“Hi James,” she said, coming to join him on the couch. “Sorry. I was napping. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. I think it’s for lack of anything better to do.”
James blinked at her, perplexed. “You…,” he began, but stopped himself. He shook his head slightly. “Never mind. How have you been?”
“All right,” she replied, looking toward the fire. “Reading, mostly. Professor Baruti comes by in the evenings sometimes and helps me with my French. He’s very kind and understanding about all of this.”
James thought for a moment. Finally, in a quiet voice, he said, “I think we’ve come up with a way to clear your name, Petra.”
She turned back to him, frowning slightly. “How?”
James wobbled his head back and forth, unsure how much to say. “It’s complicated. But Zane and Ralph are helping. I think we might be onto something. If it works out, we’ll find the people who really did attack the Vault of Destinies and steal the crimson thread. Then you’ll be in the clear.”
To James’ surprise, Petra was looking at him doubtfully. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, James? I mean, it sounds…,” she paused, as if choosing her words very carefully, “… er, dangerous.”
“Maybe,” James admitted. “But it’s worth it, isn’t it? I mean, Petra, you’re in really serious trouble here. If that arbiter, Keynes, says you’re guilty of attacking the Vault and freezing Mr. Henredon, you could go to prison for a long, long time. If there’s something I can do to stop that from happening—”
Petra smiled at James as if he was rather silly. “I won’t go to prison, James. Izzy and I will be fine. We’ve been through worse scrapes.”
“You have?” James frowned incredulously. “Petra, that Keynes idiot was serious. Mum says there are more of his kind floating around the streets outside, keeping an eye on the flat, making sure you don’t make a break for it or something. You can’t just blow this off. Izzy needs you. And so do… er, other people. If you get sent to wizarding prison…”
Petra sighed deeply. “I’m not blowing it off, James. I just… I can’t worry about that. Not now. There are other things. More important things.”
“Petra,” James exclaimed, exasperated. “What’s more important than being accused of attempted murder and the theft of some crazy dimensional artifact?”
In answer, Petra looked at James and smiled a little crookedly. “You tell me, James. We’re still connected, aren’t we? That silver cord you conjured, it’s still there, even now. Don’t you feel it?”
James glanced down at his right hand. He opened it, palm up on his lap. He could feel the cord, now that she had mentioned it. He could even (although it might have been his imagination) see it very faintly.
“No,” he lied. “I think it’s faded away now. I can’t see your dreams anymore.”
Petra held up her own hand. James looked at it in the light of the fireplace. “You can’t lie to me, James, even if you want to,” Petra said, her voice low, amused. Slowly, she lowered her own hand onto his. When they touched, James felt a small burst of mingled heat and cold. It spread up his arm, making him shiver, and yet he didn’t pull his hand away. Underneath the thrumming energy of the magical cord, he could feel the prosaic thrill of Petra’s hand resting upon his, her fingers cool and slender, curling around the heel of his palm. He looked up at her, speechless.
“The cord is still there,” she said very quietly. “It connects us, probably forever, because you were willing to die for me. I know that now, James. But instead of making a trade—your life for mine, like the laws of deep magic demand—you tapped into something even deeper. Something beyond normal magic. Do you know what that is?”
James hadn’t really considered it, not since that night on the stern of the Gwyndemere, but now, looking into Petra’s eyes, he thought he did know the answer after all. He nodded.
“It came from you, somehow,” he said, not a little awe in his voice. “I tapped into your power, the same power you used to reconnect the anchor chain to the ship without even using your wand. The power you almost used on Keynes when he was trying to separate you and Izzy that day in Administration Hall.”
Petra nodded, her face solemn. “You tapped into my power, yes. I don’t know how. Maybe because of how you feel for me and because of what we’ve been through together, and maybe even just because of the intensity of the moment. You were willing to trade your life for mine, but the magic was bigger than that. The magic saved both of us. But, James, things like that don’t happen without a price. I fear that someday…”, she shook her head and looked away again, toward the flickering flames of the fireplace, “someday you might regret it.”
