"You're still here!" Rose exclaimed, flapping a hand at him. "Go! Go!"
James nodded resolutely. He drew a deep breath, turned toward the path that led back toward Hogsmeade, and began to run.
As James ran along the path back toward Hogsmeade, night settled firmly overhead, reducing the wood to a cathedral of pillar-like tree trunks stretching up into darkness. He did not light his wand for fear of being seen, but strained his eyes to follow the dim path. Wind still hustled busily all around, shifting directions capriciously and drying the sweat even it sprang to his forehead.
He tried not to think about everything that had just happened-- about how Professor Avior had appeared standing inside the tomb of Albus Dumbledore, staring out like a vengeful spectre, purposely allowing James (and Lucia) to see him. Why? What was to be gained by deliberately revealing himself? Was he taunting James somehow? Or inviting him into his secret?
Soon enough, the trees thinned and Hogsmeade lay ahead, a collection of steep roofs and crooked chimneys rising against a moonless sky. Windows glowed yellow, flickering with firelight, and James instinctively hung back from them, skulking from shadow to shadow along the narrow streets.
How would he send a message to his father? Surely the Three Broomsticks was still open. Madame Rosemerta happily provided parchment and post services in exchange for a few Knuts (with purchase of a drink, of course), but even she would be suspicious of a Hogwarts student showing up past dark, no matter how many Knuts he spent. The Post Office was a possibility, of course, assuming it was still open. Turning the corner onto the High Street, however, James' heart sank; the Post Office was dark, its doors shut tight for the night. As he stood staring helplessly at the street a gaggle of noisily cackling old witches bustled out of Madame Puddifoot's Tea Shop, drawing their shawls around their sloped shoulders and drifting in James' direction. He ducked into a narrow alley and pressed against the wall, waiting for them to pass. The witches were in no hurry, however, and seemed to stop every few feet to jostle each other amiably and cackle at some indecipherable private joke. Finally, the gathering passed onward, casting a many-headed, shambling shadow along the brick-lined alley floor. A few minutes later the cackling voices fell away to distant echoes.
James peered around the corner of the alley. Voices and music emanated from the entrance of the Three Broomsticks, but for the moment the High Street was empty. James hung back, filled with indecision. Where was he to go? He considered banging on the door of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, but knew it would be no use. The shop was closed and dark. Uncle George had surely Apparated home to Aunt Angelina by now, and Ted would be out and about, doing whatever young men did on a random spring night.
And then James' eyes alit on the two-story Newsstand leaning crookedly on the corner just past the Three Broomsticks. Perched atop it, a complicated silhouette against the night sky, was the giant news announcer's funnel and the miniature owlery. Even at a distance, James could see the subtle flutter of news owls in their wire-mesh cubicles. It was a long shot-- the owls were probably trained only for official news business-- but it was the only option available at the moment. As nimbly and quietly as he could, James darted out onto the street and angled toward the Newsstand.
A small brass chain and padlock had been closed over the Newsstand's wrought-iron stairway. James scurried beneath this and clanked up the narrow stairs to the wraparound balcony. Doors had been closed over the second-story shelves and pay counter. Slipping his wand from his pocket, James tapped the lock over the main counter, attempting an unlocking spell. The lock did not spring open when the spell struck it, but emitted a short, piercingly loud alarm whistle.
James threw himself to the floor of the balcony, hiding as well as he could in plain sight. Fortunately, the brief whistle had coincided with a sudden, raucous scuffle inside the Three Broomsticks. There was a flash of wand-fire in the pub's low windows, a cacophony of laughter and angry catcalls, and a pair of figures stumbled out of the front door, wands out, grappling into the street. James watched, his heart hammering in his throat. The pair of wizards grunted and cursed each other, both firing spells wildly as they wrestled. One red bolt struck the Newsstand's signboard, sending it spinning squeakily around its spindle. A moment later, both figures tripped over the curb, toppled onto each other in the gutter, and cried out in surprise and pain. And then, strangely, both of them began to wheeze with laughter. Clumsily, they assisted each other to their feet, their quarrel suddenly forgotten in a slur of apologies and drunken laughter. Hugging each other precariously, they shambled back into the pub, leaving James alone again with his pounding heart.
