Текст книги "James Potter and the Hall of the Elders' Crossing"

Автор книги: G. Norman Lippert

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 37 страниц)

6.Harry's Midnight Meeting

        James hurried back to the Gryffindor common room after classes, shrugging out of his school robes as he ran up the steps. He changed into a jacket and an evening cloak, matted his hair down with water from the basin, frowned critically at himself in the mirror, and then ran back down the steps two at a time to meet his dad.

        Harry was waiting with Neville by the portrait of Sir Cadogan.

        "A spirited tussle it was," Cadogan was saying, leaning nonchalantly against the frame of his painting and waving his sword illustratively. He was talking to Neville, who looked extremely uncomfortable. "I saw the whole thing of course. Took place right there. Bollox Humphreys was his name, and he fought like a man possessed. Lost, of course, but noble as a thousand kings. Spilt most of his innards right where you're standing and still swung his sword with more strength than a mountain troll. Gallant man. Gallant!"

        "Ah, James, here we are," Neville said loudly as James approached. Harry and Sir Cadogan looked up. Harry smiled, looking his son up and down.

        "Your mum will be glad to know you're putting that cloak to use."

        "To be honest, this is the first I've had it out of the trunk," James admitted, grinning sheepishly.

        Harry nodded, "And it'll go right back into the trunk after tonight, won't it?"

        "Guaranteed."

        "Good man," Harry acknowledged. James fell into step next to his dad as they headed toward a staircase.

        "Wait!" Cadogan cried, sheathing his sword and jumping into the center of his frame. "Have I ever told you about the Battle of the Red Mages? Bloodiest massacre these walls have ever seen! Happened just at the foot of those stairs! Next time, then. Courage!"

        "Who's that?" James asked, looking back over his shoulder.

        "You'll get to know him," Neville said. "Enjoy your ignorance while you can."

        As they walked, James listened as his dad told Neville about the current happenings at the Ministry. There had been an arrest of several individuals involved in a counterfeit Portkey operation. More trolls were being seen in the foothills, and the Ministry was stepping up patrols to keep the troublesome idiots from venturing into Muggle territories. The new Minister, Loquatious Knapp, was preparing to give a speech on expanded trade with Asian wizarding communities, including lifting the ban on flying carpets and something called 'shades'.

        "In other words," Harry said, sighing, "things are more or less the way they always are. Little breakouts here and there, small conspiracies and squabbles. Politics and paperwork."

        "What you mean," Neville said, smiling crookedly, "is that peace can be a pretty boring thing for an Auror."

        Harry grinned. "I guess you're right. I should be thankful my job isn't any more interesting, shouldn't I? At least I get to spend most nights at home with Ginny, Lil, and Albus." He glanced down at James. "And take on an ambassador's assignment that just happens to afford me the chance to see my boy during his first week at Hogwarts."

        "I understand he's only been to McGonagall's office once so far," Neville commented mildly.

        "Oh?" Harry said, still eyeing James. "And what for?"

        Neville raised his eyebrows at James as if to say you have the floor.

        "I, er, broke a window."

        Harry's smile hardened a bit around the edges. "I look forward to the story of how that happened," he said thoughtfully. James felt his dad's stare like it was a set of tiny weights.

They reached a double doorway with both doors thrown wide open. Delicious smells wafted down the hall.

        "Here we are," Neville said, standing aside to allow Harry and James to enter first. "The Americans' quarters during their stay. We've given them most of the southwest turret. Had it temporarily refitted with a recreational area, common room, kitchen, and staff to suit their needs."

        "Sounds nice," Harry said, examining the space. The common room was, in fact, rather small, with circular walls, high, rough-beamed ceilings, a cramped stone fireplace, and only two very tall, narrow windows. The Americans had, however, been very busy. There were bearskin rugs on the floors and tall, vibrantly colored tapestries hung on the walls, positioned over the stone staircase that spiraled the room. A three-story bookcase was crammed with gigantic volumes, most accessible only via a very rickety-looking wheeled ladder. The most amazing detail, however, was a mind-bogglingly complex armature of brass gears, joints, and mirrored lenses that hung from the ceiling, filling the upper chamber of the room and moving very slowly. James stared up into it, delighted and amazed. It made a very faint squeaking and clicking as it moved.

