"The Morrigan Web," James exclaimed. "I know! But none of us even knows what it's supposed to do or how it works. Can you tell us?"
"I'm a sorceress, James," Petra said, her voice softening again. "But I don't know everything. I don't know what the Morrigan Web is any more than you do. I just know that she intends to use it-- she and her temporary helpers."
"The Collector," James nodded. "But why are they temporary?"
Petra sighed. "You know why. You saw it tonight. In the end, true evil breaks all its tools."
There was silence between them for a long moment, punctuated only by the monotonous drone of the waves. Finally, James straightened. "I'm not afraid. I can help you, Petra. Me and Ralph, Zane, Rose, even Scorpius and Albus. We can help you stop her."
Petra looked at James again, and the look in her eyes froze him in place. "James," she said, shaking her head slowly. "I don't intend to stop her."
The cold seeped beneath James' skin as he looked into her eyes, saw her unshakable resolve. An icicle seemed to push into his heart, chilling him so deeply that his shivers ceased.
"But Petra," he whispered. "You have to stop her. All those people… you can't just…"
"Every time I try to stop her," Petra said, her eyes hardening, "she wins. The strings that Izzy and I pull only further her aims. We can't help it. As long as we are three, we are one. Fate prevails. There is only one way to end it forever. You can't understand it, James, and I don't intend to explain it to you. Your part is to back away. As of tonight, you're getting too close. Stop asking questions. Stop trying to work it all out. I'm not asking you. I'm warning you. People will die." She stood up and drew a deep, regretful breath. "I don't want you to be one of them."
James sat speechless, staring up at Petra as if he had never seen her before.
"What about Izzy?" he said faintly. "Will you allow her to kill?"
Petra's lips thinned. She refused to look at him. "She and I have killed before. Right here, in this Gazebo. We sent her mother to her doom."
"That was different!" James insisted, standing as well. "There has to be something we can do! What about that other bloke? The one who's been traveling with you? My dad and Mr. Malfoy were talking about him at Christmas. Parris something or other…"
Petra narrowed her eyes and glared at him. "Stop reading my dream diary, James," she said quietly, emphatically. "Leave Marshall Parris out of it. Leave yourself out of it. What is meant to happen has to happen. I can't stop it. I don't want to stop it. It's the only way to end this whole nightmare."
James shook his head. "Petra…" he croaked, his breath puffing into mist. "I can't just… none of us… can let this happen."
The hard glare in Petra's eyes slowly melted. A breath of warmth pushed in from over the waves, threading through Petra's long hair and blowing away the icy chill, leaving only the girl that James had known ever since his first year, the one that liked to suck on the ends of her hair when she was thinking, who had a secret soft spot for romantic stories and treacle tarts. She shook her head again, even more slowly, and took a step toward him. She leaned close, meeting him in the centre of the gazebo. Fleetingly, James realized that he was taller than her now.
Her lips parted slightly in the darkness. He could smell her-- the mingled scent of soap and hyacinth and faint spice.
She's going to kiss me, his mind raced.
But she did not kiss him. She leaned close, placing her lips next to his ear. He could feel her breath on the nape of his neck.
"Remember your own dream," she whispered. "The dream of the graveyard. Of me. And Albus. And the Dark Mark. Remember what you wrote when you woke up."
James' eyes widened. He remembered, although he hadn't thought of it in a long, long time.
"If you don't want that to happen," she whispered, so quietly that he felt it as much as heard it. "Then don't, James… don't… try to stop me."
On her last word, darkness fell over the lake and the forest beyond. It consumed the gazebo, absorbed the waves, and covered Petra in impenetrable shadow. Blackness pressed against James' eyes, blinding him. He reached out for her, sensing that she was falling away from him, sucked away into that waiting dark.
"Petra!" he cried out.
His voice echoed in the confines of the Gryffindor dormitory. He was standing next to his trunk, in a pool of light cast by his own lit candle. No one else was there. Somehow, Petra had transported him straight back to Hogwarts, bypassing the prowling Tabitha Corsica and Filch.
