James Potter and the Curse of the Gatekeeper jp-1, Page 2

  Gregor ignored the rebuke. “How can we be certain that Merlin will be one of us?”

  “We cannot. Merlin’s loyalties never belonged to anyone but himself. This is why the Dark Lord was never interested in such an alliance while he was living. Merlin himself was never the prize, as you know.”

  Forge heard Gregor shift again in his seat. “Not everyone believes these tales,” he said quietly.

  “Only fools doubt the existence of the Otherworlds. Even the Muggles believe in Heaven and Hell. All that concerns us is that the Dark Lord believed in them. If he had not fallen, we would never have resorted to it. But even he saw the value of a fail-safe.”

  “Yes,” Gregor replied. “The fail-safe. The Bloodline.”

  “No,” the first voice said quietly. “The Bloodline is not yet perfect. It knows not who it is. Its power is undiscovered, divided, and dim. The Bloodline has not yet been sharpened by the gauntlet of death, as was the Dark Lord, its creator. It must be… refined.”

  “And this is the work of the Otherworlder?”

  “Among other things.”

  Gregor sighed theatrically. “Even so, the faithful are scattered. Many are in Azkaban. More are dead. The dog, Fletcher, is in the custody of the Ministry. The Langlock Jinx silences him, and his identity is still undiscovered, but if your conspiracy crumbles, connections will be made. Potter will recognize him from his days with the Order. They will find a way to communicate with him. Sacarhina and Recreant will be incriminated first, but you will be next. After all, you were there with them in the cave of the throne. You yourself performed the curse upon them. Fletcher will betray you.”

  “Fletcher has nothing that the Ministry can use against us,” the silky voice soothed. “Like all weak governments, they are far too enamored with their ideals of justice to be effective against a truly wily enemy. Potter will watch us when and where he can, but that is all. Let him. He believes the battle is over. He saw the Dark Lord cut down at his own thieving hand. And shall I shock you, my friend? Perhaps that was for the best. After all, the seed must die for the flower to blossom. Perhaps it was best that our Lord was cut down by the coward, Harry Potter. He and his allies have been lured these many years into a false sense of security. They believe that we, like them, are cowards, that we will not rise up again with vengeance in our hearts, stronger than ever. And let us not forget the legend, Gregor. We may indeed be the tools in the hand of our greatest forefather. It may well be our mission to close the circle of ancient revenge, a circle that was begun over a thousand years ago. My friend, I dare to suggest that the plan that was put into motion by the death of the Dark Lord may be even greater than his original intention. Given what we have discovered, I am certain that he would agree with me.”

  Gregor’s shadow leaned forward. “Are you certain, my friend?”

  “Call it an educated guess. After all, I was among his closest and most loyal servants. You know as well as I the… difficulties we face. For now.”

  There was a clink as Gregor reached for a wine glass. “Perhaps we shouldn’t say any more in front of our guest.”

  “Ah, yes,” the silky voice replied. “How insufferably rude of me to speak as if he were not here. Mr. Forge, do join us, won’t you?”

  Forge jumped. He’d become so transfixed by the conversation that he’d forgotten that they were waiting for him. He peeked around the door into the library. Firelight flashed along the edges of the leather chairs.

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Forge,” the silky voice said airily. The white hand beckoned. As it did, two of the three chairs began to turn. They revolved silently, as if on bearings, and Forge saw that they floated very slightly off the floor. “Tell me, my goblin friend, have you ever heard of the Transitus Nihilo?”

  “No, sir,” Forge said instantly, relieved that his voice didn’t betray his nervousness. “I’m just a simple trade goblin. I don’t know about any of these things. In fact, I’d be willing to wager that I’ll forget every word you’ve said by the time I’m fifty steps from this house.”

  The chairs stopped turning and Forge saw the men sitting there. The one on the left had long whiteblonde hair framing a handsome, rather aged face. He was smiling disarmingly, as if inviting Forge to share a joke. The one on the right, Gregor, was fatter and red-cheeked, with the expression of long indulgence that belied a life of pureblood leisure.

  “Fear not, my friend,” the pale man said. “We crave your services rather more than your blood. Allow me to enlighten you. The Transitus Nihilo is the crossing place. It is the Void between our world and the next. Tell me, you believe in the next world, don’t you?”

