next time he saw them.

  When James returned to his compartment, Albus and Ralph were tensely focused over Ralph’s traveling chess set, upon which Albus’ few remaining red pieces were dejectedly mounting a hopeless but stubborn defense against Ralph’s ivory army. Lily had left to find her friends elsewhere on the train, and Rose was buried in a thick new book.