The mate seated in the brass steering chair sang jauntily to himself, clutching a pipe between his teeth. Between stanzas, the mate puffed, and the orange glow of the pipe's flame was the only light to be seen. James kept behind the mate and moved toward the railing, which he leaned on. The ocean was nearly invisible in the darkness, but for the phantom-like shapes of the whitecaps. Waves thumped against the hull as Henrietta plowed relentlessly onward.
James' thoughts were a blur. The events of the night played over and over in his head, stranger and more mysterious with each remembrance. Petra's words had been frightening enough, but they had paled in comparison to the nightmare of the falling mast and the horrors that had followed. He recalled the sad certainty of her voice as she'd told him to let her go, to let her fall into the ocean, following after the enigmatic lost brooch, as if that was something he could ever, in a million years, allow to happen. The worst part of all, however, had been that moment—that one, crystalline instant of perfect understanding—when he knew that Petra, the girl he loved, was going to die.
And then, to no one's greater shock than his own, he, James, had conjured the mysterious silver thread, the one that had connected him to her, saving her from the reaching waves. Yesterday evening, Barstow had said that the storm that was coming was not like the one in
The Triumvirate
. This won't be any magical storm, he had said, like what nearly overtook the fabled Treus and his crew. Now, however, James couldn't help wondering.
Footsteps sounded on the wet deck, nearby. James didn't look up. He hoped that whoever it was would simply pass him by. Instead, he heard the figure approach him, felt the warmth of the person as they leaned against the railing next to him, nearly invisible in the stormy darkness.
"Are you doing all right?" a voice asked quietly. It was his dad.
James sighed deeply. "Yeah. I guess."
Together, they watched the marching shapes of the whitecaps, moving like ghosts alongside the ship. After a minute, his dad spoke again. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"
James thought about it. Finally, he said, "Petra's sick, Dad. But not sick like Mum thinks. She's not well. In her thoughts. I think she… I think she came up on the deck tonight… because she wanted something to happen to her."
Harry Potter nodded slowly. His glasses glinted softly as the moon finally peeked through the tattering clouds. "I've spoken to Merlinus about it," he said. "The Headmaster has been… watching her."
"What's the matter with her?" James asked, looking aside at his father. "Does Merlin know? Is she going to be all right?"
Harry turned his head toward James and smiled slightly. "I'll tell you the truth, son. I don't know. But she's been through an awful lot. It will take time for her to work through it all. Be patient. Be her friend."
James sighed again, turning away. "I don't even know how to do that much. Every time I talk to her, I get… I don't know…" He shrugged and shook his head.
Harry's smile widened a little and he bumped James with his shoulder. "I know how you feel, son. Don't worry. The words will come when they need to. Just like they did tonight."
"What do you mean?" James asked, glancing back at his father.
Harry shrugged. "I heard you. We all did. We heard you calling down to Petra as she hung behind the ship, trapped. I heard you telling her what she had to do. You convinced her. You saved her life, James."
"But how, Dad?" James asked, almost pleading. "How did she do it? How did she break the ropes with just her mind? It was her yesterday morning too! She's the one that fixed the harness chain beneath the boat. She didn't use her wand! She doesn't…" James stopped himself, realizing he was close to breaking his promise to Petra. He'd vowed not to tell anyone her secret. "She doesn't… use a wand. Anymore. I mean, not that I've seen."
"So I have noticed," Harry replied evenly. "Merlin knows. He's told me a bit, but not very much. He is a man who keeps his own counsel."
"Can you tell me anything?"
Harry shook his head. "Not because you don't deserve to know, James, but because it wouldn't make any sense. Later, perhaps. When things are clearer."
"That's why Merlin's on this trip, then, isn't it?" James said, peering up into his father's face. "The real reason he came is to keep an eye on Petra. Isn't it?"
Harry met his son's gaze. He shook his head very faintly. "You have the mind of an Auror, James," he said seriously. "Use it well. Use it to keep yourself out of trouble. I know how hard it is to hear this, but hear it anyway: for now, there is nothing more you can do for Petra than be her friend. Whatever happens, that will be the thing she needs most."
