James Potter and the Morrigan Web

by G. Norman Lippert

  "My deepest apologies, Merlinus," Dumbledore answered lightly. "Tardiness has oft been my greatest weakness."

  James' heart pounded in his chest, and yet he couldn't quite bring himself to truly believe what he was hearing and seeing.

  Slowly, carefully, Dumbledore stepped into-- and through-- the Mirror. The glass bent and rippled like water, allowing him to pass. As it did so, another shape pushed out, seeming almost to pass through the diminishing shape of Albus Dumbledore. This new figure was tall, broad, dressed in dark robes beneath a short leather vest. A deep crimson cloak hung from his shoulders, beneath a rugged face, grey-bearded, with dark eyes as wild and solemn as a full moon at midnight.

  It was unmistakably-- and of course-- Merlinus Ambrosius.

  James grinned up at him, helplessly, nearly giddy with relief. Merlin met his gaze and gave a stiff smile. "You knew I would not stay gone," he rumbled, spreading his large hands. "I do so hate this age. But some of its people…" He switched his gaze from James, to Zane, to Ralph, "I have grown rather fond of."

  Dumbledore's nephew stood near the edge of the Mirror of Erised, staring into the swirling depths, watching after his departed uncle.

  Harry stepped forward, approaching Merlinus tentatively.

  "Is it really you?" he asked, studying the big man's face. "I admit, I don't know you quite as well as I knew the man you just switched places with."

  "It is I," Merlin confirmed. "And if I am not mistaken, the post of headmaster has just been vacated once again. I assume none would argue if I resumed where I left off one year ago?"

  Zane grinned and muttered, "I don't think anyone would have the guts to."

  "I further presume that my staff is exactly where I left it?" Merlin inquired perfunctorily.

  "I think you know very well that it is," Harry smiled wryly.

  Glancing around, James noticed that, along with Dumbledore's departure, the office had reverted back to what currently passed for its normal state. The Phoenix was gone, as were the clockwork gizmos and shelves of books. Shadows loomed in empty corners. The hearth was cold and dark. The only light in the room was a pool of pale blue, soft as moonlight, which surrounded the Mirror of Erised, emanating from its shifting, restless depths.

  "Look," Ralph suddenly said, his voice hushed. He pointed at the Mirror. Harry and Merlin both turned, stepping aside as they did so.

  Figures moved beyond the heaving silvery fog, accompanied by the faint echo of voices. James recognized the sound-- it was the same as he had heard wafting from the portal of Merlin's portrait, earlier that evening, the sound his father had warned him back from. The man that had recently been Rechtor Grudje watched and listened, his eyes wide, worried, even fearful. The others backed away, forming a respectful semi-circle in the darkness.

  Three figures stepped forward from the fog, separating from the seemingly endless throng beyond. James squinted to see them. The one on the right was the tallest, a man with long grey hair, rough as straw and weeded with black. His eyes were blue, like Albus Dumbledore's, but harder, glaring from a rugged, tanned face. The figure on the left was older than he, but not frail. In the world they occupied, James understood, age had virtually no meaning. Still, her face was lined, careworn. Her hair, however, was still mostly black, piled up in a complicated bun with loose curls framing her face.

  The figure in the centre moved to the fore, however, not taking her eyes from the man standing on the opposite side of the Mirror. She seemed younger than him, thin and pale, her own dark hair hanging in waves over a high forehead and down to her narrow shoulders. The expression on her face was tense with interest.

  "Who--" the man before her asked haltingly, "Who are you?"

  The young woman smiled sadly, affectionately. "Why, I'm your mother." Her voice was light, ghostly, fluttering like moth's wings.

  "My mother," the man repeated, as if he had never heard the word before. He drifted toward the Mirror glass, raising one hand to touch it, as if to reach through to the young woman beyond.

  James remembered her name from Avior's diary. This was the unfortunate Ariana Dumbledore, killed in the battle between Albus and Grindelwald. That made the tall man Aberforth, her brother, much more recently deceased, and the older woman, Kendra, the mother of all three Dumbledores, who had met her fate on the night the man on the other side of the glass was born.

  Ariana smiled at her son as she regarded him, her face brimming with melancholy affection.