        "You've discovered my Daylight Savings Device, my boy," Ben Franklyn said, coming from a large arched doorway beneath the spiral staircase. "One of my absolute necessities whenever I travel for long periods, despite the fact that it's a veritable bear to pack, and the calibrations when I set it up again are simply dreadful."

        "It's wonderful," Neville said, also staring up into the slowly ratcheting network of mirrors and wheels. "What does it do?"

        "Let me demonstrate," Franklyn said eagerly. "It works best in full daylight, of course, but even the stars and moon of a bright night can provide adequate light. An evening such as this should prove most satisfactory. Let me see…"

        He moved to a battered high-backed leather chair, settled himself into it carefully, and then consulted a chart on the wall. "Third of September, yes. Moon is in the fourth house, it is, let me see… approximately a quarter past seven. Jupiter is approaching the final leg of… mm-hmm…"

As Franklyn muttered, he produced his wand and began pointing it at bits of the Device. Gears began to spin as parts of the Device whirred to life. Bits of the armature unfolded as other bits pivoted, making room. Mirrors began to slide, positioning behind cycling groups of lenses, which magnified them. Ratchets clicked and shuttled. The entire device seemed to dance slowly within itself as Franklyn directed it with his wand, apparently making calculations in his head as he went. And as it moved, something began to form within it. Ghostly beams of rose-colored light began to appear between the mirrors, pencil thin, turning motes of dust into tiny specks of fire. There were dozens of the beams, brightening, swiveling into place, and eventually forming a complicated geometric tracery. And then, in the center of the tracery, shapes shimmered into place. James turned on the spot, watching raptly as tiny planets coalesced, formed out of colored light. They spun and orbited, tracing faint arcs behind them. Two larger shapes condensed in the very center, and James recognized them as the sun and the moon. The sun was a ball of rose light, its corona spreading several feet around it. The moon, smaller but more solid, was like a silver Quaffle, equally divided between its light and dark sides, turning slowly. The entire constellation weaved and turned majestically, dramatically lighting the brass Device and spilling delightful patterns of light over the entire room.

        "Nothing so healthy as natural light," Franklyn said. "Captured here, through the windows, and then condensed within a carefully calibrated network of mirrors and lenses, as you can see. The light is filtered with my own optical spellwork for clarity. The final result is, well, what you see here. Excellent for the eyesight, the blood, and one's health overall, obviously."

        "This is the secret to your longevity?" Harry asked, rather breathlessly.

        "Oh, certainly this is a small part of it," Franklyn said dismissively. "Mostly, I just prefer it to read by at night. Certainly, it's more fun than a torch." He caught James eye and winked.

        Professor Jackson appeared in the archway. James saw him glance from Franklyn to the light display overhead, a look of tired disdain on his face. "Dinner, I am told, is served. Shall we adjourn to the dining room or shall I have it brought in here?"

        Along with Harry, James, Neville, and the representatives from the Ministry, most of the Hogwarts teaching staff was present, including Professor Curry. To James' consternation, Curry told Harry all about James' skills on the football field, assuring him that she would work to see that said skills were developed to their fullest extent.

        Contrary to his dad's suspicion, the meal was remarkably diverse and enjoyable. Madame Delacroix's gumbo was the first course. She carried it to the table herself, somehow not spilling a drop despite her blindness. Even more curiously, she directed the ladle with her wand, a gnarled and evil-looking length of graperoot, dishing a portion into each bowl at the table while she stared at the ceiling and hummed rather disconcertingly. The gumbo was indeed spicy, thick with chunks of shrimp and sausage, but James liked it. Next came fresh rolls and several varieties of butter, including a brown and sticky goo that Jackson identified as apple butter. James tasted it carefully on a hunk of bread, and then spread a gigantic dollop on the remainder of his roll.

        The main course was rack of lamb with mint jelly. James didn't consider this typical American food, and commented as much.

        "There's no such thing as American food, James," Jackson said. "Our cuisine, like our people, is simply the sum total of the various world cultures we come from."

        "That's not entirely true," Franklyn interjected. "I am pretty sure we can lay undisputed claim to the spicy buffalo wing."

        "Will we be having those tonight?" James asked hopefully.

"My apologies," Franklyn said. "It is rather difficult to collect the ingredients for such things unless you possess Madame Delacroix's unique voodoo capabilities."

        "Is that so?" Neville inquired, helping himself to more mint jelly. "And what abilities are those, Madame?"

