Albus nodded. “Yeah, er, I’ve been walking right past this case for almost a whole year and I never really stopped to look at it.” He glanced back at the glass shelves and pointed at the large framed photo. “You know anything about this bloke?”
“Stafford Havershift?” Jackson said, smiling a little incredulously. He chuckled and shook his head. “Of course, being from England, you might not be quite as familiar with him as the rest of us are. Mr. Havershift is the founder of Pandora Potions, the country’s largest elixir and potionfabricating facility. His products are shipped the world over, everything from hair-colouring tonics to magical acids used by the military. I daresay you’ve probably got some of his products in your own toilet.”
Albus shrugged. “Perhaps. So he’s kind of a big deal here at Werewolf House, eh? Him being a former Werewolf and all.”
“Indeed he is,” Jackson nodded, turning serious. “His perseverance in the face of adversity is an example to us all. As a Clipper for Team Werewolf, he led us to our first string of tournament victories in many years. I was President of Werewolf House in that time as well and I remember it quite vividly. After his unfortunate accident, he swore that he would devote himself to the support of the team for his entire life, regardless of his inability to play. He graduated, founded Pandora Potions with the help of his father, and became a global success. And yet, despite his wealth and his international business obligations, he still finds time to stay involved here at Alma Aleron. He was chairman of the Werewolf Booster Troop for many years. Just over a decade ago, he donated the bronze werewolf statue you’ve seen standing before this very house.”
“Is that so?” Albus replied evenly.
“He came for the dedication of it,” Jackson added, straightening his back and nodding proudly. “It was a glorious day, attended by alumnus from decades past. There had to have been three hundred people on the slope of Victory Hill, which we had just regained after a very impressive tournament victory over Team Pixie. Mr. Havershift asked the current Clutchcudgel team to come forward so that he could have his picture taken with them and the statue. ‘Stroke its muzzle,’ he told them as they gathered around the statue, and I can still remember the pride in his smile, the twinkle in his eyes. ‘Stroke it and see if it brings you victory,’ he told them. That was the beginning of the tradition you yourself have surely witnessed. Am I correct, Mr. Potter?”
Albus nodded slowly, turning back to the smiling man in the photograph. It was a moving photograph, of course. In it, Havershift’s grin was smug, confident, even a little mean.
Albus’ instincts were clicking neatly into place. He didn’t know as much stuff as Rose, but he was quick.
Here was a man, Stafford Havershift, whose chance at a senior-year tournament victory had been stolen away from him, along with much of the use of his right hand—his wand hand. This did not stop him, however. It barely even slowed him down. In classic Werewolf House fashion, the man apparently forewent wand magic and immersed himself into his second love: potionmaking. Driven and probably ruthless, he succeeded wildly, all the while simmering in anger about what had been taken from him, about that last tournament victory that he had been unable to taste. In response, he had vowed to support Team Werewolf until his dying day—to help them achieve as many more of those victories as possible—and as a token of that support, he had donated a large bronze statue with mysterious amber eyes.
Was it possible that no one else had figured it out? Or did they know—at least a little—and just pretend not to? To Albus, it seemed very obvious: a wealthy team supporter who just happens to be an international potionmaking expert gives the team a talisman for them to rub before every game and from that day on… they never lose. Coincidence?
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Albus mumbled under his breath, peering out the front window at the statue on the lawn, glinting in the moonlight. “I mean, seriously. Nobody is that good.”
A few days later, as he was coming home from classes, Albus angled over toward the statue. He glanced furtively around and then peered closely at the amber eyes set into the statue’s head just over the snarling muzzle. He saw his own reflection in them, hazy but bright, tinted golden. Tentatively, he reached out and touched the cold metal of the wolf ‘s nose. It was skillfully cast, both soft and hard under his fingertips, worn bright by the hands that had rubbed it over the years. Feeling a slight shudder, Albus stroked his palm along the wolf’s carved muzzle. A moment later, he retreated into the house, virtually running up the steps to his dormitory.