James' knees shook. He sat heavily on his trunk. Something crinkled beneath him. Wearily he reached for it, leaning aside and pulling out a sheet of wrinkled parchment.
It was Petra's dream story. The pages were entirely blank now, but for a single line written neatly across the centre in Petra's distinctive, careful handwriting:
As long as we are three, we are one. Fate prevails...
James stared at it, reading it over and over by the light of the single candle. Drifting up through the curving stone stairs, raucous voices echoed from the common room, implying warmth, frivolity and evening cheer. Despite this, even now, the chill of Petra's gazebo hung around James like a cocoon.
It was under his skin, wracking him with shivers, chilling him all the way to the bone.
14. AVIOR'SINNER SANCTUM
Scorpius' prediction proved to be correct, in that it was Titus Hardcastle who had been called in to investigate the murder of Worlick. James saw him the next day, along with Lucinda Lyon, the young auror with whom he had scuffled over Christmas break. They stood in the courtyard with Headmaster Grudje and Professor McGonagall, talking seriously, their voices hushed, as James, Ralph and Scorpius made their way to Advanced Flight.
"McGonagall looks about fit to spit nails," Ralph muttered as they passed, their brooms slung over their shoulders.
"She hasn't forgotten what happened over Christmas holiday, if you ask me," James nodded. "I still can't believe they're freezing my dad out of all of this."
As they neared the courtyard gates, James noticed Tabitha Corsica lurking near Grudje and Hardcastle, listening in, her face taut. She saw James and narrowed her eyes dangerously.
"She's not just going to forget that you somehow got past her last night," Scorpius mused airily. "If she can't punish you for that, she'll come up with something else. She's persistent, that one."
James sighed as they passed through the gate. Scorpius was right, of course.
Later that afternoon was Physical Education at Yorke. In the wake of the previous night's revelations, James had nearly forgotten all about the dreaded Muggle class. Tabitha Corsica, in her older teacher's guise, however, was waiting for them outside the Yorke gymnasium, a smarmy grin on her face, her eyes twinkling behind her oversized spectacles.
"It's such a beautiful spring day," she announced, tilting her chin toward the low, grey clouds and misting rain, "that I've decided to hold today's class out of doors."
A groan rippled over the Hogwarts students, while the Yorke students merely nodded and stretched, flexing their beefy legs and necks. Even the girls, James noticed, seemed a head taller than him and ropy with muscle. He wondered for the first time if Tabitha Corsica had purposely teamed the Hogwarts students with older, stockier Yorke students.
"Not Rugby again," Ralph muttered next to James, crossing the fingers on both hands. "Please not Rugby again. Anything but that."
Corsica tilted her head thoughtfully. "Today, I think we shall play a spirited game," she exclaimed, as James hunched his shoulders, expecting the worst. "Of football."
Both Ralph and James glanced up in surprise. Now, it was the Yorke students' turn to moan.
"Football's for hooligans," a tall ginger girl complained. "Do we have to?"
"Now, now," Corsica chided sweetly. "We must make an effort to accommodate our guests. They come from, er, less fortunate circumstances and have not had the blessing of more advanced team sport. Surely we can extend the hand of friendship and grant them this sm
all favour."
Joseph Torrance scoffed incredulously under his breath. "She thinks rugby is an 'advanced team sport'?"
"Football!" Ralph elbowed James in the ribs, nearly doubling him over. "She's talking about Muggle Studies during out first year, when Professor Curry had us playing Muggle sports all term, remember?"
"And if I recall correctly," Fiona Fourcompass admitted, somewhat grudgingly, "you were quite the star player, James."
James glanced at her and felt his face heat with mingled embarrassment and anticipation. He had been quite good at the Muggle sport-- had even scored the goal that won the final match for Gryffindor.
"In fact," Corsica went on, beginning to lead the class toward the sodden field, bouncing a shiny new football lightly on her palm. "Let us make the game interesting and have a friendly competition. Yorke versus our guests. The winners earn bragging rights while the losers must run laps for the entirety of next class." With a decisive nod, Corsica tossed the ball toward James. He caught it clumsily. Corsica glared at him over a tight smile. "You have two minutes to determine player positions. Starting… now."