        Madame Delacroix composed herself, having given Professor Franklyn a wilting, albeit blind glare. "De old man, he don't know what he speaks of. I just know about de sources he not as familiar with, bein' more int'rested in his machines and gizmos."

        Franklyn's smile, for the first time, seemed icy. "Madame Delacroix is being modest. She is, you may already know, one of our country's foremost experts on Remote Physio-Apparition. Do you know what that is, James?"

        James didn't have the slightest idea, and yet something about the milky gaze of Madame Delacroix made him reluctant to say so. Franklyn was watching him earnestly, expecting a response. Finally, James shook his head. Before Franklyn could explain, however, Harry spoke up.

        "It just means that the Madame has, let's say, different means of getting around."

        "'Different means' is one way to put it," Franklyn chuckled. James felt uneasy, hearing that chuckle. There was something nasty in it. He noticed that Franklyn was emptying what was likely his third glass of wine. "Think about it, James. Remote Physio-Apparition. Can you factor it out? It means that poor old blind Madame Delacroix can project herself, send a version of herself out into the wide world, collect things, and even bring them back. And the beauty of it is, the version of herself she can project isn't poor or old or blind. Isn't that right, Madame?"

        Delacroix stared blindly at a spot just over Franklyn's shoulder, her face a grim mask of anger. Then she smiled, and as James had seen on the day of the Americans' arrival, the smile transformed her face. "Oh, deah Professah Franklyn, you do tell such tales," she said, and her strange bayou accent seemed even thicker than usual. "My skills were never as grand as ye speak of, and they're far less now that I'm de old woman ye see before ye. If I could project such a sight, I hardly think I'd ever let anyone see me as I really am."

        The tension in the room broke and there was laughter. Franklyn smiled a bit tightly, but let the moment pass.

        After dessert, Harry, James, and the rest of the Hogwartians retired to the common room again, where Franklyn's Daylight Savings Device had reproduced a condensed and shimmering version of the Milky Way. It lit the room with a silvery glow that James thought he could very nearly feel on his skin. Jackson offered the adults an after dinner cocktail in tiny glasses. Neville barely touched his. Both Miss Sacarhina and Mr. Recreant sampled tiny sips and gave forced, rather strained smiles. Harry, after holding it up to the light to look through the amber liquid, downed his in one gulp. He squinted and shook his head, then looked inquiringly at Jackson, unable to speak.

        "Just a little of Tennessee's finest, with a little wizard afterburn thrown in," Jackson explained.

        Finally, Harry thanked the Americans and bid them goodnight.

        Retracing their steps through the darkened corridors, Harry walked with his hand on James' shoulder.

        "Want to stay with me in the guest quarters, James?" he asked. "I can't guarantee I'll be able to see much of you after tonight. I'll be busy all day tomorrow, meeting with the Americans, keeping our friends from the Department of Ambassadorial Relations from making 'an international incident' of themselves, then I'm off home again. What do you say?"

        "Sure!" James agreed instantly. "Where are your quarters?"

        Harry smiled. "Watch this," he said quietly, stopping in the middle of the hall. He turned around and paced idly, looking thoughtfully up at the dim ceiling. "I need… a really cool room with a couple of beds for me and my boy to sleep in tonight."

        James stared at his dad quizzically. Several seconds went by as Harry continued to pace back and forth. He seemed to be waiting for something. James was about to ask him what he was up to when he heard a sudden noise. A low grind and rumble came from the wall behind him. James turned around just in time to see the stonework alter and shift, reforming itself around a huge door that hadn't been there a moment before. Harry glanced down at his son, smiled knowingly, then reached and opened the door.

        Inside was a large apartment, complete with a set of draped bunk beds, framed Gryffindor posters on the walls, a wardrobe containing Harry's trunk and James' school robes, and a fully equipped washroom. James stood inside the door, opening and closing his mouth, speechless.

        "The Room of Requirement," Harry explained, plopping onto a low, overstuffed chair. "I can't believe I never told you about it."

        James got ready for bed, but his dad simply changed into a pair of jeans and a sweater and freshened up in the basin.

        "I need to go out for a little while," he told James. "After dinner tonight, Professor Franklyn asked me to meet him privately. He wanted some time to discuss a few things outside of tomorrow's official meetings." There was something about the way Harry said this that told James his dad preferred a private chat over an official meeting anyway. "I shouldn't be too long, and I'll be just down the hall, in the Americans' quarters. Breakfast tomorrow, you and me?"

