A shadow moved in the bar of light beneath the door. A subtle liquid squelching sound reached James' ears as the Kreacher began to slither through. James backed away and bumped against the tile wall between the sink and the tub. His hand knocked against a wooden object, producing a hollow clunk. He glanced aside. A small door was set into the wall, latched with a tiny doorknob. Beyond that door, James knew, was the laundry chute, a dark shaft that led down between the walls, through three floors and into the cellar. Was it possible? Was it, in fact, any safer?
The Ink Kreacher squelched into the darkness of the bathroom, one arm waving blackly as the rest of its body squeezed through. Horribly, James heard a high, muttering voice emanating from it. The words were indecipherable, but the tone was the same monotonous ramble Kreacher always seemed to employ under his breath. It squeaked and prattled to itself as it poured into the room like black syrup.
James yanked the laundry chute door open, gave the darkness beyond a cursory examination, and then climbed up onto the edge of the tub. He had just rammed his right foot into the chute when the Ink Kreacher finally popped fully from beneath the door. It stood erect and regarded him with its ebony eyes. It was like being stared down by a particularly hideous, bipedal spider.
James slid his other foot into the darkness of the chute, gripped its upper ledge with both hands, and began to shimmy swiftly through the narrow opening. The Ink Kreacher leapt after him, but the door swung shut behind James, causing the tiny imp to bounce off it with a wet splat.
James fell into seamless, whooshing dark, only now fully realizing that he had just thrown himself off a very narrow, forty foot ledge. He jammed out his knees and elbows, desperately trying to arrest his fall. With a juddering screech, he caught himself after a few dozen feet. A narrow ledge snagged his heels, which popped through into some unknown space. His entire body followed, jouncing painfully through the opening into the very cold, very hard embrace of some cocoon-like shape. He banged his head against it and heard the slam of another small wooden door behind him.
"Ow!" he rasped to himself, rubbing his head with both hands. He glanced around and at first saw only blank whiteness. Finally, he realized that he had kicked his way inadvertently through the lower laundry chute door, ending up in the first floor bathroom. The tub had caught him, which was fortunate, because the rest of the room was a cramped shambles, almost unrecognizable in its current state. Of course it was. This was the bathroom that had given up most of its space to the engorged dining room immediate next to it. As a result, the sink was crammed right up next to the tub, leaning over it like a vulture. The toilet was hunched in the narrow closet, whose door jutted open like a broken wing. There was no longer any exit, the main door being buried behind the accordioned walls, thus explaining aunt Hermione's earlier discomfiture.
For now, James was glad there was no door. It meant there was no easy way for Kreacher, or even his horrible ink doppelgangers, to get in and catch him.
And then, beyond the wall on James' left, he heard the dim echo of voices.
"I'm sure it was nothing," a man's voice announced-- was it his father? "We had to enlarge the dining room rather a lot to accommodate us all. The house is likely settling a bit. Do carry on, Draco."
"As I was saying," another man's voice said with a note of impatience, "Ms. Morganstern may indeed be a formidable witch, but her sense of stealth is surprisingly lacking." James frowned where he lay in the bathtub, concentrating on the muffled voice. Was that Draco Malfoy, his dad's old school nemesis, and the father of Scorpius? He recognized the man's lazy, indifferent drawl from two years ago, at Granddad's funeral, when Draco and his wife had come to pay their rather cool respects.
"Stealth stems from a sense of danger," a woman's voice, Professor McGonagall, spoke up. "It may be that Ms. Morganstern feels no such apprehension. She may not conceal her movements simply because she does not fear capture. Her power, whatever its source, may give her an illusion of invulnerability."
"After what happened last summer," Uncle George's voice commented darkly, "I'm not sure it's an illusion."
Kendrick Debellows harrumphed. "She's powerful, no question. But everyone is vulnerable. She was captured once, after all, and by those layabouts in the American Wizarding Administration. She can be captured again."
