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

Автор книги: G. Norman Lippert

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        "Ladies and gentlemen, fellow classmates, greetings," she said, her voice crisp and ringing. "The members of Team B claim that there are three points to their argument, their 'three assumptions'. Team A will argue that there is, in actuality, only one 'assumption' that is valid for debate tonight, their other two arguments being completely dependent upon it. That 'assumption' is the notion that history, as a science and as a study, is not reliable. Team B must convince us that history, rather than being trustworthy, is a complete fabrication, woven by the whims and deliberate manipulations of a small group of incredibly powerful ruling witches and wizards. These ruling individuals must be powerful indeed, because the history they have allegedly invented is, in fact, still in the memory of many of those still living today. Our parents and grandparents, our teachers, and yes, our leaders. They were there when this supposedly fabricated history took place, much of it right here on these very grounds. Using the logic of Team B, the Battle of Hogwarts either never occurred or occurred so differently as to be completely meaningless. If this is so, then we may well argue their other 'assumptions', such as the assertion that there is no necessity for the Law of Secrecy and that dark magic is an invention of the Auror Department. If, however, the historical record of the rise of the Dark Lord and his bloody quest for power and dominion over the Muggle world can be shown to be accurate, the rest of Team B's claims fall as well. Thus, we will spend our energies on that argument only, with apologies to Team B."

        There was another moment of charged silence, precipitated by the mention of the Dark Lord, then another burst of applause, equal in volume to the previous, but scattered with exuberant whoops and whistles.

        "A short but pithy opening statement by Miss Morganstern," the announcer's voice said. James saw the man in the purple bowler and read his words as they flowed from his wand to the broadcasting funnel. "Apparently crafted on the spot as a response to Miss Corsica's threefold outline. This promises to be a direct and spirited dialogue, ladies and gentlemen."

For the next forty minutes, members of each team took to the podiums, offering argument and counterargument, all timed and officiated by Professor Franklyn. The audience had been instructed to refrain from applause, but this had proven impossible to prevent. Once one round of applause had been sounded for a team's argument, it seemed incumbent upon supporters of the opposing viewpoint to cheer their own side as well. Night descended on the Amphitheater, ominously dark, with only a thin sickle moon low on the horizon. Enchanted lanterns floated over the stairs and archways, leaving the seating areas in shadow. The stage glowed in the center, lit like noonday in the glow of Professor Flitwick's gently floating phosphorous globes. Zane faced off against Heather Flack, debating the assertion that recorded histories were always manufactured by the victors.

        "I'm from the United States, you know," Zane said, addressing Heather Flack across the stage. "If your statement is true, it's a remarkable thing that I've ever learned anything about my country's occasionally terrible past, from our treatment of Native Americans, to the Salem witch-hunts, to the one-time institution of slavery. If the victors fabricate our histories, how is it that I know that even Thomas Jefferson once owned slaves?"

        Benjamin Franklyn winced at that, then nodded slowly, approvingly. The supporters of Team A applauded uproariously.

        Finally, with no clear outcome, the captains of both teams approached the podiums for final arguments. Tabitha Corsica still had first option.

        "I appreciate," she began, glancing at Petra, "that my opponent in this debate has made it a point to restrict discussion to this one central tenet: that the recent history of the wizarding world has been enhanced and stylized to instill terror of some fabled, monstrous enemy. To be specific, they have continuously raised the image of 'the Dark Lord', as they prefer to call him. If Miss Morganstern wishes to evade the other valid facets of tonight's discussion, I will concur. If, that is, she is willing to debate the details of the one figure around whom all the other details revolve. Let us discuss the treatment of Lord Tom Riddle."

        A distinct gasp of surprise and awe washed over the crowd at the mention of Voldemort's name. Even for Tabitha Corsica, James thought, bringing up Tom Riddle seemed like a terrible risk, even if he was, in fact, the heart of the issue. James sat forward in his seat, his heart pounding.

