“Right!” Team Bigfoot responded with slightly less than their original fervor.
“Right,” Wood agreed. “Now get something to drink and limber up. We’re back in the air in three minutes.”
It was nearly full dark by now with only a pink rim spreading along the western horizon. James took a moment to look around the grandstands, hoping to see some sign of his family. Sure enough, he spotted his mum in the grandstand directly behind the Bigfoot platform. She saw him looking and waved at him, her face pale and strained, as if she were desperately wishing the match were over rather than merely at halftime. Next to her was Lily, Aunt Audrey, Cousin Molly, and Viktor Krum, who sat ramrod straight, his face etched with restrained anger.
Join the club, James thought sourly. And then: where’s everyone else?
He scanned the seats all around his mum. There was no sign of Albus. Neither in sight were Uncle Percy, Lucy, or Izzy. James was again visited by that sense of sinking dread. I can’t think about that now, he reminded himself. Win the Clutch match first. Then deal with everything else.
Wood called the team over to the edge of the platform. Halftime was nearly over. James turned away from his family and Viktor Krum, returning to the matter at hand.
But where are they, he thought naggingly, worriedly. What in the world could be so important that Lucy, Izzy, and Albus wouldn’t be here to watch the match?
Shortly enough, though, the teams launched from their platforms and merged into the figure eight course. Professor Sanuye blew his whistle once more and the match launched again into motion, wild and ferocious.
In the midst of it, James forgot about his brother, friend, and cousin completely.
Lucy was watching the match, in fact, in a manner of speaking.
“What’s the score?” Izzy asked, her voice small.
“I don’t know,” Lucy replied quietly. “The scoreboard’s too little to make out from here.”
The two girls sat in a small waiting area on the fourth floor of the Medical College. Nearby, a round desk was dominated by a ghostly miniature representation of the ongoing Clutchcudgel tournament match. The tiny spectral players swooped and zoomed silently through rings no larger than dinner plates. The witch working the desk was plump and pale, her red hair cut so short and curly that it looked like a helmet. She was watching the match whenever she wasn’t glancing furtively at the Wizarding Court officials gathered near the hall.
“Which one is James?” Izzy asked for the third time. She leaned her head against Lucy’s shoulder.
“One of the ones wearing blue and orange,” Lucy answered patiently. “With dark hair. It’s hard to keep track of him with things moving so fast.”
Izzy nodded against Lucy’s shoulder.
From the hallway nearby, voices approached. Lucy looked up, feeling a gulf of nervousness in her stomach. She’d volunteered at the Medical College for the past two months, mostly for extra credit, but also because she liked being around the recuperating patients, liked helping people who were so grateful for even the slightest thing. Tonight, however, she wasn’t working. She wouldn’t have been allowed to be here at all if her father hadn’t been who he was. As a senior vice director in the Ministry of Magic, he was the closest thing to an official representative of Izzy’s home government as was likely to be found. There wasn’t much he could do other than observe, but he was committed to doing that, if nothing else, and Lucy loved him for it. She herself was only there to keep Izzy company until the moment came when the men would call the blonde girl back into the room beyond the hall’s double doors. When Izzy came out of those doors again, she wouldn’t know who Lucy was, or anyone else for that matter. At that point, Izzy would be as alone as anyone on earth could be. Until that happened, Lucy meant to stay by her side.
“What are they going to do to me?” Izzy asked without raising her head.
Lucy pressed her lips together tightly and then said, “They’re going to make you forget.”
Izzy nodded again. “There are some things it’ll be nice to forget.”
Lucy considered this as she stared at the large round desk and the tiny ghostly Clutch players that swirled over it.
“Will I forget my mother?” Izzy asked.
Lucy began to answer and then paused. “Actually,” she answered quietly, “you may not. She wasn’t a witch.”
There was another pause. The voices in the hallway were still talking, quietly and intensely. Lucy heard her father among them. She couldn’t tell what they were saying, but she could see their shadows on the hallway wall, gesturing animatedly.
“Will I forget the lake?” Izzy asked softly. She lifted her head and looked directly at Lucy, her eyes intent. “Will I forget the gazebo and the Wishing Tree?”