James was shocked. “No way!” he whispered harshly, noticing the look his Aunt Audrey was giving them from across the room. He lowered his voice again and went on. “Petra, that’s crazy. I’d do it again right now. And I’ll do whatever I can to find the people who really did curse Mr. Henredon so you can be free again. But Petra—” He stopped and knitted his brow. Barely whispering, he went on, “How can all of this be? What makes you so… powerful all of a sudden?”
Petra drew a long, deep breath, thinking. Finally, she met his eyes again. “I’ve always had that power,” she admitted. “I didn’t understand it, and neither did anyone else, especially my grandparents. They were afraid of me because my magic was so much greater than theirs. They didn’t believe I would know how to use it, that I would grow up to be something terrible and cruel. But their fear shamed me. As a result, I trained myself not to use my powers. I taught myself to use a wand instead of just my hands. The wand was like a funnel, making the magic smaller, weaker, more like everyone else’s. Eventually, by the time you first met me, I’d become so used to the wand that I’d forgotten what it was like to work magic without it.”
James’ brow was still furrowed as he listened to her, but she was looking past him now, her eyes unfocused, her hand still on his.
“Now, though, both of my grandparents are dead,” she said faintly. “There’s no reason to hide anymore. I broke my wand on my last night at Papa Warren’s farm. I didn’t do it on purpose. I just let it feel the full weight of my powers. It broke right down the middle, split as if it had been struck by lightning, just like my very first wand, when I was a little girl and hadn’t yet learned how to rein it in. Now I don’t need a wand. Now I’m learning to use the power the way I was meant to. That’s what you tapped into, James,” she said, focusing on him again. “For better or worse, you locked us together. When you conjured this silver cord, you bound us, maybe forever. Soul to soul. And that, James, you may well someday regret. Someday, you may curse yourself for it, and me too.”
James’ thoughts swam as he looked at the slight girl next to him. It all sounded perfectly daft to him, and yet he could sense the honesty of her words. She believed everything she said. If she hadn’t been touching him, her hand on his, making the silver cord pulse like a dynamo, he might have been able to doubt her. Now, however, tiny shreds of memories came into his head, directly from Petra’s own thoughts.
He saw her as a young girl, closing a set of window drapes with a wave of her small hand. Another memory showed her in a sunlit wood, moving rocks through the air with a pointing finger, forming them into carefully constructed, mysteriously sad towers. Finally, he saw her as a ten-yearold girl standing frightened in the darkness of a cellar, several rats lying dead at her feet. She had thought the rats to death, merely sending her mind into their little beating hearts and squeezing them, bursting the little organs like balloons. She had hated the rats and feared them, but lying there dead at her feet, their feet curled and their black eyes staring like drops of oil, Petra felt terrible about what she had done. She tried to think them back to life, but that was where her powers—her prodigious, mysterious powers—ended. She could kill, but she could not return to life. Young Petra cried in the darkness of the cellar, cried for the rats that she had first feared, and then, when it was too late, pitied. Sh
e cried for her own lost innocence. She was, after all, a rat murderer.
And then, buried beneath all of these secret visions, curling under and through them like a snake, was a memory of a woman’s voice, crying out with terror and a sort of mad, vindictive spite. I always knew you’d be the death of me, you horrible girl, the voice screeched. And I was right! I was riiiigght!
James shook himself. Involuntarily, he pulled his hand away from Petra’s. The visions, and the mad, screeching voice, stopped at once. Petra blinked at him, and then, sheepishly, she pulled her own hand back.
“Petra,” James whispered. “How is this possible? What… what kind of witch are you?”
Petra sighed once more and shook her head. “I’m not a witch, James.”
In the warmth of the room, James felt suddenly cold. He remembered the vision of the black castle and the strange, dead island. Like the visions he had seen when Petra had touched him only moments before, that had also been a peek into Petra’s dreams and thoughts. And in that vision, the Morgan part of Petra’s mind, somehow separate and imprisoned, had spoken aloud: I am the Princess of Chaos, she had said. I am the Sorceress Queen.