  "He looks like him," Aberforth admitted, speaking to the other two. "Round about the eyes. I couldn't have said so when I was alive. But now…"

  "He does," Kendra nodded mistily.

  "Who," the man before them asked, his shape barely a silhouette before the glowing Mirror. "Who are you talking about?"

  "We're talkin' about you, silly," Aberforth said, his mouth cinching into a lopsided smile. "You look just like him, is what we're sayin'."

  "No," the silhouetted figure said, facing his family for the first time in his memory, clearly wishing he could push through the glass to join them. "Who do I look like?"

  Ariana smiled more broadly now. The smile lit her face, made her eyes twinkle with that familiar, Dumbledore cheer. "You look like your father," she said soothingly, studying her son on the other side of the glass. "His name was Timothy. Same as you."

  The silhouetted figure was silent for a long, frozen moment. When he spoke again, his voice was faint, thin with wonder. "My name…" he said slowly, "is Timothy."

  Ariana nodded. "Your name is Timothy," she agreed. "And you… are my son."

  "I'm your son," Timothy nodded, more firmly now. "My name is Timothy, just like my father before me. And I'm your son."

  All three Dumbledores smiled at this.

  "And don't you forget it," Aberforth added firmly.

  Gradually, the swirling fog began to reclaim them. They moved back, descending once again into shadows, vanishing into the layers of ghostly voices.

  Timothy stood back as well, keeping his eyes on the shifting glass. He mouthed to himself, soundlessly repeating the words that had been given him.

  Merlin looked aside at James and Harry. "Go," he prodded. "The magic grows weak. Soon, the images in the Mirror will again be reduced to mere haunts and reflections."

  James felt his father's hand tighten around his shoulders.

  "Do you want to, James?" he asked.

  James didn't answer immediately. He was afraid of the Mirror. Afraid of what he might see beyond its naked, shifting glass.

  "I don't--" he whispered haltingly, "I don't want to see Granddad." He hated how it sounded. The truth was, he wanted to see his lost grandfather very much. But after his experience with the Gatekeeper, when he had been taunted with an image of the departed Arthur Weasley, seemingly alive and well, he didn't think he could bear such a teasingly bittersweet image again.

  To James' relief, his father nodded. "I know what you mean, son. But the Mirror of Erised is, first and foremost, a mirror of desire. It won't show you anything you don't want to see."

  James considered this. "All right," he agreed. "Then yes. I want to look."

  He remembered what this Mirror had shown his father once before, when he had been younger even than James was now; it had offered him a glimpse of his dead parents. And yet, according to headmaster Dumbledore, that image had only been an illusion, a sort of ghostly echo culled from young Harry Potter's deepest desires. Tonight, the Mirror seemed to offer more than that. Tonight, the faces it showed seemed real-- not even like ghosts, but more like living people, people who had simply passed on to some other world, easy as someone might walk into another room. Tonight, for one brief moment, those dearly departed could look back, gazing through the Mirror as if it was a window between realities.

  James approached the Mirror at his father's side, and still he hung back.

  What if it shows Lucy? he thought suddenly, an ice pick of guilt stabbing into his heart. I couldn't bear that! Not because I don't want t
o see her, but because the want is so great that I'm afraid it would crush me!

  James needn't have worried, however. Figures moved beyond the fog, coming to meet him and his father as they reached the Mirror. The first to step forward into the light, James saw, were his long-dead grandparents. James senior wore glasses, just like his son. His hair was greying slightly at the temples, but apart from that he looked no older than the man before him-- younger even. The woman, James' grandmother, had long, pale hair. Her face was ethereal in the bluish light, less stunningly gorgeous than deeply pretty, as if her beauty was something that shined from within, waking up with her every morning and going to sleep with her each night.

  "You're all grown up, Harry," the man, James senior, said proudly. "And this is your son, I see."

  "Of course he is," James' grandmother said, beaming at James. "Just look at him!"

  Harry drew a long, shuddering breath. "It's good to see you again, Mum, Dad."

  James senior accepted this with a wry smile. "Not quite the same now as it was back then, is it?"

