James shook his head again and dropped his gaze. He backed up a step and sank into a nearby chair. “I think… she believes that she’ll be gone before the voice in her mind can get that sort of control over her.
She’ll be vanished away into Morgan’s original dimension. It won’t matter anymore.”
“You miss the point, James,” Merlin stated, a note of impatience, even frustration, edging into his voice. “This is no longer a decision that can be left up to her. She is deluded beyond reason. The Petra you once knew is gone already. In her place is the Bloodline. The Crimson Thread. Morgan. She is corrupted. And as such, she is unable to see that her plan is rooted in lies. There is no other interpretation. If the Lady of the Lake and He Who Must Not Be Named are scheming for the success of her plan, then only terror and misery can come of it.
Never hope. Never salvation.”
James was becoming agitated with frustration. “But it makes sense, though!” He glared down at his open hands, and then snapped them into fists. “As much as I hate what it means—that she will leave us forever—it makes sense! The world is falling apart more every day, all because of the imbalance caused by the stolen Crimson Thread. Morgan was her twin, so that means Petra is the only one who can replace her and set things back to rights again.”
“The world is not so simple,” Merlin stated firmly. “I wish that it were, but it is not, and you are grown enough to know that. The young lady who was once your friend has embraced an illusion. Her guilt has partnered with her power to make her vulnerable to the worst of lies, and thus she is made a pawn for powers that would seek not just our slow degradation, but our outright destruction.”
James realized, with some dismay, that his frustration was edging into anger now. He looked up at the headmaster again, boldy.
“Everyone thinks Petra is evil. That she’s the worst witch that ever lived.
The world’s first female Undesirable Number One. And now you think that, too.”
“Evil, no,” Merlin countered, lifting his chin. “But deluded by evil, yes.”
“You’re all wrong,” James said, firming his jaw. “I know her better than any of you. I know she’s stronger than you know. Not just in her powers, but in her heart.”
“Are you willing to stake the balance of the world, and all worlds, on that confidence?”
James faltered. He glared up at the headmaster still. But he had no more strong words.
When Merlin spoke again, his voice was very low, deadly serious.
“She makes her attempt soon, James. She and those who have chosen to assist her. But she will not leave without this.” He held up the moonstone brooch again. “You were there when I captured it. You already suspect what I know: that the brooch is her heart and soul, because it means everything that she has lost. Before she leaves this realm, if indeed that is possible, she will come for it. I will confront her.
And then, what will happen, will happen. Unless you, James, decide to assist me.”
James was still gazing up into the headmaster’s probing eyes. He felt wary, and torn, and deeply worried. His voice a near whisper, he asked, “How could I help you?”
“By telling me who it is that she has called to her side. There are two that I can sense via my arts, the Ransom and the Architect, but I cannot name them. Besides the villains who drive and protect her, who are these two who mean to assist Petra in her misguided, disastrous plan?
Tell me so that I may reason with them. For the time is coming, and it may indeed be here, when there will be nothing left but fight, blood, and death. Tell me before it must come to that, James. Only you can do so.”
James’ thoughts reeled. Could Merlin be referring to Odin-Vann and Albus? Or were there possibly others? What did the mysterious roles mean, the Ransom and the Architect? And if it was Odin-Vann and Albus, which one was which?
He drew a deep breath, balanced perfectly on the razor’s edge of indecision. And then, with a sort of internal collapse of relief, he knew what he had to do.
It was Merlin, after all.
He met the headmaster’s gaze and said, “It’s—”
Several things happened at once, interrupting him. A voice, harsh and startling, spoke up from the hearth. A fist pounded on the door, urgently. And most disconcerting of all, a horn sounded outside the headmaster’s open window. The noise was low and throbbing, like a note blown on a ram’s horn, only one of massive size, giving it a deep, bass resonance.
“Headmaster Merlinus,” the woman’s voice from the floo declared. “This is Deputy Partridge from the Department of Magical Integrity and Security calling. Are you there?” Her face, thin and stern with hair pulled into a merciless bun, shifted in the coals, looking for him.
“I am here, Madame,” Merlin answered quickly, even as he moved to the door and swept it open. Mr. Brimble, the evening watchman, stood outside, his eyes wide, his face the colour of putty. He stepped into the doorframe and glanced around hectically. His eyes alit on James and then dismissed him, flicking back to the headmaster.
From the floo, the woman from the Ministry said, “There have been several breaches in temporary magical boundaries this night. We have incoming reports of unnamed magical species venturing into protected areas. Hogwarts School is one of them. Initiate Ministry regulation lockdown protocols until further notice.”
“I shall take whatever precaution the situation dictates, Madame Partridge,” Merlin replied smoothly. “Just as soon as we ascertain which magical species has decided to visit us.”
Brimble bounced on his toes, nearly bursting with impatience.
Merlin turned to him, his brow raised inquisitively.
“They pulled down the watchtower, sir!” he said breathlessly.
“Hawtrey and Rheem barely got out before they toppled the whole thing over into the lake using their ropes and hooks! They’re right furious, although none of us can understand a word they say! Seems like they think we were using the tower to spy on them or something!”
“Who, pray tell?” Merlin asked.
“Merpeople, sir!” Brimble said, his eyes bulging further.
“They’re gathered all along the shore, shouting nonsense and brandishing those mad, three-pronged spear-things at us!”
“I believe the word you are groping for is ‘trident’, Mr.
Brimble.” Merlin suggested.
The horn sounded from beyond the window again, closer now, low and throaty. The noise chilled James and prickled his hair.
“That is not the horn of merpeople,” the headmaster said, turning back to Brimble. “That is blown from a golden Graphorn, the traditional rallying call of—”
“Centaurs, Headmaster,” Partridge concurred from the floo.
“We’ve just received word from remote viewers. The entire eastern congress of centaurs is on the move. Hogwarts School is either their destination, or in their path. Evacuation may be imminent.”