There was another moment of charged silence, precipitated by the mention of the Dark Lord, then another burst of applause, equal in volume to the previous, but scattered with exuberant whoops and whistles.
“A short but pithy opening statement by Miss Morganstern,” the announcer’s voice said. James saw the man in the purple bowler and read his words as they flowed from his wand to the broadcasting funnel. “Apparently crafted on the spot as a response to Miss Corsica’s threefold outline. This promises to be a direct and spirited dialogue, ladies and gentlemen.”
For the next forty minutes, members of each team took to the podiums, offering argument and counterargument, all timed and officiated by Professor Franklyn. The audience had been instructed to refrain from applause, but this had proven impossible to prevent. Once one round of applause had been sounded for a team’s argument, it seemed incumbent upon supporters of the opposing viewpoint to cheer their own side as well. Night descended on the Amphitheater, ominously dark, with only a thin sickle moon low on the horizon. Enchanted lanterns floated over the stairs and archways, leaving the seating areas in shadow. The stage glowed in the center, lit like noonday in the glow of Professor Flitwick’s gently floating phosphorous globes. Zane faced off against Heather Flack, debating the assertion that recorded histories were always manufactured by the victors.
“I’m from the United States, you know,” Zane said, addressing Heather Flack across the stage. “If your statement is true, it’s a remarkable thing that I’ve ever learned anything about my country’s occasionally terrible past, from our treatment of Native Americans, to the Salem witch-hunts, to the one-time institution of slavery. If the victors fabricate our histories, how is it that I know that even Thomas Jefferson once owned slaves?”
Benjamin Franklyn winced at that, then nodded slowly, approvingly. The supporters of Team A applauded uproariously.
Finally, with no clear outcome, the captains of both teams approached the podiums for final arguments. Tabitha Corsica still had first option.
“I appreciate,” she began, glancing at Petra, “that my opponent in this debate has made it a point to restrict discussion to this one central tenet: that the recent history of the wizarding world has been enhanced and stylized to instill terror of some fabled, monstrous enemy. To be specific, they have continuously raised the image of ‘the Dark Lord’, as they prefer to call him. If Miss Morganstern wishes to evade the other valid facets of tonight’s discussion, I will concur. If, that is, she is willing to debate the details of the one figure around whom all the other details revolve. Let us discuss the treatment of Lord Tom Riddle.”
A distinct gasp of surprise and awe washed over the crowd at the mention of Voldemort’s name. Even for Tabitha Corsica, James thought, bringing up Tom Riddle seemed like a terrible risk, even if he was, in fact, the heart of the issue. James sat forward in his seat, his heart pounding.
“‘The Dark Lord’, as the Auror Department likes to call Tom Riddle,” Tabitha said into the hushed darkness, “was indeed a powerful wizard, and perhaps even a misguided one. Overzealous, he may have been. But what, really, do we know for sure about his plans and his methods? Miss Morganstern will simply tell you he was evil. He was a ‘dark’ wizard, she will say, intent only on power and death. But really, do such people even exist? In comic books, perhaps. And in the minds of those who breed fear. But is anyone, in reality, utterly and irredeemably evil? No, I suggest that perhaps Tom Riddle was a misguided but wellmeaning wizard whose desire for Muggle-wizard equality was simply too radical a notion for the magical ruling class to allow. The powers-that-be put together a very careful campaign of half-truths and outright lies, all designed to discredit Riddle’s ideas and demonize his followers, whom the Ministry-controlled media dubbed ‘Death Eaters’. Despite this, Riddle’s reformers were eventually able to win enough confidence to assume control of the Ministry of Magic for a short time. Only after a vicious and bloody coup were the old powers able to defeat Riddle and his reformers, killing Tom Riddle in the process and defaming what he stood for as mercilessly as they could.”