        James nodded happily. He still hadn't brought himself to tell his dad about his abysmal failure on the Quidditch pitch, and he was happy to put it off as long as possible.

When Harry was gone, James lay in the top bunk, thinking about the events of the night. He remembered the sudden nastiness of Franklyn, which had surprised him. It was almost as great a change in character as the change that came over the voodoo queen, Madame Delacroix, when she smiled. Thinking of Madame Delacroix reminded James of the way she'd spooned the gumbo, unseeingly, operating the ladle with her creepy black wand, never spilling a drop.

        James realized he was simply too excited to sleep. He slid off the top bunk and prowled the room restlessly. His dad's trunk sat open in the bottom of the wardrobe. James looked into it idly, then stopped and looked closer. He knew what it was when he saw it, but was surprised his dad would have brought it along. What use would he have for it here? James considered it. Finally, he reached into the trunk and withdrew his dad's Invisibility Cloak, unfolding its smooth, heavy length as it came.

        How many times had the young Harry Potter explored the grounds of Hogwarts safely hidden away under this cloak? James had heard enough tales, from both his dad, Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione, to know that this was an opportunity not to be missed. But where to go?

        James thought for a moment, and then smiled a long, mischievous smile. He slipped the cloak over his head, just the way he used to on the rare occasions when Harry would let him play with it. James vanished. A moment later, the door of the Room of Requirement seemed to open all by itself, rocking slowly on its huge hinges. After a pause, it shut again, carefully and silently.

        Tiptoeing, James headed for the quarters of the representatives of Alma Aleron.

        James had only gotten halfway down the corridor when there was a flicker of motion. Mrs. Norris, Filch's awful cat, had darted across the passage that intersected the corridor twenty feet ahead. James stopped, his breath caught in his chest. "Shouldn't you be dead by now, you ratty old carpet sample?" he whispered to himself, cursing his luck. Then, worse, Filch's voice came echoing down the passage.

        "That's it, dearest," he said in a singsong voice. "Don't let the little buggers escape. Teach them a lesson that will have their little mousey kin shivering with fear." Filch's shadow leaked across the floor of the intersection, weaving as he approached.

        James knew he was invisible, but he couldn't help feeling that he should hunker up against the wall. He sidled into a narrow space between a doorway and a suit of armor, trying to keep his breathing shallow and silent. He peered around the elbow of the suit of armor.

Filch stepped into the intersection, his gait rather unsteady. "Find a hidey-hole, did they, precious?" he asked the unseen Mrs. Norris. He reached into his coat and produced a silver flask. He took a swig, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and then spun the cap back on. "There they are, coming this way again, my dear. Come, come."

        Two mice scurried into the intersection, looping and dodging as they approached Filch's feet. Mrs. Norris pounced, batting at them, but the mice scampered away, darting along the wall toward where James was hiding. Mrs. Norris followed, growling. To James' great chagrin, the mice scampered behind the suit of armor and wriggled under the edge of the Invisibility Cloak. Their cold little feet scurried over James' bare toes, then they stopped between his feet, sniffing the air as if sensing a hiding place. James tried to push them out from under the cloak with his toes, but they refused to go.

        Mrs. Norris padded down the corridor intently, her whiskers twitching. She hunkered along the front of the suit of armor's base, one paw outstretched, then pounced around it, stopping inches from the edge of the Invisibility Cloak. She looked around, her eyes flashing, sensing the mice were nearby, but not seeing them.

        "Don't tell me those dumb animals have bested you, my dear," Filch said, scuffling down the corridor toward them.

        James watched Mrs. Norris. She had encountered the Invisibility Cloak before, years earlier. James knew the stories, having been told them by both Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron. Maybe she remembered the smell of it. Or maybe she was sensing James himself, his heat or scent or the beat of his heart. She raised her eyes, narrowing them, as if she knew he was there and was trying very hard to see him.

        "Don't be a sore loser, my dear Mrs. Norris," Filch said, coming closer still. He was almost near enough that if he reached out, he might inadvertently touch James. "If they got away, they'll just tell their rodent friends about you. It's a victory either way you slice it."