Lucy didn’t know what that meant. “Probably,” she ventured. “I expect so.”
Izzy nodded. “Good. That’s good. I don’t want to remember that.”
Lucy sighed deeply. The men in the hall had stopped walking as they talked, but now they approached again. Lucy sensed that they were finally coming for Izzy. For her own part, Izzy wasn’t paying them any attention.
“When it’s all over,” she asked, leaning her head on Lucy’s shoulder again, “will Petra and I be able to go home again? Back to our little rowhouse here at the school?”
Lucy held her breath, her eyes widening slowly. She supposed she could lie to Izzy. After all, in a few minutes, none of it would matter. Izzy wouldn’t remember that she ever had a big stepsister, much less the details of this conversation. And yet, Lucy couldn’t bring herself to tell Izzy anything other than the truth.
“No, Iz,” she said very softly. “I’m sorry. No.”
“Where will we go then?” Izzy asked, and as she raised her head once more, Lucy saw the first cloud of doubt pass over the girl’s face.
“You’ll go… somewhere else,” Lucy answered, not taking her gaze from Izzy’s eyes.
Izzy whispered, “But what about Petra?”
Lucy shook her head and tried to smile encouragingly. It was very difficult. “It’ll be all right, Iz,” she said. “You won’t remember her.”
Izzy’s face began to darken. Her lips pulled down in a slow frown and her brow clouded. Her eyes thickened with sudden tears. “I’ll remember Petra,” she said, certainty and doubt mingling in her words. “I could never forget Petra.”
“I’m sorry, Iz,” Lucy said, cursing herself for ruining the poor girl’s last moments of awareness.
“I won’t forget Petra,” Izzy said again stubbornly. A tear spilled over onto her right cheek and she glanced toward the door. The men came into sight even as she looked. The one in the lead was the arbiter, Albert Keynes. Behind him, looking perfectly miserable, his face pinched into a helpless frown, was Lucy’s father.
“Izabella,” Keynes said, cocking his head slightly and smiling, “come on over here now, darling. We’re all ready for you.”
“No,” Izzy replied immediately, pressing back into her chair. Her lower lip stuck out in defiance.
Keynes stopped in front of Izzy. Still smiling, he hunkered down on one knee before her.
“I’m afraid I can’t take no for an answer, darling,” the man said, tilting his head toward her, as if he meant to play. “Come along with me, and when it’s all over, I’ll give you a lollipop.”
“I won’t remember lollipops when it’s all over,” Izzy replied immediately. “And I won’t remember you. Or Lucy. Or any of the rest of you. And I won’t… remember… Petra.”
Lucy realized that Izzy was crying. Tears ran down her pink cheeks in shining rivulets. They weren’t tears of sadness, however, at least not entirely. Mostly, Lucy realized, they were tears of anger.
“You won’t forget lollipops though,” Keynes smiled, reaching to take Izzy’s hand. “Those you’ll remember just fine.”
Suddenly, unexpectedly, Izzy turned her head and let out a yell. It wasn’t a scream; it was a name.
“Petra!” Izzy c
alled, so loudly that her voice cracked.
“Now listen here,” Keynes said, and grabbed for Izzy’s hand. Izzy wrung it away from him and hugged her knees to her chest.
“Give the girl a moment,” Percy snapped angrily, stepping to get between Izzy and Keynes. Keynes was too close to her, however. He reached for her again, his already pale face growing even paler with annoyance.
“PETRA!” Izzy called again. Her voice rang in the waiting area. The nurse behind the round desk was standing now, one hand covering her mouth and the other flat against her throat.
“Come along now,” Keynes demanded, grabbing at Izzy. Lucy could bear it no longer. She jumped up, not even aware of what she was doing. She was holding Izzy’s hand in her own and Izzy began to clamber after her.
“Oh no you don’t—” Keynes cried, but was cut off as Izzy extended both of her feet at once, connecting with the man’s thin chest. He sprawled backwards, knocking Percy aside. Both men fell to the floor.