  Harry laughed softly. "They say we all get two chances at the parental relationship. I missed yours. I still do. But I'm experiencing that relationship from the other side now." He squeezed James' shoulder and glanced aside at him. "I think I just wanted you to see that. And to know that… I'm happier now. I still miss you both-- very much. But… I'm happy."

  Lily and James senior put arms around each other, meeting their son's smile with gratified smiles of their own. There didn't seem to be anything more to say.

  With that, James' grandparents faded. They didn't drop back into the fog, however, but seemed to drift forward, passing on either side of the Mirror's edge. More figures came forward in their place.

  "Wotcher, Harry!" This was a young woman. Like Nastasia, she had bright, bubble gum pink hair. James didn't know her name, but his father grinned suddenly, his face filled with delight.

  "Hi Tonks!" he called happily. "How's Remus?"

  "Ask him yourself," the pink-haired witch shrugged, cocking a thumb over her shoulder. A man stood behind her, taller than she, his eyes twinkling with recognition.

  "Still casting your stag Patronus, eh Harry?" he inquired, slipping forward through the fog.

  "Not much need to anymore," Harry answered, "not since all the Dementors were banished back to the netherworld."

  "And good riddance, I say," Remus nodded with feeling, slipping past the edge of the glass. "Still, can't hurt to always have some chocolate handy. And keep an eye on our young Teddy, will you?"

  "I will!" Harry promised, raising his voice as the couple passed out of sight.

  Another figure emerged. James recognized this one immediately by his lank black hair and thin frame.

  "Give 'em hell, Harry," Sirius Black said bracingly. "And tell 'em it's from me!"

  Harry shook his head, bemused. "And who shall I give hell to, then, Sirius?"

  "Whoever deserves it!" Sirius called with a laugh, drifting past the Mirror's left edge.

  The next figure was a young man with red hair. James knew who this was immediately as well.

  "It's all bloody brilliant, Harry!" Fred Weasley announced enthusiastically. "Tell George, will you? It's all totally, bloody brilliant! He's going to completely love it! You all will!"

  "I will!" Harry agreed, his voice breaking slightly. "I'll tell him! I'll tell everybody!"

  James was surprised to see a house elf appear next, his eyes as huge and round as tennis balls, his head adorned with an inexplicable stack of terribly knitted hats.

  "Don't be sad, Harry Potter!" the elf waved. "Dobby is happy! Dobby has no regrets!"

  James glanced up as his father nodded. He suddenly seemed unable to speak.

  An owl flew past as if in slow motion, snowy white and hooting happily.

  Following the owl was a stocky man who'd once had a horribly disfigured face, now restored and smiling grimly ("Constant vigilance, Harry!" he encouraged as he passed).

  Next was a young boy, fresh faced, looking eerily like Cameron Creevey.

  Just past him, on the outer edge of the Mirror's view, two figures passed discreetly, hanging back, but apparently wanting glimpses of their own. One was Arthur Weasley, of course. James' grandfather craned his head to look out at James and Harry, giving a brief, secret wave with his right hand. His left arm was around a young girl with shining black hair, her eyes bright with curiosity. She did not smile as she drifted past, but her eyes twinkled darkly.

  …I forgave you that very night…

  James' heart swelled in his chest, even as he blinked away sudden tears. He realized that he could bear seeing his grandfather and lost cousin after all. It was a bittersweet sight, certainly, but he knew that something essential would have been missing had they not appeared, peeking subtly from the swirl of otherworldly fog.

  After them came more… many more. James ceased recognizing any of them, although the faces were hauntingly familiar. Dimly, he understood that he was now witnessing a silent procession of his own ancestors, men and women, some as old as Dumbledore, others younger than James himself, all smiling, with glittering, strangely knowing eyes, nodding as they swept past.

  Until finally, a young woman stood in the Mirror. She was only a few years older than James, with a freckle-dusted nose, dark blonde hair and deep, almond eyes. She seemed somehow taller than she was, not because she wore boots and a collection of fine gold-edged armour beneath her cape, but because she had an undeniable air of nobility about her.

  Unlike the others, she did not drift past. She stood in the centre of the Mirror as if very little happened to her that she did not cause herself. She cocked her head at James, then his father.