He scrambled back to his feet, pocketing his wand again. The Newsstand's locks were obviously protected with some sort of counter-jinx. If Rose was here she could probably get them open regardless. Without her, he had to find another route up to the Newsstand's third level.
For lack of any other idea, James hoisted himself up onto the protruding lip of the counter and began to climb. Fortunately, he was just thin enough and nimble enough to scrabble for a handhold and clamber up to the third floor walkway, resisting the instinct to look down at the hard cobbles below. The owls in the newsstand's tiny owlery fluttered their wings and raised the feathered hackles on their foreheads as James shimmied under the railing, panting with exertion and hunkering low beneath the giant broadcasting funnel. Glancing around, he saw the curved desk of the news announcer hulking in the shadow of a canvas awning. His head still spinning with the vertigo of his climb, James skulked toward the desk and began to search through its many drawers and cubbyholes. Soon enough he found a collection of tiny parchment scrolls made to fit the brass tubes on the legs of the news owls. Grabbing a quill, James thought hard for a moment, and then scribbled a note in shaking, cramped handwriting:
Dad: important news about the one that got away! Contact me as soon as possible. Same as last time. I'll be watching.
He thought for a moment, reading what he'd written. Surely his dad would know who he meant by "the one that got away", as that could only refer to the escaped prisoner, Worlick. And "same as last time" would mean another appointment via the Gryffindor hearth. As an afterthought, he quickly added:
P.S. Make it you this time! Uncles are great, but you need to hear this!
Unsure if he had made himself clear enough, but worried about trusting too much to a strange owl, James rolled up the tiny scroll and approached the nearest owl. It was a sleek brown owl, much smaller than Nobby, with a sternly pointed head and huge amber eyes. It regarded him with obvious disdain, not proffering its leg.
"This goes to Harry Potter," James said in a low voice, holding up the scroll. "And it's extremely urgent."
The owl merely glared at him.
"Look, I know this isn't your normal job, but you're an owl, right? This is what you do. Now stick out your leg and let me-- ow!"
James had been reaching for the scroll tube on the owl's leg but yanked his hand back as the owl nipped with its sharp little beak. A faint scratch welled beads of blood across James' knuckles.
"Look, you stupid, grotty sack of feathers…!" James hissed angrily, but deflated before the owl's implacable stare. It shuffled languidly on its perch, then, with obvious aloofness, swivelled its head entirely backwards, ignoring him.
James sucked the blood from the back of his hand, thinking hard. Finally, an idea occurred to him. "You know, there's a major story behind this message," he said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hush. "Murder and intrigue. That's headline material, that is."
The owl did not look back at James, but a distinct alertness crept into its posture. It shuffled on its perch and the hackles on its head ruffled.
"People should know what happened tonight. So far, it's a secret. But perhaps-- just perhaps-- if you were to deliver this message for me, I could include a special news bulletin just for you. You could take it directly to the Daily Prophet if you wish. A major story like that… well, it could mean great things to a ce
rtain news owl."
The owl swivelled its head back toward James and cocked a sceptical amber eye at him.
"Here," James hunkered over the news announcer's desk again and grabbed another scroll. "I'll write down the details. Major story of murder and mystery…" he scribbled quickly on the tiny parchment. "Who is the victim? Where was he killed? It's all right here, and you can be the first to report it. But!"
James produced his wand and showed it to the owl, whose interest was obviously piqued. Other owls craned in their mesh cubicles, leaning to listen and peer at the parchment. "But," James said again, gesturing with his wand, "only if you take the other note to Harry Potter first."
James rolled the new scroll inside the note to his father, and then tapped them both with his wand. "Hedwig Obscura," he said firmly. "That's a code charm. Makes both notes completely unreadable unless my dad, Harry Potter, performs the decoding charm. Take my note to him, and he'll decode both. Then, you can take your headline to the Daily Prophet. Do we have a deal?"