“Stop her!” Keynes called, his knees poking up into the air as the court guards scrambled to help him up. “Forget about me! Get the girl!”
“Lucy, no!” Percy called out.
Lucy heard his voice but didn’t so much as glance back as she ran, Izzy at her side. Hands grabbed at them as they sped through the archway into the main corridor, but the girls were young and quick. They ducked between the two guards flanking the entry and darted into the door-lined corridor, making for the stairs beyond.
It was completely hopeless, of course. They’d never make it out of the building and even if they did, where would they go? And yet, Lucy couldn’t stop herself. She ran on, Izzy at her side, even as a red bolt struck the marble floor at her feet, sending up a burst of sparks.
“Petra,” Izzy said, almost to herself, still running. “We have to find Petra…”
Not very far away, Albus followed along with the Clutchcudgel tournament, somewhat indirectly.
He’d stayed back at Ares Mansion as Team Werewolf geared up for the match and left, pausing only for their ceremonial rubbing of the bronze werewolf statue in the front garden. No one asked him why he was still there, not even his mates, Greunway and Shrum, since they had left an hour earlier to get good seats up in the grandstands. Albus watched through the tiny window in the center of the third-floor hall until the team was completely out of sight, their barking grunts lost in the increasing roar of the crowd. Then, as patiently as he could, Albus had waited.
He’d overheard Altaire and Jones talking in the parlor earlier that afternoon. Altaire had heard all about James’ overtures to the other houses, seeking help in the Bigfoots’ attempt to defeat the Werewolves. Both of them had laughed maliciously at this.
“Isn’t it just like the Foots to ask the losers for help in beating the winners,” Olivia Jones had observed, shaking her head. “They should have just come to us. We’d have given them the best advice of all: go home and hide under your beds, little Foots.”
Altaire had chuckled. “We should teach them a lesson,” he’d said, his voice hardening, “just for having the gall to try to rally the whole school against us. We should beat them into the ground like tent pegs even for trying. Make an example out of ‘em.”
“I have an idea,” Jones had agreed and then lowered her voice. Half a minute later, Altaire had yodeled a laugh of pure spite. Albus hadn’t liked the sound of that laugh although he hadn’t heard the details of Jones’ plan. It didn’t matter, really. Team Werewolf’s tactics were never particularly subtle. Probably, they meant to sacrifice a few penalties in favor of taking out a Bigfoot player or two. Albus only hoped that one of the players they eliminated wouldn’t be James.
Albus hadn’t known for sure what he intended to do, but at that moment, he had decided on a plan. It might not work, but then again, it just might.
Besides, it wasn’t as if he would be sabotaging his own team. He would merely be evening the odds.
From his dormitory room, he’d listened to the ebb and roar of the crowd at nearby Pepperpock Down. He’d watched the clock impatiently. Finally, when it had gotten dark enough outside to hide his movements, he had crept out the front door of Ares Mansion and approached the statue of the snarling werewolf.
As before, he could hear the shouts and commands of Team Werewolf echoing from the statue’s muzzle as if on a distant wireless frequency. Albus hunkered in the darkness, waiting for his moment to act. People were still moving along the nearby footpaths—latecomers to the match, hurrying toward Pepperpock Down. None of them noticed the boy hiding in the shadow of the werewolf statue, but Albus didn’t mean to take any chances. He waited and listened, watching for the moment when no one would observe his actions.
Faintly, via the mysterious statue, he heard Altaire’s instructions, shouted to his teammates as the match approached halftime. He could even hear the dull thumps and exclamations as the players collided in air or the buzzing whooshes of the game magic spells. Albus could tell that Team Bigfoot was holding their own against the Wolves, although not well enough to take the lead.
Of course not, Albus thought sourly, they don’t have Liquid Luck on their side. He glanced up at the werewolf statue as he listened. Its eyes glowed faintly, coppery in the last light of the sunset.
Finally, just as Albus was preparing to act, he heard Altaire call out a command, directed at that blockheaded prat, Parker Pentz.
Number nine! Do it now! Phase one, Operation Achilles!