"What's going to happen?" James asked, not breaking his father's gaze. "What do you know?"
"I know that you have difficulty understanding that the weight of the world isn't yours to bear," Harry said, with fond weariness. He smiled crookedly. "But you come by it honestly, so I can't blame you for it."
For a long moment, the two were silent again. James turned and looked back out at the ocean, listened to the monotonous thrash of the waves beneath the prow. After another minute, he spoke again.
"What happened back there, Dad?"
Harry seemed to know what his son was asking about. He thought about it for a moment, and then took off his glasses. "Did I ever tell you what happened on the day my mother and father were killed?" he asked mildly.
James glanced at him seriously. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I mean, everybody knows about that. There've been books. Movies even."
Harry nodded shortly. "Yes, but that's not what really happened. It's all just guesses, really. I mean, everyone that was there that night is dead now. Except for myself, of course. And I don't remember any of it, fortunately. There's only one person who really did know the truth of that night. You know who that is?"
James frowned as he thought about it. An idea occurred to him. "Dumbledore? Your old Headmaster?"
"Got it in one," Harry said, smiling. It was a thin smile, rather sad. "Albus Dumbledore. He told me about it, although I didn't fully understand it at the time. Maybe no one but Dumbledore himself truly could. It was old magic, after all. Old and deep. Such things aren't taught in books and classes. They come only through wisdom. Dumbledore may not have been perfect… but he was wise."
James blinked, unsure where this was going. "So what did he tell you?" he asked. "What really happened that night?"
Harry narrowed his eyes as he looked out at the waves. "My mother made a trade," he said slowly. "It sounds simple, really, and yet I think it's anything but that. I think the simple explanation is the only way we can really understand it. She made a trade. She gave her life in order to save me. When she did that, she created a kind of magic that Voldemort, in all his cruel power, could never grasp. She created a sort of contract, something that bound him, and hobbled him, something that connected him and me forever, until one of us was dead. The secret of it, the mystery of it, is in the substance of that bond, the force that made the contract unbreakable. Dumbledore told me when I was just a boy, younger than you, but it was too simple for me then. I thought he was just being sentimental. Now, I know different. Now, I know that the force he spoke of truly is the most powerful, the most inviolate and unbreakable thing in the entire universe. Tell me that you know what I am talking about."
James did know what his father was talking about. "Love," he answered. "Your mother's magical contract was bound in love. Somehow. Right?"
Harry nodded again, very slowly this time. "People think love is something all light and fluffy, something dreamy. They write it in flowery pink letters, print it on cards, play wispy songs about it on flutes and harps. But that's not what love really is, or, at least, that's not
all
love is. Love is like chains of unbreakable steel. Love is like iron weights, heavier than the world. Love can crush just as surely as it can lift up. Everything else wilts before it. That's what Voldemort failed to grasp, and what killed him in the end: my mother's love, the trade she made, giving herself… for me."
James had never heard his father talk about such things before. The story of his parents' death was so common, so familiar to everyone in the wizarding world, that it had become almost sterile. Now, James realized, more than he ever had before, that this was something that had actually happened. His dad, the great Harry Potter, had once been a baby, defenseless and helpless, and he had required the protection of his own mother, a woman who had given the last thing, the most powerful thing, she'd known how to give: her own life, as an act of perfect love.
Next to James, his father stirred. "Like I said, it is old magic. So basic, so simple, that there is no word for it. It just is. The trade, the saving of one life by the sacrifice of another. It makes a bond, one that is unbreakable, one that forms a contract forever, just like the one that existed between me and Voldemort, the one that eventually killed him. Do you understand, James?"
James nodded. "Yeah. I mean… I guess so. But what's this have to do with—"
"James," Harry interrupted him, "tonight, something like that happened here, on this very ship. But different. I didn't know for sure, not when it happened. I couldn't see it because Merlin clouded the windows. But I sensed it. Some part of me… some buried, essential part of me… remembered the feeling of it. James, can you tell me… when Petra fell… did you see something? Something unusual?"
James felt cold to his toes. He looked at his father, his eyes wide, stunned. He didn't need to respond. Harry saw it in his son's eyes.