The owl continued to glare at James sceptically. Finally, it sidled close to him on its perch and stuck out its leg, proffering the tiny brass tube. James heaved a sigh of relief and slipped the scroll into the tube, doing it as quickly as he could in case the owl changed its mind and attempted to scratch him again.
"Go!" James hissed. "If you hurry, you can make it to the Prophet before they go to press in the morning. But remember: go to Harry Potter first! Otherwise no one will be able to make any sense of what I wrote."
The owl rolled its huge eyes, as if to say I know how to do my job, thank you very much. It flexed its wings, tested the breeze for a moment, and then launched into the dark air, buffeting James' hair with the backwash of its tail. A moment later it was gone, vanished against the night sky.
The other owls peered at James with a mixture of grudging anticipation.
"Sorry, mates," he whispered, sighing deeply. "Only one headline per night."
He hoped that the news owls did not know how to read. There was no such thing as a Hedwig Obscura code hex, of course. He had made it up entirely on the spot. Not that it mattered. The markings on the second parchment were scribbled gibberish. He felt slightly bad about tricking the owl, but this was offset by the satisfaction that he had succeeded in getting a note sent to his father, despite headmaster Grudje's most careful monitoring.
With shaky legs and a shiver of nervousness, James turned around and began to clamber back down to the Newsstand's second level.
Five minutes later, he dashed into the impenetrable shadows of the forest path, leaving the lights of Hogsmeade thankfully behind him. He wondered if he would meet anyone on the path. After all, if things had gone as planned, Scorpius and Rose had already told Professor McGonagall about the body of Worlick. Surely, someone would be coming to collect the body and launch an investigation. What would they do if they discovered James lurking through the forest alone, long after he was supposed to be back at Hogwarts?
Worse still, what if no one was coming yet? What if he had to pass by the body of Worlick alone in the dark? James shivered violently at the thought. Worlick had been a specialist in dark magic, he remembered. What if the warlock had invented a means to come back after his death? What if even now he was shuffling through the forest as an Inferius, a living corpse?
James stopped on the dark path, his eyes bulging against the darkness as he looked around. Nothing moved. In fact, the forest suddenly seemed eerily quiet. There was no breath of breeze, nor the slightest rustle of leaves. Cold fear closed over his heart like a fist.
"I'm winding myself up," he whispered. "Have to get a grip. There's nothing out here to be afraid of."
Of course, as James well knew, this was not true under even the best of conditions.
He began to walk forward again, following the path as it snaked into the dark. He cast around, searching the trees for any sign of movement. Did the forest look different somehow? Had the trees always been this close, this clustered and crooked? Nothing looked familiar. The sense of fear-- and of being secretly watched-- intensified.
A narrow valley creased the path before him. He descended into it swiftly, his breath coming in short bursts, and glanced around. A small clearing opened at the base of the valley, marked with two monuments, each as tall as James and constructed of loose stones. Vines enclosed the monuments, clutching at them. The sight of the twin cairns chilled James deeply. He had never seen them before. This was not the path back to Hogwarts. It was narrower, far more overgrown, and crowded with leaning, spindly trees. He forged ahead, fighting panic, pushing through weeds and crowding brush.
A flicker of moonlight on water shone through the trees ahead. And yet, James felt an undeniable suspicion that this was not the comforting familiarity of the Black Lake he was approaching. The gentle lap of waves reached his ears now, small breakers sucking at a rocky shore.
James finally emerged from the wood, pushing between the tress as the path dissolved to obscurity. A small farm lake stretched before him, marked with a single band of silvery, reflected moonlight. Silhouetted against this, positioned at the end of a short, warped dock, was a gazebo. It stood atop its own reflection on the lake, black and foreboding and full of shadows.
James could not approach the lake. He stopped on the dewy grass overlooking it, his heart sinking at the sight. He recognized this place, even though he had never seen it with his own eyes. He had only ever read about it.