  “I’ll believe in whatever you ask me to believe if it gets me back out your door in less than two pieces, my lord.”

  The man laughed. “That’s what I love about goblins, Gregor. They are as candid as the day is long.” He turned back to Forge. “I’ll give you something else you might choose to believe in, my new friend. Our ancient forefathers believed that there was more to our world than that which we see and feel with our senses. They believed in the existence of unseen entities, beings greater than us, more powerful, immortal and inhuman. They exist not only in the beyond, but in the nothingness in between. They had words for them. I won’t bother you with the names, for there were hundreds of them. But there was one being in particular that drew the interest of ambitious men. It is sometimes called the Gatekeeper, or the Being of Smoke and Ash. It does not break into our world, for it knows us not. It is made of the Void, it is our exact opposite; therefore, it neither suspects our existence, nor the existence of anything else. It is bound by its own perfect ignorance of us. And this, you think, is a good thing, yes, Mr. Forge?”

  The goblin stood stiffly, staring into the man’s bright eyes. He nodded.

  “Yes, of course you do. Because a creature of such unadulterated inhumanity, such thoughtless power, if it were descended upon us, would be nothing less than the Destroyer, wouldn’t it? Thus, it is a good thing that it is out there… and we are down here. Little children go to sleep each night understanding the truth of this: there are bad things lurking in the world, yes, but not the worst of things. It knows us not. And yet…” The man looked away for a moment, his eyes narrowed. “What if something made it aware of us? After all, we move in and out of the crossing place all the time, do we not? When we die, yes, we pass through. But when we perform certain kinds of magic, when we Disapparate, do we not also dip fleetingly into the Void? Fortunately, the Gatekeeper lives outside of time, so it does not notice our tiny, timebound existences. But what if one of us bent the rules just a bit? What if one of us, a particularly powerful one, stepped out of time and into the Void? What if one of us stayed there long enough for the Gatekeeper to take notice?”

  The goblin hadn’t been paying much attention, being rather preoccupied with doing whatever he needed to do to get out of the house alive, but suddenly he remembered the words of the hag: Black fire. Ash… eyes… and nothing. Living nothing.

  “What have you done?” Forge asked quietly.

  “Me?” the pale man replied, raising his eyebrows. “Not a thing. I’m just passing the time. Gregor here tends to believe in fantastic stories like this. It amuses him.”

  Gregor grunted and rolled his eyes. The horrible, mewling voice came again. It seemed to be coming from the chair that still faced the fire. Forge felt the skin of his scalp tighten. The voice was mad. It chilled him.

  “But let us get down to business, as it were,” the pale man continued. “Mr. Forge, we require your services. We understand that you are a bit of an expert on, er, restoration. Would that be accurate?”

  Forge shifted. “I am just a simple trade goblin, sir—”

  “You are a master forger,” the pale man said suddenly, his voice as cold as an ice pick. “Tell me you are. I’d hate to think that I’ve summoned you here in vain.”

  “Y-yes, sir,” Forge answered quickly, trying not to tremble.
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  “Excellent,” the pale man replied breezily, leaning comfortably back in his chair. “And I have come to understand that this expertise of yours extends to restoring portraits. Would that also be correct? Don’t lie to me, Mr. Forge. I’ll know.”

  Forge gulped and glanced at Gregor. The man seemed to be paying no attention. He stared idly at the wine in his glass as he swirled it.

  “I… yes,” Forge said. “It takes more time, of course. It isn’t merely a matter of replacing the paint. The correct potions must be determined for each color… unimportant bits have to be scraped and reused to get the proper compositions… it’s very delicate, but I have achieved a level of success.”

  “That’s very fascinating,” the pale man said, his blue eyes boring into the goblin. He’s mad, Forge thought. Completely nutters. I wonder if the other one knows it. I wonder if they are both mad, but in different ways.

  The pale man stood. “We have a job for you, Mr. Forge. It will be rather difficult, I am afraid, but I suspect a goblin of your obvious skills will find it a worthy challenge indeed. It is a priceless family heirloom, you see. For the longest time, we believed it was lost. Funny, isn’t it, how things tend to turn up when you need them most? It’s been rather dreadfully damaged by, er, vandals. But if there was anything you thought you could do to help, we’d be most eternally… grateful.”