The Sorceress Queen.
James opened his mouth, not sure what he was about to say, when Lily, Molly, and Izzy suddenly ran past, their feet thumping wildly, their voices giggling like a flock of birds.
“Tag!” Izzy said, tapping James on the shoulder. “You’re it!”
With a flurry of screams and laughter, the three girls scurried away. James watched them, and then turned back to Petra.
“You’re it,” she smiled, shrugging one shoulder. “You’d better go get them.”
“Petra,” James began, but she shook her head.
“No more for now, James,” she said, and James could sense that she meant it. “Besides, I think they just ran into your father’s study. You’d best herd them back out before they disturb any of his things.”
James could barely bring himself to interrupt his hushed conversation with Petra, especially when he felt so close to such an important revelation, but he didn’t seem to have any choice. Petra had already turned away, standing and moving toward the fire. With a great sigh, James stood as well.
“All right, you lot,” he began as he entered the study door. “You know you’re not supposed to be in here. Especially you, Lil—”
He was drowned out by a cacophony of giggles and shrieks as all three of the girls scrambled from behind chairs and under tables. They rushed past him, obviously hoping that he meant to chase them. James shook his head in weary annoyance, marveling at how his sister seemed to play down to the level of the youngest child in her presence, and then looked around the study to ensure that nothing had been disturbed.
The room was rather like a small library, crowded with chairs, end tables, and lamps. The far end was dominated by a large desk and a leather swivel chair with a very high back. The chair was about as un-Harry-Potter as anything James had ever seen. Its high, pointed shoulders were adorned with silver rivets, making it look, on the whole, like something that belonged in the basement of Erebus Mansion. Obviously, the flat had come already furnished. James knew that his father would never pick out such a thing for himself.
Moving toward the desk, James reached over it and gave the chair a tentative push. It turned silently, revolving somewhat malevolently on its oiled base. Behind the chair, propped on a low shelf below the window, was the small Shard of the Amsera Certh that Merlin had given his dad. Its face was silvery with rushing smoke, unfocused. James knew that it connected, when magically empowered, to the Auror offices back at the Ministry of Magic. Using the Shard, his father kept in close contact with Titus Hardcastle and the other Aurors.
Below the Shard, in the shadow of the shelf, was a gleaming iron lockbox. James’ eyes widened. This, he knew, was the lockbox that his father had taken to keeping his Invisibility Cloak and Marauder’s Map in ever since last year, when they had been stolen out of his trunk by Scorpius Malfoy. James moved quickly around the desk, his curiosity getting the better of him. Stopping the huge leather chair from turning, he sat down on it, facing the window. He tapped the lockbox with his wand.
“Alohomora,” he whispered quickly.
There was a flash of golden light, and for a moment, James thought that his basic Unlocking Spell had worked. The flash didn’t diminish, however. It spun around the lockbox, as if repelled from the iron shape. Finally, with a crackle of magical energy, the bolt spat back at James, striking him in the chest and shoving both him and the chair backwards. The chair rammed against the desk, producing a rattling thud.
James shook himself, alarmed, and quickly rammed his wand back into his pocket, scrambling to get up. He should have known that his father’s counter-spells would repel anything that he, James, might use to open the lockbox.
There were footsteps just outside the study. A shadow moved on the partially open door. Without thinking, James dropped back onto the huge desk chair. The chair began to spin again and he clumped his feet to the floor, halting its movement. He stared furiously out the darkened window in front of him and held his breath.
The door swept open behind him, and James realized, with some bemusement, that he could see the entire room reflected in the high study window. The shape of the batwing chair blocked out a lot of the reflection, of course, but he could see the top of the door and indistinct shadows on the nearby bookshelves as someone entered the room, leaving the door wide open behind them.
