McGonagall sighed briskly. "Don't apologize, Ms. Weasley. In truth-- and you will likely never hear me admit this again-- it is the mischief-makers who manage to save the world every time. I didn't always believe that, but experience is a persistent teacher. Ah, and here come the others."
Footsteps creaked on the stairs below the trapdoor as more figures approached. James turned toward the sound, as did Rose and Albus. Obviously, McGonagall's turning of the letter on the Teacher's Lounge door was a signal, calling the other members of the Order to meet. He wondered who would be first to arrive: Professor Flitwick? Debellows? Perhaps even Trelawney?
But it was another face entirely that emerged, grinning thinly, from the trapdoor.
McGonagall saw the ascending figure and all the colour fell from her face. "Mr. Filch. What are you doing here?"
Filch did not answer, but the figure behind him did. "Do not blame the caretaker, Madame Professor," a cracked, gravelly voice said. "I requested that he keep abreast of your whereabouts, if only so that I might know where to find you if it became necessary."
"I presume it 'became necessary'," McGonagall said, holding her ground as Headmaster Grudje stepped past Filch into the moonlight.
Grudje peered around the Tower's terraces and low walls. "An odd place, I admit, to interview misbehaving students, Madame Professor," he commented.
McGonagall's face remained perfectly stoic. "Perhaps you think so, Headmaster. I find it quite pleasant."
"I find it quite suspicious, Professor," Grudje admitted plainly, raising his thin, grey eyebrows. "And I add it to a long list of things I find suspicious about you, Madame. With all due respect, I wonder if you are ill-equipped to function under my leadership. Has it occurred to you that you have outlived your effectiveness at this school?"
McGonagall's face hardened, turning her gaze into a flinty stare. "I don't believe for a moment that it is my effectiveness you are concerned with, sir," she said, all pretence abandoned. "But my usefulness. And I admit I have never been particularly interested in being useful to such as you."
"Quite the contrary, Madame," Grudje said, reaching into his robes and producing a thin scroll. "You do not content yourself with being disagreeable, but with being actively subversive. I see that I have procured this not a moment too soon."
He held the scroll out to her, but she did not accept it. He sighed, and unrolled the scroll himself.
"'Be it known'," he read pedantically. "'That by the general agreement of its body of governors, Madame Minerva McGonagall is heretofore relieved of her post as professor and instructor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, effective immediately. In light of her many years of service, she shall continue to be a valued and respected regent of academic excellence and shall receive a severance compensation equivalent to no less than seventy per cent of her current contract', etcetera, etcetera…" He rerolled the scroll and sighed regretfully. "You should know, Madame, that it was I who negotiated your severance. I believe you will find it quite fair."
"And this is what you call 'leadership'," McGonagall said, her nostrils flaring. "Not winning over those who disagree with you, but removing them outright."
"I have done my best, Madame," Grudje explained patiently. "But these are difficult times. I am sorry you disapprove of my methods. Unfortunately, with so much at stake in the magical world, we simply can no longer afford the luxury of dissent. But truly, your years of service are appreciated." He gestured toward the open trapdoor. "Please, Madame McGonagall. Mr. Filch will accompany you to your quarters. Your replacement will be here within the hour. My apologies for such a necessarily swift departure, but we do have a school to run."
McGonagall did not move to the trapdoor. Instead, she turned back to James, Rose and Albus. "I am sorry," she said firmly. "Do carry on. I will see you soon enough."
"Oh, I wouldn't fear for the welfare of these three," Grudje smiled. "They are in the very capable hands of myself and Mr. Filch. Believe it or not, even without your presence, Madame McGonagall, Hogwarts prevails."
"After you, Madame," Filch simpered, still grinning meanly and brandishing his black cane. Finally, grudgingly, McGonagall stalked toward the trapdoor, leaving Filch limping in her wake.
James watched her go with mounting dread. Within seconds, he, Albus and Rose were alone in the moonlight with only Headmaster Grudje, who seemed strangely disinterested in them.
"Return to your common rooms, students," he ordered calmly. "Mr. Filch will seek you out soon enough. Until then, perhaps it will serve you to think upon what has happened here tonight. Surely there is some lesson to be learned here?"
