James Potter and the Crimson Thread

3. THE MIDNIGHT SUMMIT

There was no official obliviator on staff at Hogwarts, but Merlin was more than equipped for the task, with his otherworldly powers and his weirdly hypnotic staff, its carven runes glowing with faint blue light. Students were hastily dismissed and instructed to proceed directly to their common rooms while the headmaster, with the assistance of Professors McGonagall and, curiously, Trelawney, revived the fainted woman and placed the four confused Muggles into a sort of walking trance. They were still alert enough to look vaguely around at the students and living paintings and moving stairways, but when they spoke, it was in dull, dreamy voices. James, along with a knot of wide-eyed students, watched from the landing beneath the Heracles window as Merlin and the professors led the family back to the open main doors. Beyond them, a small brown car was parked in the darkness of the courtyard, its headlamps still on and its engine puttering dutifully.

"A school, you say," the Muggle woman said, blinking vapidly up at

Merlin.

"Oh yes," he replied with a comforting smile. "But don't you

concern yourself with that, my dear lady. Soon you and your delightful family will be en route to your destination. We can show you the way. Quite simple, really. You shall have a wonderful holiday, and you'll forget

you were ever here or met any of us."

"Who did we meet?" the man asked a little blearily, looking aside at his wife with furrowed brow.

"Oh, that nice older fellow at the petrol station," she said, with just a hint of uncertainty in her voice. "When we stopped for directions. He was so helpful, wasn't he?"

The man nodded as he stepped out into the dark courtyard, accompanied by Professor Trelawney on one side, Professor McGonagall on the other.

The two children, each no older than ten, followed along, eyes wide, absorbing everything in sight. James knew how Merlin's forgetting spells worked. By the time the family got back onto the main highway, their memories of Hogwarts would have faded to a breath of a dream, completely ephemeral, unrooted from reality. The children would remember it slightly better, since young memories, James knew, are both more firmly rooted and far more detailed. But no one believed kids when they talked of moving staircases, floating candles, or mysterious castle-schools looming out of the untracked Scottish countryside. For once, James was glad of that otherwise unfortunate truth.

"Go on with you, now," Filch called up the stairs in a hushed growl. "This don't concern none of you lot. Do as the headmaster said, and be quick about it." With that, the caretaker hurried on toward the open doors, a paper map folded under one arm and, strangely, a red plastic travel mug clutched in his right hand. The mug steamed faintly and left the aroma of coffee in the cool air of the entrance hall. Props, James knew, conjured to both help the Muggle family find their way to their destination and confirm the planted memory of a helpful petrol station visit.

"What if more Muggles wander up to the castle?" Cameron Creevey asked breathlessly, still watching from the landing alongside James, Rose, and Scorpius. The boy sounded as excited about the prospect as he did worried.

"Merlin will cast a new unplottability charm over the grounds," Rose said impatiently, turning to tramp up the stairs. The rest followed her, sensing that the show, as it were, was mostly over. "The only reason those people got through is that no one knew how weak the old boundary had finally gotten. There's no way to test these things, really."

"Makes me wonder, though," Cameron said, taking the steps two at

a time to catch up to Rose and James. "That Muggle reporter you told me about from your first year, James? Martin Prescott? Maybe that's partly how he was able to get through to the school. He followed the signal from Deedle's gaming device, but maybe the unplottability spell was weak even then, letting him through?"