“What would Dumbledore say?” the figure mumbled quietly, and James realized, with a mixture of relief and trepidation, that it was his father. Harry Potter had finally returned from his raid. He sighed quietly to himself, “Think, Potter. What would Dumbledore say? Or even Snape?” And then, in a louder voice, “In here, gentlemen. Close the door behind you, if you would.”
Slowly, James hunkered lower in the black chair, keeping his feet planted firmly on the floor to prevent it from swiveling around and revealing him. More footsteps approached and in the window’s reflection, James saw two more men enter the room. They wore the black suits and ties of the Magical Integration Bureau.
“I thought it best,” Harry said, moving toward his desk and leaning on it, facing the men, “that we debrief immediately. Thank you for coming inside.”
“We wouldn’t have it any other way,” one of the men said stiffly. The image in the window’s reflection was somewhat distorted, but James recognized the man. He was the one they had first met outside the Zephyr after the crashing attack along the streets of Muggle New York. His name, James recalled, was Price.
“Well then,” Harry began briskly, “it seems that our information was accurate enough. That is one good thing we can take from this evening’s exercise. The W.U.L.F. is on the run. We can expect that they will be much clumsier now, having been routed from their headquarters.”
“And this seems like a good thing to you?” Price said evenly. “I don’t know about you, but I’d rather stamp out the whole nest of spiders at once than try to chase them one by one into the shadows. Wouldn’t you, Espinosa?”
“I sure wouldn’t call tonight a win for the good guys,” Espinosa replied coolly. “They know we’re onto them now. They’ll be watching for us. No more element of surprise.”
“We have eyes all over the city,” Harry said. “Now that Tarrantus’ agents are on the run, we will surely sense their movements. If we have to track them down one by one, then that’s how we will do it. It wouldn’t be the first time the Department of Aurors disassembled a network of dark wizards one brick at a time.”
Espinosa commented, “Would’ve been a lot easier if we’d have been able to take Tarrantus alive.”
“Sure would,” Price nodded, and James could see that he was watching Harry closely. “I don’t suppose you magical types have the ability to extract information from the dead, do you? No? That’s a shame. And here we ‘Muggles’ all thought you were so much more advanced than that.”
“Pretty convenient,” Price countered. “Tarrantus being found murdered in his recently abandoned headquarters and us not being able to interview the deceased to find out where his people might have escaped to or what their plans were.”
“No sign of the missing senator, either,” Espinosa added reasonably. “Very convenient.”
“Convenient for whom, exactly?” Harry said, and James heard the barely restrained anger in his voice. “Since I’ve been spearheading the international search for these villains, I can say that the lack of any prominent leads and the apparent murder of their leader is decidedly inconvenient. I had very high hopes that this whole mess would be concluded tonight, as you well know.”
“So you keep saying,” Price countered. “And yet there is no question that somebody alerted the W.U.L.F. to our raid only minutes before our arrival, giving them just enough time to escape. Not to mention the very damning fact that your name, Mr. Potter, was scrawled on the wall with the victim’s own blood.”
“A warning,” Harry said stonily. “They want me gone, precisely because we are this close to capturing them. They’ve been attempting to thwart our attempts ever since they hired a fleet of pirates to sink us on the journey here. Tarrantus himself led the attack on the train and personally delivered the warning, telling us to leave immediately or face the consequences.”
“And now, Tarrantus is lying cold in a wizarding morgue in downtown New Amsterdam,” Espinosa nodded. “I mean, it could be that the name written in blood on the wall was a warning that you should give up and run home, Mr. Potter. But we cannot rule out that it might, in fact, have been the victim’s way of identifying his killer.”
“That’s ridiculous, Mr. Espinosa, if you’ll pardon me for being blunt,” Harry said coldly, “even apart from the fact that I was with you at the time the man was killed. I’ve seen Killing Curses in action in my time. The curse that ended Tarrantus’ life was not only brutal, it was instantaneous. He wasn’t just killed. He was destroyed. I promise you, there were no final moments during which the man could have scrawled the name of his murderer on the wall in his own blood. Tarrantus was dead before he hit the floor and someone else wrote my name on the wall with his blood.”
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