"Hi James," a young woman's voice said out of the darkness. James squinted and saw her standing in the gazebo's entrance, the pale circle of her face, her drab dress blending into the shadows. "Come and join me. I've missed you. And we need to talk."
"Petra," James called faintly, beginning to walk toward her without even realizing it. "Is this where you…? I mean, your dream story… How is this even…?" His words fell away as he stepped onto the dock, moving to join her in the entrance of the gazebo. It was cold there. The air around Petra was as icy as a January tomb. James' breath formed a wreath of mist as he shivered.
"We've always been here," Petra shrugged. "Ever since that night on the back of the Gwyndemere, when you saved my life. This is where the connection between us lives. Right here, on this dock, in this gazebo. I wish it didn't. I hate this place. But I can't change it."
James shook his head, glancing around at the quietly rippling lake, the dark shore. "But how are we here now, like this?"
"Because like I said," Petra answered tiredly. "We need to talk. Come inside. Sit by me."
Numbly, James followed Petra as she stepped through the gazebo's entrance, moving onto its neat plank floor. Lattice railings formed an octagon around them, lined with shallow benches. Across from the dock entrance, another opening framed the lake. On a summer's day, this opening would invite a dive into the happy coolness of the water. Now, it looked like a hungry, waiting throat. James turned away from it, joining Petra on one of the narrow wooden benches. She didn't speak, merely stared past him, studying the waves as if gathering her thoughts.
James spoke first, unable to wait. "What's happening to you, Petra?" He asked in a hushed voice. "What happened on that night? The Night of the Unveiling?"
Petra shook her head vaguely. "I did what had to be done. I satisfied my destiny."
"You saved my dad." James shivered again. He wanted to draw closer to Petra, but sensed that the coldness was coming from her, as if she was made of ice.
"Of course I did. She knew that I would… that we would. Izzy and me. It was never not going to happen."
James nodded. He knew exactly who Petra was talking about. "Nobody believes me about her. The Lady of the Lake. They think I imagined her."
"Of course they do," Petra replied, smiling at him. "The greatest lie of the greatest evil is that it doesn't exist."
James met Petra's eyes in the darkness. "She's behind all of this somehow. Isn't she?"
"I assume you mean the Morrigan Web," Petra said, breaking eye contact with Jame
s and looking out over the waves again. "The Collector. Avior Dorchascathan. Headmaster Grudje. All of it. Yes. Of course she is. She torments you personally, as well. Just to keep you busy and distracted and because she thinks it's fun. I watch, and intervene when I can. Like on first night."
James' eyes widened, remembering. "It was her that whispered my name," he nodded. "But it was you that appeared on the Marauder's Map."
"I can trace her when she appears in places like Hogwarts. I watch whenever I can, and I chase her there, like I did on first night. But she never stays long, and neither do I. Neither of us can afford to get noticed. Not yet."
"She'll do it, won't she?" James asked, trying not to shiver. "Her and the people she's partnered with? They'll set off the Morrigan Web, killing who knows how many people."
Petra nodded. "Judith pulls the strings. But I pull the strings as well, even if I don't mean to. And so does Izzy. We're sister Fates, after all. How could it be otherwise?"
"But you're not like her," James said suddenly, sitting up on the bench. "You and Izzy. You're good. She's the evil one."
"Sometimes I wonder, James," Petra said, almost dreamily, "if there even is such a thing as good and evil. I tried to do good last time I was here, on this farm. But in the end both my grandfather and his wife ended up dead. I tried to do good last year, in New Amsterdam, and ended up breaking the vow of secrecy for the whole magical world. Does doing good matter if it always ends up playing into the hands of evil? Judith pulls her strings, and Izzy and I, we pull ours. But in the end, we are all Sister Fates, and destiny gets its way."
The chill that came from Petra was like a silent wind. James' teeth were chattering as he said, "It doesn't have to be that way, does it? You don't have to play into her plan. You can stop her. I can help you."
"No, James," Petra said, her voice going firm. "That's why I brought you here tonight. You're getting involved in things that you cannot control or understand. There is danger here like nothing you've ever known."