“Perhaps let us not leap to extremes,” Merlin suggested with almost impish calm. As a man accustomed to action, even war, it appeared that these were precisely the moments he lived for. “Have we any idea what our guests are seeking?”
“They’re threatening the lot of us with their pointy, er, tridents, sir!” Brimble exclaimed, his voice climbing into near falsetto range. “I think it’s bloody well obvious what they want!”
“The centaurs, I mean,” Merlin said, holding up a hand to Brimble. “The merpeople are waterbound, thus of some lesser concern at the moment. Yet, the centaurs are not a people to attack without warrant and reason. Has anyone inquired what they are seeking?”
“This is not the time for diplomacy, Mr. Ambrosius,” Partridge commanded from the floo. “Initiate lockdown, as protocol demands.
Hundreds of students are in danger.”
“Not unless any of them attack our guests,” Merlin countered smoothly. “And even then, I expect the centaur sword would be used to spank rather than gut. These are a patient people. We shall meet with them as comrades.”
More footsteps echoed heavily up the spiral stairs beyond the door. A figure plowed into the office, pushing Brimble aside unceremoniously. It was Hawtrey this time, his face red and clammy with sweat, his chest heaving from the exertion of having run some distance. His brown beret was pushed back, revealing his high, balding brow.
“Centaurs, sir,” he wheezed between gasps. “In the courtyard…
Demand palaver with the Pendragon, whatever that is…” He swallowed and fell against the doorframe, raising one hand to cover his heart. “And two counselors… of his choosing.”
“Please sit and recover yourself, Mr. Hawtrey,” Merlin instructed, and then turned to Brimble. “Go and summon Professor McGonagall. She will surely be found in her quarters at this hour.
Have her meet me in the courtyard within five minutes. We should not keep our guests waiting. James?” He turned and looked down at James where he still sat, now perched forward on the edge of his chair.
“Yes sir?”
“You will accompany me as my second counselor.” This did not seem to be a suggestion.
“Me, sir?”
“I can think of no one else I would prefer. You may consider it credit toward your, ahem, Junior Auror-in-Training elective. I shall inform Professor Debellows.”
“Headmaster,” Partridge interrupted sternly, “we have instituted official protocols for a reason. I insist that—”
“Rest assured, Madame,” Merlin said, turning back to the face in the coals. “If the outcome of this evening’s palaver requires it, I shall follow Department regulations to the very jot and tittle.”
“Mr. Ambrosius!” Partridge called stridently, but Merlin was already stepping toward his open door, passing Hawtrey where he sat gasping and wheezing on the antechamber bench.
James jumped up from his chair and ran to catch up, leaving the face in the hearth fuming, both literally and figuratively.
As he passed the portrait of Albus Dumbledore, the old headmaster offered him a solemn nod. “Courage and prudence, Mr.
Potter.”
Next to him, the portrait of Snape rolled its eyes hopelessly.
James ran on, clumping down the spiral steps in pursuit of the headmaster. He had a sinking sensation that somewhere, somehow, a final corner had been turned. There was a sense of destinies shifting on the huge, crushing axes of fate, like a minute hand on a galactic clock ticking one notch closer to absolute midnight.
It was a deeply unsettling feeling, and yet he was barely aware of it. He was too caught up in the inertia of things to come; a momentum that he feared would not let up from that day forward, until the final, ultimate end.
21. – Disintegrating Plans
“Shouldn’t we be meeting atop the Sylvven Tower, sir?” James suggested as he followed Merlin through the entrance hall. Students milled in urgently whispering knots, collecting around the main doors and peering out, some with trepidation, others with nervous excitement.
Bright, wide eyes turned to follow the headmaster as he parted the crowd, walking straight toward the open doors and the twilight courtyard beyond.
“As I am quite certain that it would be pointless to send you all to your common rooms,” he declared without breaking his stride, “At least do respect the confidence and gravity of our guests by staying inside and quiet. I need not remind you that centaurs are solemn creatures who do not bear offense lightly.” In a quieter voice, he said to James, “The Sylvven Tower is indeed the traditional place for meetings such as these, but it was not built with centaurs in mind. The many stairs would be an injustice and an insult.”
The air beyond the open doors was still warm with the dying sunlight, but swirled with capricious night breezes. James stopped on the top step as Merlin progressed down, slowly, moving to greet his guests with stately grace.
The courtyard was filled, nearly wall to wall, with centaurs.
James had never seen so many at once, had never imagined there could be this many gathered in one place. He knew that the eastern congress of the Forest centaurs had to include more than Firenze, Bane, Ronan, and the few others he’d met or glimpsed on rare occasions. And yet the sight before him boggled the mind. Part of his awe was in the sheer weight of the hundreds of stony gazes, all facing toward the doors in ranks and rows, corresponding to some secret hierarchy that James couldn’t fathom. Part of it was the array of weaponry on display— massive bows and staffs, ornately crafted broadswords and daggers— none wielded, but held at the ready or worn in creaking belts and leather scabbards. And part of it was that, for the first time, he was seeing female centaurs. They were clad just as the men, but with slighter bodies and, if anything, even more regal bearings, with tapered up-thrust chins and large, grave eyes.
But most of the fearful reverence the colony inspired, however, was in the rarity of their marching in numbers such as this. The centaurs were elusive and secret creatures, vastly preferring their own society to that of man or wizard, and therefore fiercely defending their lands and culture from curious eyes. Yet here they all were, exuding a sense of aloof, cautious superiority so thick that it seemed to darken the very air.
James looked for Magorian, their aged leader, but couldn’t find him in their ranks.
Someone hurried alongside James, and then past him, clacking down the steps to join Merlin as he neared the leading row of centaurs.
It was professor McGonagall, of course, dressed in a surprising quilted housecoat with a tartan shawl tight around her shoulders, her peaked hat wobbling crookedly. She glanced back at him briefly, her eyes sharp, and nodded him curtly forward. James hurried to join them, coming along on Merlin’s left side, while McGonagall stood straight on his right.
In unison, she and the headmaster bowed. It was a stiff movement, bending at the waist, but slow and deliberate. James rushed to mimic their movement, feeling awkward and woefully conspicuous.