Once inside, he slammed the door and hurried to his bed. He placed his knapsack onto the bed, unzipped it, and rummaged inside until he found a sheet of light pink parchment, nearly as thin as tissue. He had just come from PotionMaking class with Professor Baruti and had secretly nicked the flimsy bit of parchment from the stash in the Potions closet. Among the Potions students, the pink parchment sheets were known as ‘Teach-cheats’ because of the way Professor Baruti used them to measure the ingredients of the class projects. He’d merely dip one corner into their cauldrons, examine it critically, and then suggest more eye of newt or a pinch less powdered spider bile.
Carefully, Albus lay the thin parchment onto his right hand, which was still cool from the metal of the bronze statue. With his left hand, he pressed the Teach-cheat hard against his palm. He waited ten seconds, counting slowly under his breath, and then drew his hands apart again. He carried the sheet of pink parchment to the window so he could examine it in the sunlight.
Slowly, faintly, cursive handwriting began to curl out on the paper, as if written by an invisible hand.
Albus read the words as soon as each one became clear.
Peppermint oil (trace)
Powdered slagbelly toenail (133 particles)
Essence of eel (miniscule)
Wreakramble root (degraded; 0 potency)
Albus leaned over the parchment, frowning at the words. He could trace the origins of all of these ingredients. Most of them were remnants from his recent Potions class and his lunch prior to that. The Wreakramble root was from last week, when Professor Baruti had taken the class to Shackamaxon for a special lesson with the native woman, Madam Ayasha. Albus reminded himself that he should probably wash his hands a little more often. He sighed. The Teach-cheat didn’t seem to have picked up anything from the bronze statue outside.
But then, very faintly and slowly, another line began to write out on the tissue-like parchment. Albus leaned over it again, straining to make out the blurry words.
Composite: Felix Felicis (derivative hybrid; memory)
Albus very nearly gasped. His eyes widened as he stared down at the parchment and its faint words. He knew what ‘memory’ meant in potions terms. It meant that there wasn’t any detectable remnant of the listed ingredient, but a sort of halo or aura of it remained, imprinted onto the parchment like an echo.
“Felix Felicis,” he whispered to himself, awed. A moment later, a crooked smile crept onto his face and he shook his head slowly. He was familiar with the substance, although he’d never actually encountered any of it in real life.
“It’s probably in those amber eyes,” he mused aloud. “After all, it’s a liquid, isn’t it? It might be infused in the metal as well, but there’d have to be a store of it somewhere inside, otherwise, the potion memory would be useless.”
Albus narrowed his eyes. He collected the used Teach-cheat, folded it up, and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his slate grey blazer. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d do with what he’d learned, but he was glad of it nonetheless. Maybe he’d tell James about it. Not that it would do any good, of course, but it would feel good to be able to reveal such a juicy bit of house gossip.
Felix Felicis, he thought, smiling ruefully. Better known as Liquid Luck.
Albus might have told James that very night if it hadn’t been for the arrest of Petra Morganstern.
In retrospect, both James and Albus understood that that had been the eve
nt that set everything fully into motion, like a lever being pulled and starting up a sort of magical merry-goround, one that starts slowly, but gradually spins faster and faster, becoming an unstoppable blur.
They were walking to the library after dinner in the cafeteria, Albus, James, Ralph, Zane, and Lucy, the Tuesday before the final Clutchcudgel tournament match, when the word came down. A rabble of voices wafted into the early summer air, distracting Albus from the Quaffle he and Ralph had been tossing around. Ralph’s toss struck Albus in the chest and bounced to the ground, unseen, as the gathering turned toward the increasing noise.
“It’s that girl!” someone called out in a sort of hushed shout. “The one that cursed Mr. Henredon! They’ve finally convicted her!”
“But why are they bringing her here?” a Vampire boy asked, trotting past Albus, heading to join the gathering crowd.
“Petra?” Ralph asked, turning to look at James and Zane. “Did you hear anything about this?”
James shook his head, his face growing alarmed. “No. Not a thing! Come on!”
As one, the group broke into a run, Albus and Lucy following in the rear. By the time they reached the throng of students, a commanding voice rang out from the center, overruling the babble.