As Tabitha spoke, a grumbling spread around the assembled crowd. The grumbling grew into isolated shouts of outrage, then calls of “Let her speak!” Finally, just as she finished, the crowd erupted into an agitated frenzy that James found frightening. He glanced around. Many students had stood and were shouting through cupped hands. Several had climbed onto their seats, stomping or shaking fists. James couldn’t tell who, among the crowd, was shouting for or against Tabitha.
At the height of the disturbance, James had a vague sense of Ted Lupin and Noah Metzker huddling around something. Suddenly, there was a burst of blinding light between them, throwing them into stark silhouette. The light shot upwards, filling the Amphitheater with its glow. At about a hundred feet, the ball of light exploded into a million tiny lights. The crowd hushed, bewildered, every eye tilted up. The tiny lights swam together, forming shapes. There was a collective gasp as the lights formed the huge shape of the legendary Dark Mark: a skull with a snake squirming out of the mouth. Then, almost instantly, the shape was overwhelmed by a stylized lightning bolt shape. The lightning bolt seemed to strike the skull, which bit the snake in half. The front half of the snake rolled over dead, its eyes turning to little crosses, and then the skull broke in half. The lightning bolt vanished as a sign popped up out of the broken skull:
You’ll laugh your skull off
at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes!
Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade Locations!
Custom Orders our Specialty!
There was a long, silent moment of complete bewilderment as everyone stared up at the glittering letters. Then the letters broke apart and fell, showering prettily into the Amphitheater. There was a titter of laughter somewhere.
“Well,” Professor Franklyn said, having stood and moved center stage, “that was, I must admit, a well-timed, if somewhat puzzling, diversion.” There was some scattered, embarrassed laughter. Slowly, people began to resume their seats. James turned toward Ted and Noah, who were squinting and looking dazed, blinded by the Weasley Brothers’ special-order fireworks.
“Bloody Weasleys made a public service announcement out of it,” Ted muttered.
Noah shrugged. “Guess that’s why it was free of charge.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Franklyn continued, “this is indeed a subject of much passion for many of us, but we must not allow ourselves to become carried away. Miss Corsica has made some assertions that are, to many of us, very difficult to hear. However, this is a debate, and where I come from, we do not,” he said with great emphasis, “squash debate simply because an argument makes us uncomfortable. I hope we can complete this discussion with dignity, otherwise, I am sure the Headmistress will agree with me that postponing final arguments will be the only recourse. Miss Morganstern, I believe you had the floor.”
Franklyn sat back down, and James sensed that he was far angrier than he was letting on. Petra stood behind her podium for several seconds, eyes down. Finally, she looked up, obviously shaken.
“I admit I don’t know quite where to begin in responding to Miss Corsica’s frankly incredible hypothesis. The Dark Lord was not merely evil because it was convenient for those in power to call him so. He used unspeakable methods to gain and maintain power. He was known for freely using, and for instructing his followers to use, all three Unforgivable Curses. Lord Voldemort was no more interested in Muggle equality than… than…” She stopped, fumbling. James pressed his lips together furiously. He felt for her. There were so many lies to address. Any that slipped past would be touted as truths she was reluctant to admit.
“Miss Morganstern,” Tabitha said, her voice beseeching, “do you have any basis for these claims, or are you simply repeating the things you’ve been told?”
Petra looked over at Tabitha, her face pale and furious. “Only the totality of recorded history, and the living memories of those who experienced it firsthand,” she spat. “It
is incumbent on you, I suggest, to provide proof for your claims that Lord Voldemort was anything other than what all of accepted record tells us he was.”
“Since you mention that,” Tabitha said smoothly, “I believe that there are individuals here this evening who were firsthand witnesses to the Battle of Hogwarts. We could settle accounts right now, if we desired, by interviewing them in person. This is not a courtroom, though, so I will merely ask the following: Can anyone in attendance, anyone who was there at the Battle, deny that Lord Tom Riddle himself stated for all to hear that he deplored the loss of any blood in battle? Can anyone deny that he pleaded with his enemies to meet with their leader personally, so that violence could be avoided?”