"'The Dark Lord', as the Auror Department likes to call Tom Riddle," Tabitha said into the hushed darkness, "was indeed a powerful wizard, and perhaps even a misguided one. Overzealous, he may have been. But what, really, do we know for sure about his plans and his methods? Miss Morganstern will simply tell you he was evil. He was a 'dark' wizard, she will say, intent only on power and death. But really, do such people even exist? In comic books, perhaps. And in the minds of those who breed fear. But is anyone, in reality, utterly and irredeemably evil? No, I suggest that perhaps Tom Riddle was a misguided but wellmeaning wizard whose desire for Muggle-wizard equality was simply too radical a notion for the magical ruling class to allow. The powers-that-be put together a very careful campaign of half-truths and outright lies, all designed to discredit Riddle's ideas and demonize his followers, whom the Ministry-controlled media dubbed 'Death Eaters'. Despite this, Riddle's reformers were eventually able to win enough confidence to assume control of the Ministry of Magic for a short time. Only after a vicious and bloody coup were the old powers able to defeat Riddle and his reformers, killing Tom Riddle in the process and defaming what he stood for as mercilessly as they could."

        As Tabitha spoke, a grumbling spread around the assembled crowd. The grumbling grew into isolated shouts of outrage, then calls of "Let her speak!" Finally, just as she finished, the crowd erupted into an agitated frenzy that James found frightening. He glanced around. Many students had stood and were shouting through cupped hands. Several had climbed onto their seats, stomping or shaking fists. James couldn't tell who, among the crowd, was shouting for or against Tabitha.

        At the height of the disturbance, James had a vague sense of Ted Lupin and Noah Metzker huddling around something. Suddenly, there was a burst of blinding light between them, throwing them into stark silhouette. The light shot upwards, filling the Amphitheater with its glow. At about a hundred feet, the ball of light exploded into a million tiny lights. The crowd hushed, bewildered, every eye tilted up. The tiny lights swam together, forming shapes. There was a collective gasp as the lights formed the huge shape of the legendary Dark Mark: a skull with a snake squirming out of the mouth. Then, almost instantly, the shape was overwhelmed by a stylized lightning bolt shape. The lightning bolt seemed to strike the skull, which bit the snake in half. The front half of the snake rolled over dead, its eyes turning to little crosses, and then the skull broke in half. The lightning bolt vanished as a sign popped up out of the broken skull:

You'll laugh your skull off

at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes!

Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade Locations!

Custom Orders our Specialty!

        There was a long, silent moment of complete bewilderment as everyone stared up at the glittering letters. Then the letters broke apart and fell, showering prettily into the Amphitheater. There was a titter of laughter somewhere.

        "Well," Professor Franklyn said, having stood and moved center stage, "that was, I must admit, a well-timed, if somewhat puzzling, diversion." There was some scattered, embarrassed laughter. Slowly, people began to resume their seats. James turned toward Ted and Noah, who were squinting and looking dazed, blinded by the Weasley Brothers' special-order fireworks.

        "Bloody Weasleys made a public service announcement out of it," Ted muttered.

        Noah shrugged. "Guess that's why it was free of charge."

"Ladies and gentlemen," Franklyn continued, "this is indeed a subject of much passion for many of us, but we must not allow ourselves to become carried away. Miss Corsica has made some assertions that are, to many of us, very difficult to hear. However, this is a debate, and where I come from, we do not," he said with great emphasis, "squash debate simply because an argument makes us uncomfortable. I hope we can complete this discussion with dignity, otherwise, I am sure the Headmistress will agree with me that postponing final arguments will be the only recourse. Miss Morganstern, I believe you had the floor."

        Franklyn sat back down, and James sensed that he was far angrier than he was letting on. Petra stood behind her podium for several seconds, eyes down. Finally, she looked up, obviously shaken.

        "I admit I don't know quite where to begin in responding to Miss Corsica's frankly incredible hypothesis. The Dark Lord was not merely evil because it was convenient for those in power to call him so. He used unspeakable methods to gain and maintain power. He was known for freely using, and for instructing his followers to use, all three Unforgivable Curses. Lord Voldemort was no more interested in Muggle equality than… than…" She stopped, fumbling. James pressed his lips together furiously. He felt for her. There were so many lies to address. Any that slipped past would be touted as truths she was reluctant to admit.

        "Miss Morganstern," Tabitha said, her voice beseeching, "do you have any basis for these claims, or are you simply repeating the things you've been told?"