  The thin voice was gibbering again as the pale man began to turn the middle chair. Suddenly, Forge absolutely did not want to see what was there. He wanted to run, or at least avert his eyes. He knew if he did, they would probably kill him. He watched and listened, and as the chair turned, the voice finally became intelligible.

  “Show meee himmm!” it rasped in its awful, tiny, broken voice. “Show him meee!” And it began to laugh, high and crackling, a thoroughly mad, fragmented, twisted laugh.

  The portrait was not large. It was almost entirely destroyed. Only a few shreds and scraps remained: the corner of the mouth, two fingers of a thin, pale hand, a single glittering red eye. It had been slashed. The back of the frame showed dozens of deep gouges and punctures.

  “Make him repairrr meeee…,” the portrait screamed in its thin, insectile voice. “Do it, Luciussssss! Make him repairrr meeeeee…”

  “It will be his pleasure, my Lord,” the pale man smiled, looking up at Forge, his eyes wet, glistening.

  “M-my Lord?” Gregor said, as if shocked to hear the decimated portrait speak so clearly. “You remain! But we thought…”

  “It matterssss not!” the portrait of Voldemort cried. “The Gatekeeper isss descended! The work of our forefather is at hand! Vennngeance!”

  Gregor seemed hopelessly at a loss by this sudden change of events. “But… but how will we find it, my Lord?”

  “Weeee will not…,” the portrait hissed. The sound of its broken voice flapped a shred of the canvas. Forge dreaded the sight of the horrible thing, dreaded what they were going to make him do to it. But he dreaded most what he knew it was going to say next.

  The painting sighed deeply and said, on the exhale, “It will find ussss…”

  1. ENDINGS AND BEGINNINGS

  “C ome on, James!” Albus cried, hopping impatiently. “Let me give it a try. Nobody will tell!” “You know I can’t, you Skrewt,” James replied calmly, swinging a leg over his Thunderstreak. “You’re underage. You’ll just have to learn in school like everybody else does.” He kicked off, leaning forward so that the broom rocketed out over the garden.

  “You just want me to look as much a fool as you did on a broom your first year!” Albus called, running after his brother. “It won’t work! I’m gonna be brilliant! I’ll fly circles around you, you watch!”

  James smiled as the wind whipped through his hair. He pulled up and banked, circling back toward Albus. Albus stopped, frowning, and ducked as James flew past, tousling his younger brother’s hair.

  James hugged his broom and climbed into a streaking corkscrew, pulling up into the blue dome of the sky. Below, the Burrow spun lazily, casting its shadow out over the garden and the nearby fields. James drew a deep breath of the rushing air, and then dipped his broom, pulling it to a sudden, practiced stop. He knew he shouldn’t show off in front of his brother, but he was quite proud of his increasing skills. His dad had been working with him over the summer, and James had become cautiously confident that he’d make the House team this year after all.

  “About time, Potter,” Ted called, swinging in next to James on his old but well-maintained Nimbus 2000. “Three-on-three is hard enough, even with experienced players. You’ll need to play Beater and Seeker. Just keep an eye on Angelina. She’ll let you think she’s delicate as a flower until she drafts you into a tree. George is playing Beater and Keeper as well, so he’ll be plenty busy, but his long-range Bludger will still find you if you don’t watch it. But the one you’ve really got to keep an eye on is—”

  Something red and green roared between Ted and James, forcing them into opposite tumbles. James gripped his broom and swung it around, craning to look. His mum spun to a stop and drifted gently over him, grinning, her cheeks flushed and her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She was wearing her Holyhead Harpies tunic.

  “What do you think, James? Still fits!”

  James heard the sound of an appreciative whistle behind him. He looked and saw his dad smiling at Ginny, pulling his broom into position thirty feet away.

  “Dad! Mum!” James reproached, stifling a grin. “Quit it! You’re both an embarrassment!”

  Ginny blew a stray hair out of her face. “You just watch your back out there, love. I may be your mum, but that doesn’t mean I won’t broadside you to get to the Snitch.” She grinned at him, and then spun on her broom and zoomed to the opposite side of the pitch.