"Those 'layabouts', as you call them, are among the finest professional law keepers in the world." The speaker was Alma Aleron's Professor Jackson, whom James recognized by his steely tone and his American accent. "And it took seven of them simultaneously to subdue her. Not to mention that they had the advantage of surprise. Ms. Morganstern will not be surprised again, I would wager. Before last summer, she was merely a mysteriously gifted young witch. Now, she is the world's most wanted magical fugitive, single-handedly responsible not only for the revelation of the magical world, but for the theft of a priceless and powerful artefact, the crimson thread from the Vault of Destinies. Its continued absence has untold, and frankly unknowable, effects on our world, increasing every moment of every day."
James sat up in the bathtub and stared unseeingly into the darkness, straining his ears. This was the last thing he'd expected his father and the rest of the adults to be discussing. Was Petra really Undesirable Number One, the most wanted criminal in the entire magical world? And was the missing Crimson Thread, lost in the World Between the Worlds, truly altering the destiny of the world every day? He recalled the words of Headmaster Merlin from last year, as they had all stood gazing at the stopped magical loom, its enigmatic weaving of destiny halted by the missing thread: this changes everything. It was more than James could begin to comprehend. A sense of deepening dismay and worry fanned out in his veins as the conversation continued.
"Coming to the point," James heard his father say calmly. "Does this mean, Draco, that you have been able to trace some of Petra's movements?"
"Marginally," Draco admitted. "The difficulty is not in following her via her transactions. It is in doing so without getting caught by my superiors. Gringotts goblins are notoriously neutral in the legal affairs of the wizarding world, but their sense of professional propriety is a law of its own. If they discovered I was using bank records to track a fugitive, getting sacked would be the least of my worries."
"We all appreciate the risk you are taking," Professor Flitwick assured in his tiny voice. "But your information is the best we have. It's a pity that the Ministry rejects it."
"They don't just reject it," Harry lamented. "They deem it patently illegal. And perhaps they are right to. Gringotts' coin tracking enchantments are powerful goblin magic, capable of dangerous exploitation in the wrong hands. Fortunately, goblins are as above ill-gotten gain as they are civic conscience."
"Well, I think that may be a bit harsh," McGonagall tutted.
Harry sighed. "You're probably right. Apologies for your co-workers, Draco."
"No apologies necessary," Draco said lightly. "They would agree with you. They believe such things as civic duty, morality and social conscience are plain hindrances to proper banking. They go out of their way to avoid such sentiments."
Professor Longbottom asked tiredly, "What have you discovered, Draco?"
"Not a lot, but what I do know is quite curious," Draco said, clearly enjoying being the centre of attention. "She is traveling extensively, visiting all manner of establishments. She does not stay long, and she buys very little. What money does change hands does so almost exclusively under the guise of tips."
"Tips for what?" Angelina asked. "If she isn't buying anything?"
"Tips for information," Harry answered, almost to himself. "She is looking for something. Or someone."
"Any ideas what?" Aunt Hermione asked, her voice serious. "What would she be seeking that was so important she had to travel the world to find it?"
There was a murmur of conjecture, but no one seemed to have any meaningful answer. Draco raised his voice and went on.
"Even more important, perhaps, is this: Ms. Morganste
rn is not alone."
Hermione gasped. "You mean she's traveling with her half-sister, Isabella?"
"Well yes, much of the time, as evidenced by the few things she does purchase, including occasional meals and, strangely, dolls. Her young sister, apparently, has rather a thing for China dolls. But it seems she has a male traveling companion as well. His own transactions have occurred regularly enough at the exact same time and places to firmly establish that they are together virtually constantly."
"Who?" Angelina asked, a bit breathlessly.
"His name is Marshall Parris," Draco replied, accompanied by the shuffling of turning pages as he apparently consulted his notes. "Formerly of New Amsterdam. A Muggle, but one with a history of interactions with the magical world. He performs services as a hired investigator, and his list of former clients includes a surprising number of American wizards and witches, some of them quite prominent."
"I've heard of him," Professor Jackson said disdainfully. "Calls himself an expert in the 'transmundane'. Pure nonsense. Causes more trouble than good with the Magical Integration Bureau. In fact, if I am not mistaken, they have attempted to shut him down on more than one occasion."