        Mrs. Norris inched closer. The mice between James' feet were getting nervous. They tried to hide under each other, scooting further back between James' feet. Mrs. Norris raised a paw. To James' horror, she brushed the edge of the Invisibility Cloak with it. She hissed.

        The mice, hearing the hiss, panicked. They scampered out from under the cloak, darting right between Mrs. Norris' feet. She jumped at the sight of them, ducking to watch them scurry away into the corridor. Filch laughed raspily.

        "They put the spook on you, precious! I'd never have expected it. There they go! After them, now!"

        But Mrs. Norris half turned back toward James, her baleful orange eyes narrowed, her slit pupils flared wide. She raised her paw again.

"Go, Mrs. Norris, go!" Filch said, his mood swinging to annoyance. He shoved her with his foot, scooching her away from James and toward the mice, which had disappeared further along the corridor. Filch's foot caught the edge of the cloak, pulling it away from James' feet. He felt cool air on his toes.

        Mrs. Norris looked back toward James and hissed again. Filch, however, was too sodden to take heed. "They went that way, you blind old thing. I'd have never guessed a pair of dumb animals would get the jump on you. Let's go, let's go. There're always more near the kitchens." He ambled on into the shadows of the corridor and eventually Mrs. Norris followed, throwing occasional rankled glances back towards James.

        When they turned the corner, he exhaled shakily, composed himself, then continued down the corridor, running lightly and feeling extremely lucky.

        When he reached the door to the Americans' quarters it was closed and bolted. In the darkness, James could hear the voices of his dad and Franklyn inside, but they were muffled and unintelligible. He was about to give up and head downstairs, thinking he might perhaps find Cedric's ghost again, or even the Muggle intruder, when the voices inside the door grew louder. The bolt socked back and James scrambled out of the way, forgetting for a moment that he was hidden under the cloak. He pressed himself against the wall on the opposite side of the corridor just as the door creaked open. Franklyn emerged first, talking quietly. Harry followed, closing the door with the practiced stealth of any good Auror. "Practice being quiet when you don't need to," Harry had told his son on many occasions, "and you won't need to think about it when you do."

        "I find it's safer to move around during a private conversation," Franklyn was saying. "Even our own quarters are subject to eavesdropping by those whose philosophies differ from my own. At least this way no, unwanted ears can hear the entirety of our dialogue."

        "Funny thing," Harry said. "I spent so much time sneaking around these halls and corridors when I was a student that even as an adult, it's difficult to avoid the instinct to skulk and sneak, for fear that I might get caught and be given detention."

        The two men began to walk slowly, apparently meandering in no particular direction. James followed at a safe distance, taking care not to breathe too heavily or stumble against any of the statues or suits of armor that lined the walls. "Things haven't changed much, you know," Franklyn said. "Now, however, we have worse things than detention to worry about."

        "I don't know," Harry said, and James could hear the wry smile in his voice. "I had some pretty horrible detentions."

        "Mm," Franklyn murmured noncommittally. "The history of both our schools has involved some unsavory characters and unnecessary ugliness. Your Miss Umbridge, our Professor Magnussen. Your Voldemort, our… well, honestly, we have no one in our history that compares to him. Indeed, he was a terrible threat to all of us while he lived. Our duty is to ensure that such things don't happen again."

"Am I to assume that this meeting, then, is an opportunity to compare notes about such threats? Off the record, so to speak?" Harry asked seriously.

        Franklyn sighed. "One can never have too many friends or too many sources, Mr. Potter. I am not an Auror, and I do not have any official authority or policing jurisdiction even in my own country. I am just an old teacher. Old teachers, however, are often underestimated, as you certainly know. Old teachers see quite a lot."

        "You have your own version of the Progressive Element at Alma Aleron?"

        "Oh, it's beyond that, unfortunately. For most of the students and even the staff, the facts of Voldemort and his Death Eaters are up for conjecture. It's incredible how short a time must pass before a certain kind of mentality feels it is safe to turn history onto its head."

        "The Progressive Element here knows they need to be very careful," Harry said in a low voice. "Enough people are still alive who have firsthand memories of Voldemort and his atrocities. Enough people still remember lost family and friends, killed at the hand of his Death Eaters. Still, the lure to challenge the status quo, whatever it may be, is strong in the young. It's natural, but typically short-lived. History will out, as they say."

