He slumped a little, even smiled a little with the absurdity of it.
“Petra…” he said, and then could say no more. His throat tightened with sadness. His eyes blurred, but he refused to look away again, refused even to blink.
She understood. She gave a wan, relieved smile of her own. She nodded, and then raised her pale hand in a last gesture. It was halfway between a benediction and a goodbye. And then, with her hand still raised, she turned around, looked out over the stern railing, faced the tempest as it collapsed all around, turning the sky black with heaving, boiling clouds.
It seemed to sense her. It condensed further, contracted, like a beast preparing to pounce.
Petra raised her other hand now, and spread her arms, both palms up. She tilted back her head and closed her eyes up at the storm.
The wind and rain lashed down at her as if she was a magnet.
She welcomed it, drew its attention to herself with the last of her prodigious, sorceress powers.
Gently, she pushed up to her tiptoes on the wet deck. And then, silently and slowly, she drifted up into the heavy air, leaving the struggling Gwyndemere to drift on without her.
Immediately, the ship pulled away, and she arose, separating from it. Her hair flew in loose waves, her toes pointed down at the crashing waves below. Lightning struck her, and she absorbed it, channeled it, willed it into a frenzy around her arms and legs. Thunder filled the sky like a living thing, roaring, booming, making physical tremors in the wind.
The Gwyndemere pushed away, running into gradually calmer waters. A hint of evening light washed over the deck. The rain slackened.
Petra was now barely a silhouette rising into a whirlwind of lightning, of swirling purple-black clouds. She was the pole upon which the tempest turned. It cast out tendrils, corkscrews of mist, surrounding her like cosmic clutches, preparing to grasp. It revolved, tightened, and Petra continued to rise into it, to tease it, to sing her own siren song of sacrifice.
James watched. He felt Merlin next to him, and drew a tiny shred of cold comfort from the sorcerer’s presence.
The storm withdrew from the Gwyndemere completely. The waves fell away. The wind faded to a bare breeze, sifted with mist, smelling of salt and seaweed and falling night. The clouds streamed back from the ship, surrounding a locus of tightening energy, brightening to a distinct core, barraged with lightning and roaring with constant thunder. It intensified, became a nearly physical presence, hulking in the sky as a demonic maelstrom, keening and howling with hungry rage.
And then, with an eerily subtle yet pervasively deep concussion, the storm detonated in a nearly silent shockwave of warmth and light, blasting outward and obliterating into a million dusky tatters.
The shockwave spread in every direction, like a ripple in a farm pond, silent and crystalline, distorting and magnifying the sky beyond as it passed. It approached the Gwyndemere, pushing a gentle swell before it, and sighed as it swept overhead, rippling the torn sails, trailing a single, soft gust of wind. James felt the breeze comb through his hair like fingers, caress his cheeks, buffet his clothes. He scented the faintest breath of floral soap and sun-warmed skin.
And then it was gone. The Gwyndemere bobbed slightly on the wake of the shockwave, and then settled. The ocean lay silent and still, as if exhausted.
James lowered his eyes. He was afraid to look back at the tatters of the storm, afraid that Petra’s silent body might come falling out of it, empty of all that had defined her, dropping through the air to splash faintly into the weary sea, and sink down through the cold forgetfulness beneath.
That probably wouldn’t happen. Petra had given all of herself to save him and everyone aboard the Gwyndemere. But believing that she had simply vanished was too tempting a thought. Like Merlin on the Night of the Unveiling, a vanished sorcerer or sorceress might not be completely dead. They might still come back.
Petra was never, ever coming back. Petra was, utterly and finally, no more.
James’ feet moved of their own accord, carrying him to the deck railing. He saw his hands reach out, grasp the railing in the middle of the stern, exactly where she had stood.
Merlin made no move to stop him, or to interrupt his moment of woe.
Voices and footsteps carried up from below. They were happy, even joyful, bursting with relief at the sudden end of the storm. James heard Ralph and Albus, Lily and his mother. He heard his Uncle Percy and Aunt Audrey and the ship’s captain, Farragut. He heard Lucy.
And he heard Izzy. She was laughing with the others, gladdened with relief, ready to rejoice on the wet bow and watch as the deck hands attempted to reparo the ship, to mend it for the remainder of their journey.
James couldn’t look back. He couldn’t bear to think of Izzy’s imminent, inconsolable grief. He couldn’t approach even his own less tangible loss.
A hand covered his shoulder, large and warm. He assumed it was Merlin.
It was his father.
Quietly, he said, “I’m sorry, son.”
And that was all he said.
The two of them stood that way for some time, until the moon arose over the silent ocean and the storm was nothing more than a fading memory. They stood there until everyone else had gone back down below decks again, much more somberly than they had appeared.
Harry Potter stood with his son, held his arm around him in the dark. Harry knew all about loss, about wounds of the heart that would never truly heal. He was acquainted with grief.
Harry stood with his son.
He was patient.
27. – The triple-six enigma
James woke up with a start, and nearly fell out of the Gwyndemere’s bunk. His heart was pounding and his mind reeled with confusion. He groped blearily, tried to scramble to his feet, still half-captured in the grip of urgent, feverish dreams.
A hand pushed his shoulder gently, pressing him back onto the bed.
“There we are,” a woman’s voice said, calm but insistent, as if she had been watching him, waiting for him to awaken. “Finally coming around, then. And what a horrible dream you must be leaving behind.
It’s all right. You’re safe.”
The hand left his shoulder, reversed, and lay briefly against his forehead.
“Fever’s nearly past,” the woman sighed with relief. “You’ll be back on your feet in no time. And not a moment too soon. The headmaster has asked to speak to you the instant you’re awake and about.”
“Are we arrived yet?” James croaked. His mouth was as dry as cotton. His throat felt like it had been scrubbed with steel wool. He opened his eyes, focused on a high ceiling and a row of bright, sunny windows, tall as pillars.
This was not the Gwyndemere.
“You’re back home, James,” the woman said, turning away and bustling over a tray, clinking vials and wiping her hands on a towel.