        Petra looked over at Tabitha, her face pale and furious. "Only the totality of recorded history, and the living memories of those who experienced it firsthand," she spat. "It is incumbent on you, I suggest, to provide proof for your claims that Lord Voldemort was anything other than what all of accepted record tells us he was."

        "Since you mention that," Tabitha said smoothly, "I believe that there are individuals here this evening who were firsthand witnesses to the Battle of Hogwarts. We could settle accounts right now, if we desired, by interviewing them in person. This is not a courtroom, though, so I will merely ask the following: Can anyone in attendance, anyone who was there at the Battle, deny that Lord Tom Riddle himself stated for all to hear that he deplored the loss of any blood in battle? Can anyone deny that he pleaded with his enemies to meet with their leader personally, so that violence could be avoided?"

        Tabitha peered out over the audience. There was perfect silence but for the distant drone of the crickets and the creak of wind in the trees of the Forbidden Forest.

        "No, none deny it because it is the truth," she said, almost kindly. "Many died, of course. But it is a matter of fact that many more died than Lord Tom Riddle desired. All because those who opposed him could not bear for him to be known as anything other than a murderous madman."

        Petra had regained her composure. She spoke now, clearly and strongly. "And is it the act of a peace-loving reformer to seek out and personally murder the family of an infant, then attempt to murder the infant as well?"

        "You speak of Harry Potter, then?" Tabitha said, not missing a beat. "The man who, ironically, happens to be the Head of the Auror Department?"

        "You deny it is true, then?"

        "I deny nothing. I simply question and challenge. I suggest only that the truth is a far more complex thing than we have been allowed to believe. I submit that allegations of cold-blooded murder and attacks on children, all of which are rather conveniently unprovable, factor very well into the doctrine of fear that has ruled us these past twenty years."

        "How dare you?" James heard his own voice before he realized he'd meant to speak. He was standing, pointing at Tabitha Corsica, trembling with rage. "How dare you call my dad a liar? That monster killed his parents! My grandparents are dead because of him, and you stand there and tell us that it's some sort of made-up story! How dare you?" His voice cracked.

        "I'm sorry," Tabitha said, and her face was, indeed, a portrait of compassion. "I know you believe that is true, James."

        Professor Franklyn had stood and was moving forward, but James shouted again before Franklyn could speak.

        "My dad killed your great hero!" he called, his eyes blurring with tears of rage. "That monster tried to kill my dad twice, the second time because my dad gave himself to him. Your great savior was a monster, and my dad finally defeated him!"

         "Your father," Tabitha said, her voice rising and becoming stern, "was a half-rate wizard with a good PR department. If it wasn't for the fact that he'd been surrounded by greater wizards than himself at every turn, we wouldn't even know his name today."

        At that, the crowd exploded again, angry outbursts and shouts filling the space like a cauldron. There was a clatter onstage. James looked and saw that Ralph, who'd never even spoken, had jumped up, knocking over his chair. Tabitha turned and looked at him, and he met her eyes for a second. Sit down, she mouthed at him, her eyes livid. Ralph returned her glare, then turned resolutely and left the stage. James saw it, and even in the midst of his anguish and fear at the nearly rioting crowd, his heart rejoiced.

        There was no point in continuing the debate any further. Headmistress McGonagall joined Professor Franklyn on the stage and both shot red flares from their wands, restoring order to the Amphitheater. With no preamble, the Headmistress instructed all the students to return immediately to their common rooms. Her face was stern and very pale. As the crowd muttered and grumbled, funneling through the arched entryway back into the castle proper, James saw Ralph working toward him through the crowd. He moved aside until the larger boy caught up.

        "I can't do it anymore," Ralph said to James, his voice low and his eyes downcast. "I'm sorry she said those terrible, stupid things. You can keep hating me if you want, but I just can't keep up with all this Progressive Element rubbish. I don't know anything about it, really, except that it's just too much work to be so… so political."

        James couldn't help grinning. "Ralph, you're a brick. I don't hate you. I should apologize to you."

        "Well, let's apologize later, OK?" Ralph said, working his way toward the archway with James following in his wake. "Right now, I just want to get out of here. Tabitha Corsica has been staring holes into me ever since I left the stage. Besides, Zane says that Ted's invited us to hang out in your common room. He wants to gloat over having won over a member of Team B."

        "That won't bother you?" James asked.

