James Potter And The Morrigan Web by George Norman Lippert Page A

had been quite sure he would never see Hogwarts again. He realized that some part of him had been secretly worried, even during the train ride, that something might still prevent his arrival. It had been a summer of upheaval and dark surprises, after all. Nothing felt particularly safe anymore. But here he was, seated back in his old place at Hogwarts as if nothing had happened at all. He felt pleasantly exhausted, as if he could climb onto the table and go to sleep right there, among the crystal goblets and gleaming silverware.
    His reverie was broken, however, as a small cough announced someone standing behind him. James glanced back and was surprised to see tiny Professor Flitwick offering him a rather strange, strained smile.
    “Welcome back, Mr. Potter,” Flitwick said peremptorily. “I wonder if I could, er, borrow you for a moment?”
    James frowned. “You mean… now?”
    “If you would be so kind,” Flitwick nodded, grimacing slightly. “It should only take a moment of your time. It’s a trifle, really…” He trailed away, glancing around the hall as if avoiding James’ eyes. On the dais, Professor McGonagall was positioning the stool and the Sorting Hat, preparing for the start of year tradition. Lily and the rest of the first years were lining up before the dais, dripping rainwater and excitedly nervous, led by Professor Longbottom. Lily stared up at the floating candles, smiling irrepressibly.
    “Go on,” Scorpius nudged him impatiently. “She’ll be fine. All the surprises happened the year your brother and I got sorted.”
    James nodded, turning back to Flitwick. “All right. Sure, Professor. Whatever you need.”
    Flitwick nodded and smiled as James stood. Wordlessly, the tiny Professor led James through the rear doors, across the Entrance Hall, and down a corridor toward what James recognized as the faculty rooms. The Professor produced his wand and tapped the knob of a heavy door near the end. With a golden flash, the lock unlatched and the door creaked open slightly. Flitwick glanced back at James, as if to assure he was still there, gave another nervous smile, and pushed the door open.
    “I am sorry to interrupt your arrival, Mr. Potter,” he said, leading James into a tiny, darkened room. It was obviously Flitwick’s office, for the desk and chair were almost comically small, albeit immaculately arranged and organized. A single tall, leaded window dominated the curved wall to the right of the desk. In front of this, silhouetted against the night-blue glass, was a square shape on an easel. “It’s a small duty of mine, you understand. It’s always been a pleasure, really-- a way of using my meager talents to connect with those who’ve passed on. Still, occasionally it proves… surprisingly difficult.”
    James moved to the left, away from the silhouetted shape on the easel, allowing Flitwick to approach the desk. The professor pointed his wand at a large brass lantern on the corner of the desk, and then paused. He glanced up at James.
    “You will have noticed, Mr. Potter, that we remember our headmasters in a rather unique manner at Hogwarts, yes?”
    It took James a moment to understand what Flitwick was talking about. Finally, mystified, he answered. “You mean the portraits? Up in the headmaster’s office?”
    “Precisely!” Flitwick exclaimed excitedly. “Precisely, Mr. Potter. Upon the passing of every headmaster, their living portrait is added to the gallery, granting the new headmaster the benefit of their combined wisdom and council. It is a unique arrangement, I might add. No other institution bears such a thorough and well preserved gallery of its leaders. Why, I am proud to say that it has even rated placement in the book of the Top Ninety-Nine Wonders Most Wizards Will Never See. I could show you, if you wish. I have a copy right here in my desk. Er…”
    Without lighting the lantern, Flitwick moved fussily behind his desk and began sliding open drawers, shuffling