None of them answered. Even Albus kept his tongue. Silently, hastily, they trouped down the stairs, fleeing the headmaster's blank, bored gaze.
"I don't believe he sacked Professor McGonagall!" Rose finally rasped, panting as they made their way down the spiralling staircase.
"We can only hope she's able to pass on what we told her," James said. "If she tells dad and the rest of the Order…"
Despite this meager hope, by the time they made their way back to the Entrance Hall, James felt somehow darker and more disheartened than he ever had in his life.
"Goodnight, Albus," Rose sighed as Albus turned toward the descending staircase. He shook his head irritably and clumped down without a backward glance.
Rose paused, watching him go and leaning heavily on the ascending bannister. "I can't believe she's gone," she said again, faintly.
James frowned. "She'll be back. She has to be. What's Hogwarts without Professor McGonagall?"
"He called her 'Madame McGonagall'. I don't know. It just sounds so… final."
James grimaced wearily. "He's a bad guy. Bad guys never win in the end."
Rose looked aside at him, her hair hanging limp around her face. "How can you be so sure? I mean, look around. Seems as if the bad guys are doing pretty well for themselves at the moment."
James didn't have an immediate answer to that. Slowly, shoulders slumped, the pair began to climb the stairs. As they reached the landing and angled toward the portrait of the Fat Lady, James spoke again.
"It's like the chess board in Avior's office," he suggested. "No one can really predict how it's going to end by looking at it in the middle of the game."
"Perhaps," Rose agreed doubtfully, and then stopped, realizing that James had halted a step behind her. "What is it?"
"Avior's chess board," he said, frowning. "All those pieces… they seemed to represent real people."
Rose nodded. "Yes. When he talked about you, he held up one of the knights. And there was a piece that looked like Petra-- the one you said was the Lady of the Lake. And the king was the Collector, who we now know is Avior. And the other king was Uncle Harry, your dad." Rose gasped suddenly. "And the white queen… she looked a little bit like… like my mum!"
But James was shaking his head. He raised his eyes to meet his cousin's. "No, Rose," he said, quietly but firmly. "It wasn't your mum."
Rose furrowed her brow in confusion. "But I saw it. It had her hair, her face, but… younger somehow, maybe."
"Rose, that wasn't your mum," James persisted. "It was you."
Rose frowned incredulously, but seemed to give the idea a moment's thought. "But why would it be me? What can I do? I mean… the queen?"
James shrugged helplessly, and then glanced down at his cousin's robes. They were still matted with broken vines and fragments of flowers from her tussle with the Yuxa Baslatma plants. "Maybe those will help, somehow."
Rose glanced down. "No way," she said firmly. "We don't even know which one of these came from what plant. They all do something different, you know. I don't fancy accidentally finding out how I'm going to die, or worse, who I'm going to marry! Besides, after what happened to you when you took one, I'm not about to risk permanent madness! What if I can't fall asleep in eleven minutes? What if the effects kick in while I'm still awake and turn my mind into hallucinogenic pudding?"
; "Calm down," James rolled his eyes, passing her and approaching the Portrait of the Fat Lady. "Blimey, it was just an idea."
"After tonight," Rose groused, "I've just about had it with your ideas. These things are trouble," she tugged at one of the vines, tearing it free of her robe. "I'm locking these away where they'll be safe. If Professor Longbottom ever gets back to the greenhouses I'll give them to him, maybe."
James nodded and sighed deeply. "If Professor Longbottom ever gets back."
He had to admit, after tonight, that seemed like a very big "if" indeed.
The next few weeks were a time of surreal contrasts.
Despite his awareness of the impending attack, James found himself buried in the far more prosaic hustle and bustle of lessons, study, and interminable heaps of homework. It was impossible not to think that this was by design-- Headmaster Grudje made no effort to hide his belief that a busy student had no time for mischief. James, Ralph, Rose and Scorpius, however, secretly agreed that it was more than an effort to curb stinging spells and Dung Bombs. Grudje's homework policies, they felt quite sure, were meant to stifle complaints about the school's increasing lack of privacy, Draconian discipline policies, and nearly absurd security measures.
As summer crept over the school grounds, coaxing the grass to a lush green and combing it with warm, butterfly-laden breezes, new rules were handed down prohibiting the delivery of newspapers and magazines, and restricting all outgoing post to urgent matters.