A moment later, a heavy thump and yelp of pain emanated from the statue’s mouth. Albus heard Altaire’s wicked laugh as the unfortunate Bigfoot player screamed, falling away from his assailant.
Nearby, drowning out the thin broadcast of the statue, the crowd roared in Pepperpock Down’s grandstands.
Albus didn’t know what happened next, but he assumed that the Bigfoot player was all right, more or less, since the match continued shortly thereafter.
It was nearly halftime. Albus thought that that was probably the best time to act. He waited for the halftime horn to sound and then climbed carefully to his feet, producing his wand from the sheath in his sleeve. He stood in front of the statue’s glowing eyes, hearing the distant whoops and barks of his team as they congregated for halftime, and then raised his wand.
He opened his mouth to speak the incantation—Convulsis was the spell he had chosen after some consideration—but the words stopped in his throat as the werewolf statue blinked. It moved, shaking its shaggy bronze neck and turning very slightly, as if to face Albus directly. The amber eyes narrowed and a low growl, almost like the purr of a very large cat, emanated from deep within the thing’s metal throat.
Albus froze. This, he had not at all expected. His mouth moved, framing the words of the spell, but he couldn’t speak. Fear had closed off his breath. The statue’s eyes flared brighter and Albus sensed it preparing to pounce on him, to crush him under its weight. He had time to think, Did Havershift enchant it to recognize when it was being threatened, and to defend itself? Is that even possible? Obviously, it was. The truth wrinkled its bronze lips back from its bronze teeth and the growl grew louder, announcing its intention to strike.
And then, suddenly, a hand closed on Albus’ wrist, pushing his arm upright.
“Halt right there, Cornelius,” a voice commanded stridently. “Drop the wand. Now!”
Albus didn’t obey. He barely heard the words. He continued to stare wildly at the crouching werewolf shape before him, but most of the light suddenly seemed to have gone from its eyes. It was no longer moving or growling.
“I said drop it!” the voice commanded again. The hand holding Albus’ wrist tightened painfully and Albus’ hand spasmed, releasing his wand. It fell silently into the grass in front of the statue. Albus finally looked aside and found himself staring into the face of Dayton Englewood, a senior Werewolf student and member in good standing of Professor Jackson’s Salem Dirgus Free Militia. Englewood’s crew cut bristled and his wide pockmarked face was set with a sweat
y gleam of triumph.
“Looks like I caught me a spy,” he said with grim glee. “A spy and a saboteur.”
Despite his fear and frustration, Albus rolled his eyes. “Great,” he said wearily. “Just what you’ve always wanted.”
“Gobbins!” James shouted hoarsely. “Overhead! Brick wall! Now!”
Gobbins acted immediately, stopping his skrim in midair as if he had struck a solid wall and dropping flat onto its surface with the Clutch held beneath him, protected. The Werewolf Bullies swooped over him, barely missing his head as he hunkered down. Instantly, Gobbins sprang up again, rocketing forward, now following the Bullies, drafting behind them. They boggled back at him and then jerked upwards out of the course under the influence of Wentworth’s gravity well.
There was no time to celebrate even as Gobbins swept on toward the goal. The other two Clutches were in the Werewolves’ possession. James leaned over his skrim, driving it forward so quickly that the rings flashed past like fence posts. He caught up to one of the Werewolf Clippers, Olivia Jones, and fired a Zombie hex at her. Somehow, uncannily, Jones jigged to the left at just the right moment, causing the spell to deflect from the center ring as she passed through it. James cursed loudly to himself and ducked through the melee of the center ring, still chasing Jones.
They were only five minutes into the second half when James swooped past Clayton Altaire, who let out a guttural bark of triumph.
“Number four!” he shouted, apparently to one of his teammates. “Phase two! Now!”
James didn’t know what the call meant. A few seconds later, however, a piercing howl rang out over the course. James was so surprised that he nearly fell off his skrim. He swooped out of the course and spun around in a tight corkscrew. There was only one person in the rings who could make a sound like that. Sure enough, Mukthatch had fallen onto his skrim, holding his right knee in pain. His Keeper’s Cudgel was spinning lazily as it fell toward the field far below.
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