Tabitha peered out over the audience. There was perfect silence but for the distant drone of the crickets and the creak of wind in the trees of the Forbidden Forest.
“No, none deny it because it is the truth,” she said, almost kindly. “Many died, of course. But it is a matter of fact that many more died than Lord Tom Riddle desired. All because those who opposed him could not bear for him to be known as anything other than a murderous madman.”
Petra had regained her composure. She spoke now, clearly and strongly. “And is it the act of a peace-loving reformer to seek out and personally murder the family of an infant, then attempt to murder the infant as well?”
“You speak of Harry Potter, then?” Tabitha said, not missing a beat. “The man who, ironically, happens to be the Head of the Auror Department?”
“You deny it is true, then?” “I deny nothing. I simply question and challenge. I suggest only that the truth is a far more complex thing than we have been allowed to believe. I submit that allegations of cold-blooded murder and attacks on children, all of which are rather conveniently unprovable, factor very well into the doctrine of fear that has ruled us these past twenty years.”
“How dare you?” James heard his own voice before he realized he’d meant to speak. He was standing, pointing at Tabitha Corsica, trembling with rage. “How dare you call my dad a liar? That monster killed his parents! My grandparents are dead because of him, and you stand there and tell us that it’s some sort of made-up story! How dare you?” His voice cracked.
“I’m sorry,” Tabitha said, and her face was, indeed, a portrait of compassion. “I know you believe that is true, James.”
Professor Franklyn had stood and was moving forward, but James shouted again before Franklyn could speak.
“My dad killed your great hero!” he called, his eyes blurring with tears of rage. “That monster tried to kill my dad twice, the second time because my dad gave himself to him. Your great savior was a monster, and my dad finally defeated him!”
“Your father,” Tabitha said, her voice rising and becoming stern, “was a half-rate wizard with a good PR department. If it wasn’t for the fact that he’d been surrounded by greater wizards than himself at every turn, we wouldn’t even know his name today.”
At that, the crowd exploded again, angry outbursts and shouts filling the space like a cauldron. There was a clatter onstage. James looked and saw that Ralph, who’d never even spoken, had jumped up, knocking over his chair. Tabitha turned and looked at him, and he met her eyes for a second. Sit down, she mouthed at him, her eyes livid. Ralph returned her glare, then turned resolutely and left the stage. James saw it, and even in the midst of his anguish and fear at the nearly rioting crowd, his heart rejoiced.
There was no point in continuing the debate any further. Headmistress McGonagall joined Professor Franklyn on the stage and both shot red flares from their wands, restoring order to the Amphitheater. With no preamble, the Headmistress instructed all the students to return immediately to their common rooms. Her face was stern and very pale. As the crowd muttered and grumbled, funneling through the arched entryway back into the castle proper, James saw Ralph working toward him through the crowd. He moved aside until the larger boy caught up.
“I can’t do it anymore,” Ralph said to James, his voice low and his eyes downcast. “I’m sorry she said those terrible, stupid things. You can keep hating me if you want, but I just can’t keep up with all this Progressive Element rubbish. I don’t know anything about it, really, except that it’s just too much work to be so… so political.”
James couldn’t help grinning. “Ralph, you’re a brick. I don’t hate you. I should apologize to you.” “Well, let’s apologize later, OK?” Ralph said, working his way toward the archway with James following in his wake. “Right now, I just want to get out of here. Tabitha Corsica has been staring holes into me ever since I left the stage. Besides, Zane says that Ted’s invited us to hang out in your common room. He wants to gloat over having won over a member of Team B.”
“That won’t bother you?” James asked. “Nah,” Ralph replied, shrugging, “it’s worth it. Gryffindors have better snacks.”
10. Holiday at Grimmauld Place
The next Monday, James, Zane, and Ralph stood outside the door of Headmistress McGonagall’s Advanced Transfiguration class until the last of her students left and she was gathering her things.