        "Nah," Ralph replied, shrugging, "it's worth it. Gryffindors have better snacks."

10.Holiday at Grimmauld Place

        The next Monday, James, Zane, and Ralph stood outside the door of Headmistress McGonagall's Advanced Transfiguration class until the last of her students left and she was gathering her things.

        "Come in, come in," she called to the three boys without looking up. "Stop lurking outside the door like vultures. How may I help you?"

        "Madam Headmistress," James began tentatively, "we want to talk to you about the debate."

        "Do you, now?" she asked, glancing up at James for a moment, then shouldering her bag. "Why, I cannot begin to imagine. The sooner we can all forget that fiasco, the better."

The boys scrambled to follow the Headmistress as she strode toward the door. "But nobody is forgetting it, Madam," James said quickly. "It was all anybody talked about the whole weekend. People are getting really stirred up about it. There was almost a fight out in the courtyard yesterday, when Mustrum Jewel heard Reavis McMillan call Tabitha Corsica a lying twit. If Professor Longbottom hadn't been nearby, Mustrum probably would've killed Reavis."

        "This is a school, Mr. Potter, and a school is, in its simplest form, a place where young people gather. Young people are occasionally prone to have spats. This is why, among other reasons, Hogwarts employs Mr. Filch."

        "It wasn't a spat, Madam," Ralph said, following the Headmistress out into the corridor. "They were really mad. Daft mad, if you know what I mean. People are coming unglued about this whole business."

        "Then, like Mr. Potter says, it is fortunate Professor Longbottom was nearby. I fail to see, precisely, why this is your problem."

        Zane trotted to keep up with the Headmistress' stride. "Well, the thing is, ma'am, we're just wondering why you're letting it all go on? I mean, you were there when the Battle took place. You know what this Voldemort guy was like. You could just tell everyone how it was and put Tabitha in her place, neat as you please."

        McGonagall stopped suddenly, leaving the boys to scramble to a halt near her. "What, may I ask, would you three wish me to do?" she said, dropping her voice and looking at each one intently. "The truth about the Dark Lord and his followers has been common knowledge for thirty years, ever since he murdered your grandparents, Mr. Potter. Do you suppose that my repeating it one more time will dispel all the revisionist rabble-rousing that has been going on, not only at this school, but throughout the wizarding world? Hmm?" Her eyes were like diamond chips as she glared at them. James realized that she was, if anything, even more agitated about the debate than they were. "And suppose I summon Miss Corsica to my office and forbid her from disseminating these lies and distortions. Do you expect that this 'Progressive Element' of theirs will simply give up? How long do you suppose it would be before we'd be reading an article in the Daily Prophet about how the administration of Hogwarts is working with the Auror Department to stifle the 'free exchange of ideas on school grounds'?"

        James was stunned. He had assumed that the Headmistress was indulging Tabitha Corsica for some reason, allowing, for a time, her charade to continue. It simply hadn't occurred to him that McGonagall might not, in fact, be capable of addressing the matter without making it worse.

        "So what do we do, ma'am?" James asked.

"We?" McGonagall said, raising her eyebrows. "My dear James, I admit that you amaze and impress me. Despite what you may believe, the future of the wizarding world does not, in fact, rest upon you and your two friends' shoulders." She saw the annoyed grimace on his face, and then she showed him one of her rare smiles. She bent a bit to speak more conspiratorially, addressing all three boys. "The revived memory of the Dark Lord is not an overlarge concern to those of us who once faced the living thing. This is a whim in the mind of a fickle populace, and irritating as it may be, it will pass. In the meantime, what you three can do is attend your classes, do your homework, and continue to be the sharp-witted and strong-hearted boys you obviously are. And if anyone around you tries to say Tom Riddle was a better man than Harry Potter, you have my permission–my instruction, even–to transfigure their pumpkin juice into nurgle water." She eyed the three boys seriously, one by one. "Just tell them I prescribed you to practice that particular spell. Understood?"

        Zane and Ralph grinned at each other. James sighed. McGonagall nodded curtly, straightened herself, and continued briskly on her way. After five steps, she turned back.

        "Oh, and boys?"

        "Yes, ma'am?" Zane said.

        "Two sharp flicks and the word 'nurglammonias'. Emphasis on the first and third syllables."