"Why in the world," McGonagall queried sceptically, "would any witch or wizard hire a Muggle for investigative purposes?"
Jackson scoffed. "No one knows, and no one asks. And yet, somehow, he seems to get results. He has made enemies of some of the darkest and most notorious wizarding families in New Amsterdam. One would think he should be cursed dead a hundred times over. And yet, he persists, just one more of New Amsterdam's countless, apparently immortal cockroaches. Whatever enchantment or talisman he uses to protect himself, it must be singularly powerful and unique. Either that, or he is simply the luckiest damned man to ever walk the earth."
In the cramped dimness of the bathroom, James frowned to himself. Marshall Parris. He'd seen that name before. It took him a moment to remember, and then it struck him. It had been scribbled in Petra's handwriting on the parchment of her dream story. It was probably still there, hidden away in its sealed packet in his trunk on the top floor. He reminded himself to check it again later that night. If, that was, he ever got out of the door-less bathroom.
"So whatever Ms. Morganstern is seeking," Professor Longbottom mused, "she feels she cannot find it on her own. She has enlisted the help of a Muggle who is especially gifted, somehow, with finding magical things."
"And making enemies in the wizarding world," Uncle Ron added gruffly. "With this, he sure has outdone himself. If he's helping Petra Morganstern, he's making enemies of every witch and wizard on the planet."
Harry didn't respond to this. Instead, he asked Draco, "Any ideas where she and this Marshall Parris bloke may be going next?"
James could almost hear Draco shake his head as he sighed. "There is literally no rhyme or reason to their movements. They travel hundreds of miles in a matter of minutes, then seem to fall off the map for days and weeks on end. One may as well throw a dart at a map and come up with as good a guess as mine."
There was a long pause. Then, Harry asked, "Any sightings of them in New Amsterdam since the Night of the Unveiling?"
"Well, that is the question, isn't it?" Draco replied. "As far as Gringotts is concerned, New Amsterdam has gone completely dark. All business is closed. If money is changing hands there, it is doing so completely anonymously. It won't show up again until it re-enters the market outside of the quarantine zone. And at that point, the trail would be too cold to matter."
There was another murmur of agitated conversation. After half a minute, Draco spoke up once again, and this time his voice reminded James of Draco's dead father, the venomous Lucius Malfoy. "I do have a question for you as well, Harry," he drawled. "And I hope you won't mind my asking. I suspect you can understand the nature of my concern."
"Go on," Harry said. "You've been very helpful. Ask away."
"Well then," Draco said, lowering his voice. "I cannot help wondering. If the Ministry of Magic has deemed evidence gained from Gringotts' transaction tracking illegal and inadmissible, what do you, as a representative of the Department of Aurors, a Ministry entity, hope to accomplish with this information?"
Hagrid answered this, speaking for the first time. "That's not exactly any o' our business now, is it?" he said brusquely, his voice rumbling through the bathroom wall. "'Arry here is more'n an Auror. We all know that. It's not our place to go questioning 'is methods."
"It's all right, Hagrid," Harry soothed. "Draco is right to ask. After all, he's placed himself at great risk. He deserves to know his efforts haven't been for nothing. The fact of the matter is, as some of you know, I am not in charge of the search for Petra. Officially speaking, I've been placed on strictly administrative and diplomatic duties. Titus Hardcastle is in charge of the street operations and raids."
"Whut?" Hagrid proclaimed in disbelief. "Whatever for, then? You're the best Auror 'at's ever been! Everyone knows that!"
To James' surprise, it was Uncle Ron that spoke up. "The Ministry, and by that I mean Loquatious Knapp and his new best mate, Rechtor Grudje, have decided that Harry's loyalties in this matter are compromised. Harry and his family housed Petra, after all, on two occasions, both times after she had been accused, and in one instance later convicted, of serious crimes."
"Wellnow," Hagrid objected, raising his voice. "I don' believe I like the tone o' that. If 'Arry puts someone up in 'is 'ouse, it'd be for a damn good reason. You can't blame 'im for 'avin' a heart! E's still a professional!"