“Come in, come in,” she called to the three boys without looking up. “Stop lurking outside the door like vultures. How may I help you?”
“Madam Headmistress,” James began tentatively, “we want to talk to you about the debate.”
“Do you, now?” she asked, glancing up at James for a moment, then shouldering her bag. “Why, I cannot begin to imagine. The sooner we can all forget that fiasco, the better.”
The boys scrambled to follow the Headmistress as she strode toward the door. “But nobody is forgetting it, Madam,” James said quickly. “It was all anybody talked about the whole weekend. People are getting really stirred up about it. There was almost a fight out in the courtyard yesterday, when Mustrum Jewel heard Reavis McMillan call Tabitha Corsica a lying twit. If Professor Longbottom hadn’t been nearby, Mustrum probably would’ve killed Reavis.”
“This is a school, Mr. Potter, and a school is, in its simplest form, a place where young people gather. Young people are occasionally prone to have spats. This is why, among other reasons, Hogwarts employs Mr. Filch.”
“It wasn’t a spat, Madam,” Ralph said, following the Headmistress out into the corridor. “They were really mad. Daft mad, if you know what I mean. People are coming unglued about this whole business.”
“Then, like Mr. Potter says, it is fortunate Professor Longbottom was nearby. I fail to see, precisely, why this is your problem.”
Zane trotted to keep up with the Headmistress’ stride. “Well, the thing is, ma’am, we’re just wondering why you’re letting it all go on? I mean, you were there when the Battle took place. You know what this Voldemort guy was like. You could just tell everyone how it was and put Tabitha in her place, neat as you please.”
McGonagall stopped suddenly, leaving the boys to scramble to a halt near her. “What, may I ask, would you three wish me to do?” she said, dropping her voice and looking at each one intently. “The truth about the Dark Lord and his followers has been common knowledge for thirty years, ever since he murdered your grandparents, Mr. Potter. Do you suppose that my repeating it one more time will dispel all the revisionist rabble-rousing that has been going on, not only at this school, but throughout the wizarding world? Hmm?” Her eyes were like diamond chips as she glared at them. James realized that she was, if anything, even more agitated about the debate than they were. “And suppose I summon Miss Corsica to my office and forbid her from disseminating these lies and distortions. Do you expect that this ‘Progressive Element’ of theirs will simply give up? How long do you suppose it would be before we’d be reading an article in the Daily Prophet about how the administration of Hogwarts is working with the Auror Department to stifle the ‘free exchange of ideas on school grounds’?”
James was stunned. He had assumed that the Headmistress was indulging Tabitha Corsica for some reason, allowing, for a time, her charade to continue. It simply
hadn’t occurred to him that McGonagall might not, in fact, be capable of addressing the matter without making it worse.
“So what do we do, ma’am?” James asked.
“We?” McGonagall said, raising her eyebrows. “My dear James, I admit that you amaze and impress me. Despite what you may believe, the future of the wizarding world does not, in fact, rest upon you and your two friends’ shoulders.” She saw the annoyed grimace on his face, and then she showed him one of her rare smiles. She bent a bit to speak more conspiratorially, addressing all three boys. “The revived memory of the Dark Lord is not an overlarge concern to those of us who once faced the living thing. This is a whim in the mind of a fickle populace, and irritating as it may be, it will pass. In the meantime, what you three can do is attend your classes, do your homework, and continue to be the sharp-witted and strong-hearted boys you obviously are. And if anyone around you tries to say Tom Riddle was a better man than Harry Potter, you have my permission--my instruction, even--to transfigure their pumpkin juice into nurgle water.” She eyed the three boys seriously, one by one. “Just tell them I prescribed you to practice that particular spell. Understood?”
Zane and Ralph grinned at each other. James sighed. McGonagall nodded curtly, straightened herself, and continued briskly on her way. After five steps, she turned back.
“Oh, and boys?”