“Everyone please stand back,” the voice said, its tone one of unquestioned authority. Albus saw a very severe man in a dark grey tunic and short vest, his hands raised. The left hand was held palm out, the right clutched his wand. “For your own safety and for the security of the campus, return immediately to your houses and classrooms. Anyone caught interfering with Wizarding Court affairs, even by accident, will be prosecuted. Am I clear?”
The last was not really a question and the set of the man’s face made that fact very obvious. Students began to fall back, although none seemed in any hurry to return to their houses and classrooms. As the mob broke apart, Albus saw a tight assembly of men and women dressed in more of the grey tunics and vests, their faces all nearly expressionless. The arbiter, Albert Keynes, was among them, smiling faintly, his hat pulled tightly down over his bald head. The troop began to walk slowly toward a large building—the campus medical school—levitating something carefully between them. Albus realized what it was at the same moment that James and the rest did.
“Petra!” James said, nearly groaning. He began to move forward again, reaching for his own wand, but Ralph and Zane both grabbed a shoulder and held him back, their faces pale and grave.
Petra Morganstern floated upright in the center of the gathered witches and wizards, her head down, her hair hanging like a dark curtain over her face. Albus guessed by the dangle of her arms and the loose curls of her fingers that she was unconscious and felt his own pang of mingled pity and fear. Her bare feet dangled six inches over her shadow as she floated along the footpath, suspended in the center of no less than eight pointing wands.
“Petra!” James called again, as if he meant to wake her. Albus knew it was a futile effort. She wasn’t merely asleep. She had been Stunned into unconsciousness. Probably it had been the only way the court officials could apprehend her. Still, it hurt his heart a little to see it. It was a bit like seeing a noble dragon declawed and defanged, or a captured warrior princess with all of her hair cut off. There was something shameful about it and something rather deeply frightening. Not just because Petra was so silent in her unconsciousness, but because Albus knew that they wouldn’t be able to keep her unconscious forever. Eventually, she would wake up.
Slowly, carefully, the gathered court policemen and women maneuvered Petra’s body into the wide front doors of the Medical College. Keynes held one of the doors open for them, smiling that infuriating, smug smile. Inside, Albus knew, were potions that could place someone into a deep sleep, virtually dreamless.
But they won’t be able to keep her unconscious forever, Albus thought again, and shuddered faintly. Eventually, Petra would wake up. Perhaps Izzy would be gone by then, spirited off to her new home in the Muggle world, her memory of Alma Aleron, the magical world, and Petra herself completely erased. Perhaps they would have succeeded in imprisoning Petra by then, for all the good it might (or might not) do. Unlike James, Albus didn’t know that Petra was a sorceress, but he sensed nonetheless that she was no typical witch. Eventually, sometime, Petra would surely wake up. It was inevitable.
And when she did, Albus was quite sure of one thing: when she woke up, she would be very, very angry.
21. UNLIKELY ALLIANCES
“Petra!” James called, not even feeling Ralph and Zane’s hands on his shoulders, holding him back. Distantly, he was aware that he had produced his wand from his robes, was raising it as if he meant to attack Albert Keynes and his troop of court officials. It was preposterous, of course, but for the moment, he was beyond such practicalities. They had taken her, had Stunned her unconscious like some sort of wild animal, and were dragging her away for imprisonment.
The doors of the Medical College swung slowly shut, cutting off the view of the pathetically hovering young woman and her cadre of guards. Keynes watched James through the gently closing doors, his expression sadly patronizing. Did you really think I wouldn’t learn the truth? His gaze seemed to say. And then, with a soft click, the doors closed.
“No,” James groaned. “It’s not supposed to happen this way. They weren’t supposed to convict her yet! We’re so close!”
“It’s not over yet,” Zane said quietly, seriously, finally releasing James’ shoulder. “We can still set things to rights.”
Ralph nodded. “Yeah, it isn’t over yet.”
James barely heard them, however. He could feel the invisible silver thread that connected him to Petra. It was cold, flowing down the center of his arm like a vein of ice, filling his head with murky visions and shreds of dreams, broadcast directly from Petra’s sleeping mind. She was dreaming of her capture, replaying it over and over. James caught phantom glimpses of his own parents on the street outside their flat, helpless and angry. Lily was there, standing on the footpath next to Izzy. They were holding hands. Both of them looked shocked, disbelieving. In the center of the street, Keynes and his crew called Petra out, surrounding her, raising their wands toward her. He heard Petra’s own voice in her memory, confused and dismayed, claiming that she would come quietly, that it was all a mistake…
It isn’t a mistake, Keynes had said blandly, his own wand trained unflinchingly on her. And you certainly will come quietly.