"Any news that is fit to tell," Grudje explained from the head table at breakfast one Tuesday morning, putting on one of his sickly, completely unnatural smiles, "You may trust myself and your professors to pass on to you. In the meantime, consider yourselves free to devote your full and appropriate attention to the far more important matter of your studies."
On top of this, Hogsmeade weekends were cancelled for the remainder of the year. This, even more than the restricted post, inspired a wave of mutinous rabble-rousing among the students. Unfortunately, Grudje had also instituted a school-wide ban on all unofficial meetings of three or more students, citing an ancient rule about revolutionary cabals. This, he vowed with an utterly transparent display of feigned regret, was a "temporary but necessary measure in a time of international stress".
"It's like he's trying to force us to revolt," Graham Warton seethed as he, Deirdre Finnegan and James stumped their way to Charms. "The more we obey his stupid rules, the more he piles them on."
"Well, count me out of any revolts," Deirdre muttered. "I'm not facing Filch and his stupid cane one more time. He's twisted as a corkscrew, and twice as mean. I'll face expulsion before anymore of his sadistic punishments."
James moaned. "Don't remind me. We still haven't gotten our punishment for that whole disaster with the Jiskra and the Durmstrang cabinet. I think Filch is just letting us stew while he thinks up something especially vicious."
"Break it up, you three," Professor Shert called from the doorway of the Arithmancy classroom as they passed.
James dropped behind Graham and Deirdre, fuming impotently under his breath.
The one good thing to come from the fiasco with the Jiskra was that all classes at Durmstrang had been cancelled until the Durmstrang Cabinet could be repaired. While the cabinet itself had been easily reassembled, the magic that allowed it to serve as a portal had been much more severely damaged, rendering it unstable and dangerous for use. James had observed Professor Flitwick and his sixth year assistant, Hufflepuff Gwynn Hemlock, testing it between mealtimes in the Great Hall, attempting to send teapots through the cabinet, with little success.
"Oh dear me," Flitwick was heard to proclaim as the door opened once more. He sighed. "No point attempting to reparo this one again. Seven times is the limit. Accio broom and dustpan, and please ask the house elves if they have any more teapots."
Meanwhile, Hagrid was thoroughly enjoying his temporary custody of the Jiskra, making it the subject of his Care of Magical Creatures class, much to the mingled curiosity and trepidation of the students.
"Ancient creature, the Jiskra," he said fondly, stroking the heads in turn. The Jiskra preened beneath Hagrid's huge hand, raising the feathered hackles on its heads and flexing its wings. "Why Ed here is almost as old as the dinosaurs."
James choked for a moment, nearly dropping his handful of damp, acrid-smelling wood shavings. "'Ed'?"
"Well I had to give 'im a name, didn' I?" Hagrid chuckled. "O'course it's just temp'rary, while he stays here. I expect he's got a diff'rent name back with 'is friends at Durmstrang."
This admission clouded Hagrid's face for a moment as he pet the Jiskra. For its own part, the lizardy bird hissed and ruffled its greasy red feathers. James was glad to see that, despite Hagrid's fondness for the creature, it was chained to its perch with a tiny silver cuff around one leg.
"As I was sayin'", Hagrid went on, shaking himself. "Ancient creature, the Jiskra, and when I say ancient I don' mean as a species. I mean this partic'lar specimen. The Jiskra's called a Black Phoenix for a reason, see. Why, Ed here barely ages at all until he hits three hundred years old or so. Then he starts to shrink, to lose 'is feathers, to get all wrinkled and ancient looking. The centuries all fall on 'im at once, yeh see, making 'im look like the most pathetic thing yeh've ever seen. Then, Ed builds a nest for himself somewhere secret, usually in the deepest swamps or on top o' cliffs and such, and he lies down there an' makes an egg for himself. After eleven days in that egg, Ed pops back out again as a chick, with 'is aging clock reset straight back to zero."
"You mean," Trenton Bloch clarified, stepping forward as Hagrid beckoned him. "This thing is, like, super old? Thousands of years?"
"Could be millions," Hagrid nodded encouragingly. "That's it, Mr. Bloch, jus' step right in front of 'im. Ed won't see yeh as a threat if you don't act like one. Offer 'im the wood shavin's. They're steeped in a special blend of turpentine, ginger and nurgle water. It's Ed's especial favourite."