        "Yes, ma'am!" Zane replied again, grinning.

        The school year descended through autumn, approaching the winter holidays. The football field became carpeted with leaves, crunching and kicking up under the feet of Professor Curry's Muggle Studies teams. The unofficial football tournament ended with James' team winning. James himself scored the winning goal, his third of the day, against goalie Horace Birch, the Ravenclaw Gremlin. His team collected around him, jumping and hollering as if they'd just won the House Cup. In fact, the winning team's house was rewarded one hundred points by Professor Curry, that being the best prize she could offer. The team circled James, heaving him onto their shoulders and carrying him into the courtyard as if he had just returned from slaying a dragon. He grinned hugely, his cheeks beet red in the chilly autumn wind, and his spirits were higher than they'd been all year.

        The routine of classes and homework, which had been daunting during the first weeks, became dull and predictable. Professor Jackson assigned endless dreaded essays and sprung unsuspecting 'pop quizzes' on his class every couple of weeks. Zane told James and Ralph amusing tales of confrontations between Professor Trelawney and Madame Delacroix during his Tuesday night Constellations Club, which, like Divination class, both professors managed to share. On the Quidditch pitch, James continued to advance his broom skills with the help of both Ted and Zane until he began to feel cautiously confident that he might, indeed, make the Gryffindor team next year. He began to imagine how rich it might be to show up at tryouts next spring and wildly surpass everyone's memories of his first year attempts. Zane, for his part, continued to fly remarkably well for the Ravenclaws. Calling on his rather unique Muggle background, he invented a move he called 'buzzing the tower', in which he'd hit a Bludger around the press box, letting it gather speed as it circled back, then meet it on the other side, striking it again to add even more speed and a bit of direction. Using that trick, he had managed to knock two players completely off their brooms, leading to a few apologetic visits to the hospital wing.

Life for Ralph in the Slytherin house had been rough for a while. Tabitha had never actually spoken to him about his desertion of the debate stage or his abandoning of the Progressive Element meetings. James and Zane figured she'd ceased having any use for him when he'd returned to being James' friend. Eventually, the older Slytherins simply forgot about Ralph, apart from a few cool stares or snide remarks in the Slytherin common room. Then, surprisingly, Ralph began to befriend some other first– and second-year Slytherins. Unlike the blue badge wearers, none of them seemed all that interested in the broader world of politics and causes. To be sure, there was a sort of shifty guile to even the first-year Slytherins, but a couple of them seemed to genuinely like Ralph, and even James had to admit they were funny, in a double-edged sort of way.

        Defense Against the Dark Arts became a favorite class of James, Zane, and Ralph. Professor Franklyn taught a very practical class, with many exciting stories and real-life examples from his own long and wildly various adventures. James, to no one's surprise, was a very good dueler. He admitted, with a sheepish grin, that he'd been taught quite a lot of defensive technique by his dad. Nobody, however, including James, was willing to go up against Ralph in a duel. Ralph's wand skills seemed remarkably haphazard when it came to defensive spell-casting. The first time he'd dueled, Ralph had attempted a simple Expelliarmus spell on Victoire. He struck out with his wand, a bit wildly, and a bolt of blue lightning had erupted from the end, singeing Victoire's hair so that a ragged bald stripe ran straight across the top of her head. She patted at it with her hand, then her eyes nearly boggled out of her head. She screamed in rage and had to be restrained by three other students from tackling Ralph, who was three times her size. Ralph backed away, apologizing profusely, his wand still smoking.

        Only once, during an evening in the Ravenclaw common room, did anyone have the temerity to mention anything to James, Zane, and Ralph about the debate. They were just finishing their homework when a large fourth year named Gregory Templeton sat down at the table across from them.

        "Hey, you were both in that debate, weren't you?" he said, pointing back and forth between Zane and Ralph.

        "Yeah, Gregory," Zane said, shoving his books into his backpack, his voice betraying his general dislike of the older boy.

        "You were the one at the table with Corsica, right?" Gregory said, turning to Ralph.