"Something happened between you and Petra. But it wasn't a trade. I don't know how, but you saved her, just like my mother saved me… but you did it without having to die yourself. You were willing to, though. Weren't you?"
James still stared up at his father, unseeing now as he thought back to the events of the night. He nodded.
Harry nodded as well. "I know. You were willing to die in her stead. And somehow that triggered the magic, caused that bond to happen, even though… you
didn't
have to die."
When James spoke, it was in a near whisper. "But… how is that possible? Your mum was a grown witch, and by all accounts, she was excellent. How could I perform a spell as serious and powerful as what she did?"
Harry shook his head. "It isn't that kind of magic, James. That's why Voldemort failed in the face of it. It isn't magic you learn. It isn't like transfiguration or flying a broom. For those who know love, it's just there, deep down, like an underground river, hidden and powerful. Very few witches and wizards ever have the need, or the depth of character, to call on it. You did, James. Just like my mother. You did."
"But… why did I live, then? If it's a trade…?"
Harry laid a hand on his son's shoulder. "I don't know. It's almost as if you tapped into some completely different form of magic, something beyond what we know or understand. All I know is that it happened, and… I'm proud of you, James. I can't tell you how proud I am, not just because of what you did, but because of how calm and sure you were when you did it." He sighed deeply, and then went on in a lower voice. "Neither can I tell you how relieved I was to see you and Petra come down those stairs together, wet and shaken as you were. Because for one horrid moment, I thought you were no more. I don't ever want to feel that way again. I don't think I could bear it."
James nodded. He understood very well what his father was talking about.
There didn't seem to be anything further to say. Harry put his arm around his son's shoulders and together they began to make their way to the stairs, heading back below-decks.
"Dad," James said as they moved through the darkness, "why did Merlin cover the windows? Why didn't he just use his powers to save Petra?"
Harry was silent for a long moment. James had begun to think his father wasn't going to answer at all, when he finally drew a deep breath.
"Merlinus is a mysterious and powerful wizard, James," he said carefully. "He comes from a dramatically different time. I don't understand why he does a lot of what he does. But he is very like my old Headmaster, Dumbledore, in one important way: he is wise. Wisdom does not come easily or cheaply, and it is to be respected wherever it can be found. I don't always understand Merlinus. But I respect him. He has his reasons, but they are his alone."
James was insistent. He stopped at the top of the deck stairs and turned to face his father. "Guess, Dad. Come on. You're smart. Take a guess."
Harry shook his head slowly, not in negation, but in deep thought. He looked out over the waves. "Merlin either knew that you were going to rescue Petra… or that Petra was going to be saved somehow, one way or another…," he said slowly, and then paused. Finally, he shrugged, still not meeting James' gaze. "Or, for whatever reason—and despite the fact that I hate to consider it— perhaps Merlin was willing… to allow Petra to die."
James felt a chill again. It coursed down his back, prickling his hair.
Harry saw the look on his son's face but didn't try to deny his words, nor did he add anything else to his statement. Finally, after a long thoughtful moment, the two of them descended into the warmth and light of the corridor. They said goodnight at James' door, and he climbed quietly into his bunk.
In the rocking darkness, James lifted his right hand and looked at it. The glowing silver thread was no longer visible, but he had a strong feeling that it was still there, just as real and strong as it had been earlier that night, when it had been the only thing between Petra and the rushing waves. James had been willing to die for Petra. He hadn't known it at the time, had not consciously thought about it, but there was no doubt about it. He had been willing to trade his life for hers.
Merlin, on the other hand, might well have been willing to allow Petra to die. Incredible as it seemed, he might not have raised a single magical finger to save her. James shook his head slowly on his pillow, letting his hand thump to the bed next to him. He trusted Merlin. His experiences last year had cemented his belief in the old man's wisdom and good intent, just as James' dad had said, but what could possibly explain the fact that Merlin might have chosen not to save Petra? Suddenly, James' heart dropped and his eyes widened. What if Merlin himself had conjured the storm? Nature was his medium, after all, and the source of his powers. What if the storm really had been of magical origin, and Petra's death had been its intent?