  “She’s not serious,” James said, turning to Ted.

  “You better hope not,” Ted answered, watching Ginny fly off. “I’ve played against her before, and I tend to think your only hope is that she won’t Bludger her own son in the back of the head.”

  “You’re a great help,” James said, but Ted had already dropped back into formation.

  “Knock James off his broom, Mum!” Albus yelled from below. James glanced down and saw him standing at the edge of the orchard. Nearby, Lily, Rose, and Hugo sat on a huge tartan blanket, grinning and squinting up into the sunlight. Charlie’s twins, Harold and Jules, were perched in a gnarled old oak tree by the barn.

  Rose nudged Lily with her elbow. “Go for it, Aunt Ginny! Knock him flying! You can always have another kid! One with better manners and less stinky feet!”

  “I heard that!” James called down.

  “I should hope so,” Rose said primly, putting her fists on her hips and smiling coquettishly. Lily giggled.

  “Enough, Rose,” Aunt Hermione admonished from a deck chair at the edge of the garden.

  “I’d play on your team, Harry, if I could,” Ron yelled from the chair next to her. “But three-onthree’s the tradition. Maybe somebody will get hurt enough not to play and I’ll be able to sub in, eh?”

  Hermione grimaced and scowled at him.

  “What? A guy can hope, can’t he?” Ron protested. He looked back up at Harry. “Looks like we’ll have to host an all-out tournament by next year!”

  Harry nodded. “None of us were kidding when we said we wanted to have enough kids to make a Quidditch team, were we?” he called back.

  Charlie stood in the center of the garden, below the players. He had one foot on the family’s bedraggled old Quidditch trunk. He held a Quaffle, yellow with age and grass-stained, in his right hand.

  “The Annual Weasley Family Quidditch Match is now underway!” he boomed, grinning. “I want to see a mean match. I want to see plenty of blagging, loads of bumphing, and a good bit of blatching. Any player not bloody by the end of the match will be deemed unfit to remain a Weasley and will have to defect to the Potters. Understood?”

  “Throw the Quaf
fle or get on a broom, Freckles!” Harry yelled, resulting in a round of laughter and catcalls. Charlie grinned crookedly.

  “Ball up!” he shouted, lobbing the Quaffle and releasing his foot from the Quidditch trunk. The lid exploded open and the balls soared into the air.

  James gulped, gripped his broom, and lunged into the fray.

  Technically, it wasn’t James’ first Quidditch match. He’d played several matches over the summer with whoever happened to be around. Granted, most of them had been two-on-two matches, sometimes using ‘ghost players’, which Ted provided from a small box he’d bought from George. Apparently, it was a Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes test product. When the tiny wooden box was opened, it released four Boggarts, all of which had been specially hexed to only take the shapes of famous dead Quidditch players. They looked extremely convincing even if they were a bit transparent. The problem was that the Boggarts didn’t have the slightest idea how to play Quidditch; thus, despite their impressive appearance, they tended to simply swoop randomly over the pitch, their arms in the air, making ghostly noises. Also, Bludgers flew right through them.

  “Still,” George had concluded, “they do add a certain something to a match lacking the right number of players, don’t they?”

  None of the matches James had taken part in that summer compared to this, however. Not only did the Weasleys tend to be fiercely competitive, but all the players knew each other eerily well. This was sometimes a benefit, such as when George ducked beneath a Bludger and lobbed the Quaffle over his head, knowing Angelina would be directly behind him to swat it into the goal with her Beater club. It was also sometimes a dread drawback, such as when Ginny predicted Ted’s favorite maneuver and plucked the Quaffle from beneath his arm the very moment he swooped to score. Despite the fervor of the match, there was plenty of laughter and hearty encouragement on all sides. James knew he’d probably influence the match very little. He was mostly concerned with staying on his broom and not letting his own mum make a complete fool out of him in front of Rose and the rest. To his great pleasure, however, he did manage a few lucky swats with his club, sending the old Bludgers careening into the fracas and even occasionally striking their marks. One of them caromed off of George’s broomtail, sending him into a wild, momentary spin. When he recovered, he glanced back at James and gave him a huge, toothy grin.