        "Er. Yeah," Ralph said, "but…"

        "You tell her from me she's right on the mark, eh? I been reading a book that tells all about the whole thing. It's called The Dumbledore Plot, and it's all about how the old man and that Harry Potter cooked the whole thing up, start to finish. Did you know they made up the whole story about Riddle and the Horcruxes on the night the old man died? Some even say it was Harry Potter himself killed him, once they'd worked it all out."

        James struggled to control his temper. He looked levelly at Gregory. "Do you even know who I am?"

        Zane stared hard at the bottle in Gregory's hand. "Hey," he asked with forced casualness, surreptitiously pulling out his wand, "what's that you're drinking?"

Ninety seconds later, James, Zane, and Ralph scrambled as Gregory spat nurgle water all over the common room table.

        "Practicing!" Zane called, ducking under Gregory's grasping arms. "I swear! I was supposed to practice that transfiguration! Your drink just got in the way! Ask McGonagall!"

        The three boys successfully ducked from the room, laughing uproariously at the ensuing chaos.

        By Christmas holiday, James was ready for a break. After lunch on his last day of class, James went up to the Gryffindor sleeping chamber to pack his things. The sky outside the tower window had grown chilly and grey, making him wish for the grand fireplace back at number twelve Grimmauld Place and one of Kreacher's very complicated hot chocolates, which consisted, at last count, of fourteen unnamed ingredients, including, he had been assured, at least a pinch of actual chocolate.

        "Hey, James," Ralph's voice called up the stairs, "you up there?"

        "Yeah. Come on up, Ralph."

        "Thanks," Ralph panted, climbing the steps. "I came up after lunch with Petra. She said you'd be here packing. All raring to go, I expect."

        "Yeah! We're having everyone over to the old headquarters for the holidays this year. Uncles George and Ron, Aunts Hermione and Fleur, Ted and his grandmum, Victoire, even Luna Lovegood, who you don't know, but you'd be keen on. She's the weirdest grownup I've ever met, but in a good way. Mostly. Grandmum and Granddad won't be there, though. They're visiting Charlie and everybody in Prague this year. Still, I think even Neville will be there. Professor Longbottom, I mean."

        Ralph nodded glumly, staring into James' trunk. "Sounds swell. Yeah, well, I hope you have a happy Christmas and all that, then."

        James stopped packing, remembering that Ralph's dad was traveling for business over the holidays. "Oh, yeah. So what will you be doing, Ralph? Will you be spending Christmas with your grandparents or something?"

        "Hmm?" Ralph said, glancing up. "Oh. Nah. Looks like I'll just be hanging around here for the holidays. Zane's not leaving until next week, so at least I'll have him to hang around with over the weekend. After that… well, I'll figure out something to do with myself." He sighed hugely.

        "Ralph," James said, tossing a pair of mismatched socks into his trunk, "do you want to come and have Christmas with my family and me?"

        Ralph tried to look surprised. "What? No, no, I'd never want to impose on your big family gathering, what with all the, you know… I couldn't. No…"

James frowned. "Ralph, you prat, if you don't come home with me for the holidays, I will personally perform a random transfiguration on you with your own wand. How about that, then?"

        "Well, you don't have to get pushy about it!" Ralph exclaimed, then his face broke into a grin. "Your mum and dad won't mind?"

        "No. To tell you the truth, with all the people that'll be in and out of the place, I'm not sure they'll even notice."

        Ralph rolled his eyes. "I meant about me being on the… you know, the wrong side of the debate and everything."

        "They listened to it on the wireless, Ralph."

        "I know!"

        "And you never said a word."

        Ralph opened his mouth, then closed it. He thought for a moment. Finally, he grinned and plopped onto Ted's bed. "I see your point. So you say Victoire will be there?"

        "Don't get any ideas. She's part Veela you know. She puts the whammy on any guy that gets within ten feet of her."

        "I just wanted to try to make it up to her somehow. You know, about that whole incident in D.A.D.A."

        James slammed his trunk. "Ralph, mate, the less you say about that, the better."

        The next morning, breakfast in the Great Hall was thinly attended. A heavy frost had fallen in the early hours, etching silver fern shapes in the corners of the windows and giving the view beyond a hoary ghostliness. James and Ralph arrived at the same time and found Zane at the Ravenclaw table.

        "You're a lucky stiff, Ralph," Zane said grumpily, huddling around his coffee cup. "I'm dying to see what a magical Christmas is like."