        "History is bunk," Franklyn said disgustedly. "I should know. I lived during quite a bit of it, and I can indeed tell you that sometimes, there is, in fact, a wide gulf between what gets reported and what actually happened."

        "I would expect that that is the exception and not the rule," Harry stated.

        Franklyn sighed as they turned a corner. "I suppose. The fact is, though, that the exceptions give rabble-rousers like the Progressive Element all the ammunition they need to challenge any historical record they wish. The history of Voldemort and his rise to power, as we know it, doesn't fit their agenda. Thus, they carefully attack it, sowing the seeds of doubt among minds shallow enough to believe the distortions."

        "It sounds," Harry said, keeping his voice low and conversational, "like you have a pretty good idea what their agenda is."

        "Of course I do, and so do you, Mr. Potter. The agenda hasn't changed for a thousand years, has it?"

        "No, it hasn't."

        "Harry Potter." Franklyn stopped in the darkness of the corridor, looking at Harry's face. "Even now, a sizeable minority in my country believe that Lord Tom Riddle, as they prefer to call him, has been unfairly demonized by you who defeated him. They prefer to believe that Voldemort was a revolutionary hero, a fresh thinker, whose beliefs were simply too much for the traditional ruling class to tolerate. They think he was destroyed because he threatened to make things better, not worse, but that the wealthy and powerful were resistant even to a change for the good."

James, standing several feet away, hidden under the cloak, could see his dad's jaw clenching as Franklyn spoke. But when Harry responded, his voice remained calm and measured. "You know that these are lies and distortions, I assume."

        "Of course I do," Franklyn said, waving a hand dismissively, almost angrily. "But the point is that they are attractive lies to a certain type of person. Those that preach these distortions know how to appeal to the emotions of the populace. They believe the truth is a wire to bend to their will. It is their agenda only that they care for."

        Harry remained stoic and unmoving. "And the agenda, you believe, is the domination of the Muggle world?"

        Franklyn laughed rather harshly, and James thought of the nasty chuckle the professor had made during dinner, when discussing Madame Delacroix's powers. "Not to hear them tell it. No, they are crafty these days. They claim to be for the exact opposite. Their rallying cry is absolute equality between the Muggle and magical worlds. Full disclosure, the abolition of all laws of secrecy and non-competition. They preach that anything less is unfair to the Muggles, an insult to them."

        Harry nodded grimly. "As we are seeing here. Of course, it is a two-edged sword. Prejudice and equality in the same message."

        "Certainly," Franklyn agreed, resuming his walk along the corridor. "In America, we are seeing a resurgence of stories about Muggle scientists capturing witches and wizards, torturing them to discover the secret of their magic."

        "A throwback to the old Salem witch trials?" Harry asked.

        Franklyn laughed, and this time there was no malice in it. "Hardly. Those were the good old days. Sure, witches were put on trial, and loads of them were burned, but as you know, any witch worth her wand wouldn't be hurt by a Muggle bonfire. She'd stand in the flames and yell for a while, just to give the Muggles a good show, then transport herself from the pyre flames to her own fireplace. That was the origin of the Floo Network, of course. No, these days, the stories of witches and wizards being captured and systematically tortured are pure fabrications. That doesn't matter to the faithful, though. The culture of fear and prejudice works side-by-side with their mission of 'equality'. Full disclosure, they claim, will bring peace and freedom. Continuing the program of secrecy, on the other hand, can only lead to more attacks on wizarding society by an increasingly invasive Muggle world."

        Harry stopped by a window. "And once they've achieved their goal of total disclosure with the Muggle world?"

        "Well, there's only one outcome to that, isn't there?" Franklyn answered.

        Harry's face was thoughtful in the moonlight. "Muggles and wizards would descend into competitions and jealousies, just like they did in eons past. The dark wizards would make sure of it. It would start as small challenges and outbursts. Laws would be passed, enforcing equal treatment, but those laws would become the basis for new contentions. Wizards would demand to be placed into Muggle power structures, all in the name of 'equality'. Once there, they'd push for greater control, more power. They'd win over Muggle leaders, using promises and lies where they could, threats and the Imperius Curse where they couldn't. Eventually, order would break down. Finally, inevitably, there would be all-out war." Harry's voice had gone soft, considering. He turned to Franklyn, who stood watching him, his face calm but dreadful. "And that's what they want, isn't it? War with the Muggle world."