The class swiftly scrambled into separate groups and broke into harsh whisperings.
"I don't even remember how to play this ruddy game!" Graham Warton complained. "Is this the one where we hit the ball with that odd little paddle?"
"That's cricket, you git," Kevin Murdoch rolled his eyes. "This is the one where you can't touch the ball with your hands."
Fiona Fourcompass rolled her eyes. "All these Muggle games are completely daft."
Ralph implored James, "We can win this, right? I can't run all next class. I'll drop dead on the spot. I'm not even kidding."
"Calm down, all of you," James said. "Football obviously isn't a big thing here at Yorke, and that gives us a decent chance. We just have to stay organized and keep our wits. Here's what we'll do…"
As swiftly as he could, James assigned positions for his team, putting himself, Joseph Torrance and Graham Warton on the front line, Ralph in the goal, and the rest mounting defence. As they trotted into position on the squelching field, he bounced the ball off his knee and gave it a sharp kick as it dropped before him. It bounced into the centre of the field, where Tabitha Corsica stood with a shiny whistle between her teeth. James joined her there, avoiding eye contact. Across the centre line, an imposing brick wall of a boy named Lunt hunkered low, screwing his cleats into the mud with grim determination.
With no preamble, Corsica gave a short, piercing tweet on her whistle. James was not prepared for it, allowing Lunt a free swipe at the ball. With a ringing thump, it rocketed away from the bigger boy's foot. Lunt leapt to follow it, elbowing James roughly out of the way. The rest of team Yorke followed.
"Defence!" James called, spinning around and scrambling to catch up. "Everyone fall back!"
Despite the inglorious start, James found that what team Hogwarts lacked in brawn, they made up for in mingled nimbleness and raw desperation. Fiona Fourcompass, surprisingly, erected a nearly maniacal defence of the goal, rushing out to meet opposing players with her teeth bared and her eyes bulging. From his vantage point in front of the Hogwarts goal, Ralph watched the match with grim intensity, his stance wide and his arms spread, trying to distribute his already bulky frame over as much space as possible. Kevin Murdoch, being woefully clumsy with the ball, contented himself with simply kicking it as hard as he could whenever it rolled into his general vicinity, sending it far out of bounds as often as not, but managing to at least get it to the opposing end of the field.
James found, despite everything, that not only was his team holding their own against Yorke, he was actually enjoying himself. By the middle of the match, with neither team having scored a single goal, he found himself in a fortunate position as Murdoch gave the ball another of his might kicks. Being already at the centreline, James dashed backwards, watching the ball hurtle toward him. The Yorke defence was caught off guard, leaving James plenty of room. He steeled himself, getting beneath the dropping ball, and let it carom off his chest, deadening its momentum. It struck the ground and he immediately trapped it beneath his foot, pivoting on it to face the opposing goal. The Yorke goalie, a tall, gangly ginger girl with a mass of freckles, glared at him and spread her arms. James dashed toward her, knocking the ball lightly ahead of him as he went. Footsteps pounded behind him, but they were too late. James reared back for the kick, aiming for the high, right corner of the Yorke goal. Suddenly, and for no apparent reasons, his planted foot skated forward, drawing a muddy skid on the field. He flailed wildly, tried to salvage his kick, but succeeded only in tripping over the ball. He fell full length onto the wet grass with enough force to drive his teeth together with an audible clack.
His right foot was still resting on the ball. Frantically, James clambered to get his feet beneath him again, scooping the ball forward, but Lunt had finally caught up to him. The bigger boy swept James' feet out from under him, stealing the ball and bowling James into the mud again, cursing vividly. Cleats pounded past him as the action moved back to the opposite end of the field.
As James finally regained his feet and pelted to rejoin the match, he saw Tabitha Corsica standing on the sideline, watching him smugly, her eyes narrowed behind her ridiculous glasses. James knew immediately what had happened. While she had confiscated their wands, as usual, upon their arrival at Yorke, she had of course kept her own. She was using magic to surreptitiously sabotage him from the sideline. The look on her face as he passed was a small, challenging smile.
Yorke scored their first goal quickly thereafter.