  "And who might you be?" she asked. Despite her question, her eyes, like those before her, glimmered with secret knowledge.

  "I'm Harry," James' father answered, offering the woman a small bow. "Harry Potter."

  Her smile broadened, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "Indeed, yes," she said to herself. "Harry the Potter. I am in your debt, it seems, my dear Potter. For when I was very young, or so the story goes, my life was saved for the sake of your birth."

  To James' surprise, his father slipped easily into the woman's strange cadence of speech. "Does that make you my great grandmother, many ages removed, dear lady?"

  "I should say that it does," the woman agreed easily. "And since time means nothing here, it does not even make me feel old. But pray, do not call me grandmother, great or otherwise. Call me Gabriella."

  Harry bowed again. "That I shall, Lady Gabriella, when we are fortunate enough to meet again and tell our long, interesting tales."

  Gabriella smiled at the man on the other side of the glass and shook her head, as if she suspected he was a bit of a rogue. Then, she shifted her gaze to James and took a step closer, coming just to the other side of the glass.

  "And who might you be, young prince?" she asked, cocking her head almost as if she recognized him.

  "I'm James, Ma'am," James answered, strangely captivated by the beautiful, regal woman before him.

  "James," she said slowly, as if sharing a delicious, whimsical secret with him. "What a wonderful, delightful name…"

  The End of Term feast took place the next day, just as always, and amazingly, the Great Hall was restored completely, with the four house tables lining the main floor and the dais once again weighted down with the matching staff tables. The four school vanishing cabinets had been reinstalled along the front of the dais, all fully repaired (with Merlin's help), their disenchantments postponed until the end of the feast. As a result, and by design, the house tables were packed to overflowing, peppered with Beauxbatons students in powder blue silk robes, stern Durmstrangs in stiff, high collars and double-breasted formal tunics (including the stony-faced Volkiev, who sat amongst a cabal of breathlessly adoring Ravenclaw girls), a scattering of Alma Alerons in their various house colours, most noisily arguing the relative merits of Quidditch and Clutchcud
gel, and last but assuredly not least, a sprinkling of Muggle students from Yorke Academy, including Morton Comstock (who sat with the Slytherins, somehow managing to make friends with the house that most traditionally rejected anything other than pureblood wizardry) and Lucia Gruberova, who was laughing delightedly with Lily and her friends further down the Gryffindor table.

  Ranged along every table, filling centrepieces of golden bowls, were drifts of red, purple and yellow flower petals, all as fresh and fragrant as if they had just been picked.

  There was no sign of the broken statues of the Magical Brethren or the temporary reflecting pool. Gone as well was the ugly five-faced Clock. James knew not where, but felt quite sure that the Clock had met a neat end at the hand of the man who sat in the centre of the dais, his grey eyes roaming the crowded, bustling Hall, his beard bristling beneath a grim, satisfied smile.

  James had had very little chance to talk to Merlin since his return. The restored headmaster had spent most of the day repopulating his office with his collection of mysterious magical tools and curiosities, including, as before (and completely inexplicably) an enormous stuffed alligator which hung from the ceiling, surveying the desk below with dark, glassy eyes. James, Ralph and Rose had stopped by just after lunch that afternoon, and James had had the strangest impression that Merlin and the alligator had been conversing idly until the students entered the room.

  "So what happened to you, Headmaster?" Rose had asked. "Last year, on the Night of the Unveiling. Everyone thought you died!"

  "The answer to that question would require a stack of books as high as this room, Ms. Weasley," Merlinus replied without looking up from his work. "Suffice it to say, there are many shades of death. Fortunately for me-- and all of you, I daresay-- I was only mostly dead."

  "Headmaster Dumbledore talked as if you and he had some sort of big adventure on the other side of the Mirror," James prodded. "Is that true?"

  Merlin did pause then, glancing up as he plunked a stack of slab-like books onto his desk with a puff of dust. He looked not at James, however, but at the portrait of Dumbledore that hung on the wall. James turned toward it, as if the portrait itself might answer his question. Albus Dumbledore was back in his frame again, his bearded chin resting on his chest and his peaked hat pulled over his brow. He snored faintly, somewhat unconvincingly.