Remembering the fiery blasts that had peppered the Great Hall, Trenton stood well back from the Jiskra, extending his open hand as far as he could toward the creature's bobbing heads. After a tense, calculating moment, the Jiskra's right head snapped forward, snatching the shavings from Trenton's hand and gulping them down.
"There!" Hagrid proclaimed happily, clapping Trenton on the back and nearly knocking him over. "Easy as Poisonberry Pie! Ms. Fourcompass, I believe yeh're next."
When it was James' turn, the Jiskra eyed him beadily, hissing with both of its tooth-lined beaks. Hagrid muttered under his breath, taking the shavings from James' hand. "Sorry, James. Same thing 'appened with yer brother. Ed 'as a long memory, yeh know, an' keeps a bit of a grudge. Nothin' pers'nal."
James nodded gratefully. "No problem, Hagrid. I'm not so comfortable around him either."
The new Transfiguration teacher, it turned out, was a seemingly stern young wizard who worked for the Wizarding Examination Authority. Hoffminster Tofty had hair so lank and black and eyes so narrow and cold that he looked, to those familiar with their Hogwarts history, like a younger reincarnation of notorious Potions Master Severus Snape. This effect was ruined, however, the moment Tofty opened his mouth, revealing a high, reedy voice and a pronounced stutter. As much as James wanted to hate Tofty, he couldn't help finding the contrast of his appearance and his voice oddly endearing. Furthermore, even Rose had to grudgingly admit that Tofty was quite accomplished at Transfiguration, with a passion for the subject that was infectious, despite his constant attempts at a stern and imposing demeanour. In fact, the only students who seemed intimidated by Professor Tofty's nearly cartoonish severity were the fifth years who were scheduled to sit under him for their O.W.L. examinations.
Two weeks passed after the disastrous encounter with the Jiskra. Rose received a new wand by post from her parents (inspected thoroughly by Professor Votary), even as she maintained a poisonous grudge against Albus for breaking her previous one.
"You know how Mr. Olivander always says the wand
chooses the witch?" she asked archly, holding up the new wand. "Well this one's never met me before today. I'll be lucky if it doesn't blast us all to bits. I'll be calibrating for weeks."
James sympathized. Despite having returned to Olivander's in person for his own replacement wand, it had required several awkward weeks to get fully used to.
As the days passed, James, Rose and Albus began to harbour some slim hope that Filch had forgotten about their punishment. Finally, on a stiflingly hot Saturday morning, just as the three, along with Ralph, Scorpius and Deirdre Finnegan, were leaving breakfast and considering a gratefully lazy day out by the lake (in carefully separate pairs, of course), Filch rounded them up and herded them downstairs to his office.
He seemed unusually terse, distracted and grumpy, despite the fact that he was engaged in one of his favourite activities: punishing students. James, Rose and Albus followed him silently into his cramped office, frowning worriedly at each other as the old caretaker muttered tensely to himself.
"Sit!" he ordered, waving his cane and summoning three rickety chairs from the corners of the office. To himself, he whined, "Where are they, the dratted things… Ah. No, those are dead, all the magic leaked right out of 'em. Curses. I knows I was keeping one aside here just in case. Ah!" He brandished a very bedraggled black quill, stripped nearly bare of its feathers. He examined it triumphantly in his hand, and then seemed to realize how pathetic the thing looked. The smile fell from his stubbly grey cheeks and he rolled his eyes.
"Here," he ordered gruffly, rummaging on his desk again. "I've only got one of these left, and it doesn't work so well as it once did. Just… just swap it around while you do lines so you all get a taste of it, see?" Gathering two normal quills and adding them to the pitiable black quill, he shoved them into the hands of the waiting students. James took the black quill, noting how limp it felt in his hands, how mashed and lifeless its tip appeared. Filch waved his cane once again. "Parchment!" he commanded. With a soft fwump several sheets fell out of the air onto a small, rickety table between the students. "Now, let me see…" the old Squib grumbled, stroking the sandpapery stubble of his chin. "What was it these three did? Was it illegal loitering? Skipping lessons? No… unsanctioned club meeting?"
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