"We all understand that and agree with you, Hagrid," Hermione interjected. "But the Minister can't be budged on the matter. He feels that Harry, and many of the rest of us, cannot be relied on to do our jobs objectively, without letting our personal feelings get in the way."
"And what do you say to that, Harry?" Draco asked, all aloof courtesy gone completely from his voice. "Can you do your duty objectively? Can you do what it takes, officially or otherwise, for I assume that is why we are all here, meeting in secret-- to apprehend Petra Morganstern and stop her from causing any more irreparable damage to both the wizarding and Muggle worlds? Can you, in fact, perform this duty without letting your feelings get in the way?"
There was a long, heavy pause, one that not even Hagrid (who was surely seething with barely restrained anger at Draco's temerity) interrupted.
And then, as if in answer, a heavy concussion shook the entire house. The noise and juddering vibration of it surprised James so much that he nearly leapt out of the dark bathtub. The mirror over the sink popped loose and shattered in the basin, raining James with silvery shards.
"What in heaven…!" Professor McGonagall's voice shrilled suddenly from beyond the wall.
A chair clattered against the wall as several people in the next room seemed to leap to their feet. "That, I daresay," Kendrick Debellows growled, "was not the house settling."
James' first thought was that Kreacher was using some especially powerful elfish magic to capture him, Rose and Albus. Almost immediately, however, he knew that was ridiculous. Elf magic was exceedingly powerful, but being borne of servitude, it was always subtle. Whatever had shaken the house, it had most certainly not been subtle.
"The Repello Inimicum charm," Ron Weasley proclaimed in a hushed voice. "Something hit it. And hard!"
Voices echoed gruffly, this time from behind James. There was the familiar whooshing CRACK of apparition, followed by thumping footsteps. James patted his pockets for his wand, and then remembered that he had foolishly left it in the attic dormitory. If he was going to get out of the truncated bathroom and see what was happening, it was going to happen only when someone else let him out.
He wasn't sure if he was more disappointed or relieved by that fact.
Two sets of running footsteps converged in the hall behind James. Through the wall, he heard a hoarse voice growl, "There's a large congregation in the room five paces beyond that wall-- the dining room, if I recall. Guard the perimeter and don
't let any pass, either by magic or hidden passage, for this house is lousy with secrets. We'll flank from the main entrance on the other side."
The speaker thumped away quickly, apparently leaving his companion. James barely had a moment to register the words when the wall behind him produced a frightful shudder, showering the bathtub with plaster dust. When he looked up, a huge oak door had appeared in the wall, its brass knob glinting over the ledge of the tub. The knob turned and the door swept silently open, revealing a dark figure, its wand extended in one gloved hand.
"What the…?" the dark figure exclaimed huskily, taking a step backward from the bathtub which blocked the door and the fifteen year old boy lying inside it. James was surprised to realize the figure was a woman. She recovered from her surprise almost instantly and levelled her wand at him.
James reacted purely by instinct. He grabbed the witch's wand hand by the wrist and used it to heave himself out of the tub toward her. She cursed angrily, still keeping her voice professionally hushed, and pivoted, hurling James through the door and against the wall behind her, dislodging a large portrait of a grimfaced Black patriarch. The portrait fell atop James, which was fortunate, for it deflected the red bolt that leapt from the witch's wand. The bolt burst into sparks, awakening the portrait with a start.
"What's all this then?" it demanded stridently.
James clambered to his feet and shoved the portrait upwards with him, using it like a shield against the intruder. She cursed again, losing her composure, and stumbled backwards through the door she had conjured. The tub connected with the back of her knees and she collapsed noisily into the dark of the bathroom, rapping her head sharply on the edge of the tub as it caught her. This time her exclamation of anger was neither hushed nor professional. She clambered wildly, her legs flailing as she began to thrash her way out of the bathtub.
James threw the portrait at her. It knocked against her knees and fell atop her, covering the tub like a gilded lid.
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