"What happened up there?" Murdock demanded, panting heavily as James headed back toward the centre line. "You had a clean shot!"
"It's not my fault!" James spat. "Corsica's cursing me!"
Fiona Fourcompass gave him a sceptical look, her face speckled with mud. James glared back at her defiantly. "It's true!" he declared, pointing to the sideline. Fiona merely shook her head and rolled her eyes.
"Hey, Potter," Lunt called, grinning. "Have a nice trip?" Behind him, the rest of team Yorke snickered.
As the game resumed, James began to sense that Corsica was subtly cursing him at almost every turn, making the grass supernaturally slick beneath his feet, causing the ball to take unexpected and unnatural bounces, or giving it unusual momentum so that it bowled him over as he tried to trap it. As a result, he missed two more opportunities for goals, while Yorke scored three goals under extremely suspicious circumstances. The last goal was a long kick from centre field which seemed to hang in the air far longer than possible, arcing toward the goal and squirreling past Ralph as if it was alive.
Team Yorke erupted into ecstatic cheers, as James skulked back toward his team.
"What's happening out there?" Ralph muttered angrily, flinging his sweaty hair out of his face. "I've never seen you so clumsy, James. For the first time, I think I could do a better job out there than you. And believe me, that's not a happy thought."
"It isn't me!" James insisted furiously. "It's Corsica! It's got to be! She's cursing me from the sideline!"
"Have you seen her doing it?" Joseph asked. "Because I have to say, it looks like you've just sort of lost your touch."
"James!" Fiona seethed, grabbing him by the shoulder and turning him around. "I am not running all next class! And I am not going to listen to these muscle-headed morons gassing on and on about how they beat us into the ground! You've got to score! The match is nearly over!"
"I know!" James exclaimed, throwing her hand off his shoulder. "It isn't my fault! It's Corsica!"
"Stop blaming your clumsiness on others!" Fiona hissed, shoving James in the chest. "I'm not getting mud in my hair for nothing out here! Win this match or I'll curse you myself!"
James opened his mouth to argue, but was interrupted by a sharp, long whistle from the sideline.
"Score three to zero in favour of Yorke Academy," Corsica called, letting the whistle drop from her teeth and dangle around h
er neck. "With only five minutes left to play, perhaps our guests would like to forfeit the match?" She eyed James across the field with one eyebrow arched, still smiling that smug, halfsmile.
James shook his head. "No chance!" he called. "The match isn't over yet."
"As you wish," Corsica shrugged lightly. "Proceed." She retrieved the whistle and gave it a sharp tweet, pointing toward the ball on the centreline. James dashed forward to claim it as the match resumed.
He had no hope of actually winning at this point, but there was no chance that he was going to let her see that she had defeated him. He chased Lunt as the big boy zigged down the side of the field. When Lunt attempted to pass the ball to a teammate nearer the goal, James lunged to intercept. He trapped it against his foot, pivoted and kicked it back toward his own goal. Joseph Torrance bolted to catch it, followed by Graham Warton and, to James' surprise, Kevin Murdock and Fiona Fourcompass. Almost all of Team Hogwarts collapsed toward the Yorke goal, desperate to muscle the ball toward at least one score. James joined them.
For a moment, it appeared that it was going to work. Surrounded by the herd of Hogwarts players, the ball zigged and bounced gradually forward. Lunt and his teammates muscled into the herd, but could not manage to turn the ball around. Finally, the entirety of both teams crowded in front of the Yorke goal, rioting and shouting and kicking viciously.
James saw his opening. Through a mist of rain and flying gobbets of mud, he sensed that the Yorke goalie had inched too far forward, leaving a gap. The ball, now streaked with grime and pummelled by feet from every direction, suddenly squirted loose of the melee. James lunged for it, drew back his foot to kick…
…and missed. His foot swiped forward, skidded over the wet grass, and completely bypassed the ball, which continued to roll idly toward the corner of the field. At that moment, the scrum recaptured James, knocking him down and brawling over him. A cleat landed on his chest, mashing the air from his lungs. Another kicked him in the ear. Still another landed on his wrist with an audible crunch.