There were flashes then, coming from many directions at once. Petra had tried to fight their force, but she hadn’t been prepared. It was too sudden, and there’d been too many of them. Blackness had overtaken her then, and in her unconscious mind, the scene began to play over again, like a needle skipping on an old record.
Anger swelled in James’ chest, overwhelming him. Before he knew it, he was running, darting toward the Medical Center, his wand still in his hand, gripped hard enough to emit red sparks from its tip. He heard Zane and Ralph call out to him again followed by the alarmed cries of both Albus and Lucy, but those things didn’t matter. He followed the invisible silvery thread, chasing it like a beacon.
He burst through the doors of the Medical College and bolted through the lobby, his footsteps echoing loudly on the marble floor. He made it only a few paces before a burst of light startled him. His wand sprang from his hand and clattered to the floor, spinning off into the hall.
“Leave it,” a voice commanded quickly, even as James scrambled after it. James stopped and spun around, panting. Albert Keynes was standing in a corner just inside the main doors, his own wand raised comfortably, as if he had merely been waiting for James.
“Good choice,” Keynes said, unsmiling. “I don’t blame you for being upset, young man, but I would hate to see you do anything rash. You really must learn to control your emotions.”
“She’s not guilty!” James said, almost shouting in rage and frustration. “You must know that!”
Keynes cocked his head pityingly. “I’d
advise you to leave now, Mr. Potter. I will turn your wand over to the Chancellor, from whom you may collect it at a later time, once you have calmed yourself.”
“She didn’t do it!” James repeated, advancing on Keynes, his hands opening and closing at his sides, helplessly empty.
“Ms. Morganstern is guilty, Mr. Potter,” Keynes said calmly, his voice almost infuriatingly bland and quiet. “I have exhausted every possibility of her innocence. It is my job. Justice must be served.”
“Who’d you talk to?” James demanded, shaking his head in fury. “Whoever they are, they lied!”
Keynes raised his chin slightly, his pale face growing stony. “Beware what questions you ask, my young friend,” he said coolly. “You may get answers you do not wish to hear.”
“You don’t know anything!” James spat, stopping in the center of the foyer. Tears of frustration pricked the corners of his eyes, but he willed them back. “You can’t know anything. Whatever you’ve heard, it’s all lies!”
“I fear,” Keynes said, his voice so low and quiet that James had to strain to hear him, “that it is you who have been lied to, Mr. Potter. Lied to by Ms. Morganstern herself.”
James’ face heated in an angry blush, almost as if he knew that Keynes was right. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, dropping his own voice.
“I know what happened at Morganstern Farm,” Keynes said slowly, his eyes boring into James. “Do you?”
“I know enough,” James said, his cheeks still burning. “I know that she escaped from an awful life with her stepmother. Her sister too.”
Keynes was shaking his head gravely. “You know what Ms. Morganstern wishes you to know. But she has kept the worst of it from you.”
“And what’s the worst of it—” James demanded, but Keynes was answering already, interrupting him, his words calculated to cut like a razor.
“Ms. Morganstern killed her stepmother,” Keynes said carefully, making certain that James heard every word. James stared at him dumbly, and Keynes went on, drawing a sad little sigh. “She was a Muggle woman, powerless and helpless to fight back against such ferocity. Ms. Morganstern killed the woman using magic that was both stunning and inexplicable. She used a tree to do it. It sounds rather incredible, doesn’t it? Apparently, Ms. Morganstern brought the tree to life, forced it to collect her stepmother, and then commanded it to drown her in a nearby lake. Worse, she did it within sight of the woman’s own daughter, Izabella Morganstern. I scarcely believed it myself, but the evidence of the scene of the crime corroborates the story quite convincingly. The crater where the tree once stood is still there. And, of course, the witness is very persuasive.”
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