James Potter and the Curse of the Gatekeeper jp-1

by G. Norman Lippert

  Dimly, James was aware of the many family members and friends who’d travelled from far and wide to be present. He’d seen Hagrid come in, and even now he could hear the half-giant blowing his nose in the row behind him. Luna was there along with her skinny new beau, Rolf Scamander, who in his brown suit and huge glasses looked, to James, vaguely like a human version of one of those insects cleverly disguised by nature to resemble a dried stick. Neville Longbottom was present as well as the Diggorys, who lived nearby in the village. A surprising number of Granddad’s co-workers from the Ministry had also come, most straight from London.

  Directly in front of James sat his grandmother. Molly’s shoulders shook, but she made no sound. Next to her, Bill put his arm around her. His eyes glistened. He frowned very slightly as Kingsley went on.

  “There are men who devote their lives to fairness, who study, and campaign, and lead charges. There are men who seek power and influence, who arise to positions of great authority and make momentous decisions. And there are men who devote their lives to training for war, whose skills with the wand and the sword are legendary, who are the first into battle and the last to retreat. Arthur Weasley was not any of these men. He was better. His benevolence had no root in guilt. His position was not born of pride. And his fight was not for the sake of glory. In his steadfast heart, he was effortlessly what most of us try to be by sheer willpower. He was a man without guile. A man of duty and loyalty. A man with the strength of right, and love. But mostly, Arthur Weasley… was a father… and a husband… and a friend.”

  For the first time, Kingsley lowered his eyes. He pressed his lips together, and then removed his glasses. Still looking down at the small podium before him, he concluded:

  “Arthur Weasley was the best of his kind. And we shall miss him.”

  In the silence that followed, James fought back his tears. It was so confusing. When he’d first understood what was happening that afternoon as they’d all stood in the parlor looking at Granddad’s hand on the Weasley clock, he’d felt strangely numb. He’d known he should’ve felt sorrow, or anger, or fear, but instead, he’d felt just a strange, ringing emptiness. As the family had dissolved into confused conversation— demands of explanations, expressions of grief—Harry had taken Lily, Albus, and James upstairs to the bedroom they’d so often shared.

  “Do you understand what this means?” he had asked them, looking each one in the eyes, his face serious and sad. Lily and Albus had nodded dumbly. James hadn’t nodded. If he’d understood what had happened to Granddad, he’d have felt something, wouldn’t he? Harry had gathered all three of them into an embrace, and James could feel his dad’s cheek on his shoulder. It had felt hot.

  Now, as James watched his grandma and Uncle Bill approach the casket, he could barely grope around the edges of this sudden, monumental grief. His throat ached from holding it in. His eyes burned and he blinked yet again, forcing back the tears. He was ashamed to let it all out, and yet it felt wrong to hold it in. He was torn in the middle.

  Why did Granddad have to die of a stupid heart attack, of all things? Great wizards just didn’t die of such things, did they? This was the man who’d faced Voldemort’s snake and survived to tell of it. How could a man who’d fought the most vicious villains of all time, who’d made such terrible sacrifices, have died so stupidly in the end? The unfairness of it was like a weight of stones on James’ heart. Hadn’t Granddad earned a reprieve from something like this? Didn’t he deserve at least a few more years to watch his grandchildren grow up? He was going to miss James’ first year on the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He’d not attend George’s and Angelina’s wedding, nor know the names of their children. He’d never unwrap his Muggle socket wrench set, never use it to finish the homemade wings on his prize Ford Anglia. It would sit there in the garage, half-painted and with one headlight still hanging out, until it rusted and lost whatever soul Granddad had given it. Nobody else cared about it. Eventually, it would be towed away somewhere and disposed of. Buried.

  At the end of the aisle, Harry stood up, helping Ginny to her feet. Lily and Albus stood as well, but James remained seated. He stared straight ahead, his cheeks burning. He simply couldn’t do it. After a moment, Ginny led Albus and Lily up the aisle to the casket. James felt his dad sit back down next to him. Neither tried to talk to each other, but James felt a hand on his back. It comforted him a little. But just a little.

  A few minutes later, the room was almost entirely empty. James blinked and looked around. He’d barely noticed everyone trickling away, heading outside into the blinding summer sun. Harry still sat next to him. James glanced up at him, studying his dad’s face for a moment, and then lowered his eyes. Together, they stood and walked up the aisle.

  James had never been to a funeral before, but he’d heard about one. Albus’ namesake, Dumbledore the Headmaster, had meant a terrible lot to his dad. He’d heard about how, at Dumbledore’s funeral, Fawkes the phoenix had suddenly flown overhead and the tomb had briefly, gloriously, burst into flames. As James approached his granddad’s casket, he wished something like that would happen. James hadn’t known Dumbledore, but how could that old man have been nobler than his granddad? Why wouldn’t something glorious and beautiful like that happen for Arthur Weasley? And yet, sadly, James knew it wouldn’t.

  He climbed the steps to the casket and looked in. He couldn’t have done it if his dad hadn’t been there with him, with his big hand on James’ shoulder. Granddad looked the same, but different. His face was wrong, somehow. James couldn’t see specifically what it was, and then he realized: Granddad was just dead. That’s all. Suddenly, shockingly, a memory leapt into James’ head. In it, he saw Granddad sitting on a stool out in the old family garage, holding a much younger James on his knee, showing him a toy aeroplane. He held it up in front of young James’ wondering eyes and made it fly back and forth over the workbench, imitating jet noises. James hadn’t known it at the time, but he saw it now in his memory: Granddad was making the plane fly backwards, tail-first. He smiled down at the boy James, his eyes twinkling. “It’s like a broom with a hundred Muggles in it,” he said, chuckling. “You know, I’ve never actually seen one fly. I hope to someday, James, my boy. I truly do.”

  James closed his eyes as hard as he could, but it was no use. He sobbed a great, dry sob and leaned on the edge of the casket. Harry Potter put an arm around his son’s shoulder and held him tightly, rocking him slowly while he cried, hopelessly and helplessly, like the child that he still was.

  “It wasn’t really his birthday, of course,” Molly was saying to Audrey, Percy’s wife, as they stood in the sunlight of the Burrow’s backyard, punch glasses in their hands. “He was actually born in February. This was going to be his seventy-eighth-and-a-half birthday party, more or less. Why, it was the only way we could surprise him! Of course, I should’ve known that he’d find a way to have the last laugh, God bless him. Oh Audrey.”

  James ladled himself a glass of punch and moved away from the table, not wishing to hear any more. Hagrid was seated rather uncomfortably on one of the tiny lawn chairs, pressing it into the ground.

  “I knew Arthur back when he was still in school, yeh know,” Hagrid said to Andromeda Tonks, who was seated at the table with him. “Never knew of a gentler soul, did I. Always ready with a smile an’ a story. An’ sharp in ‘is own way. Sharp as a talon.”

  James slipped past as inconspicuously as possible. He loved Hagrid, but he felt weary and washed out from his tears back at the church. He didn’t think he could bear hearing any stories about his granddad as a young man just now. It was too sad.

  He saw Rose, Albus, and Louis seated at one of the portable tables at the edge of the lawn and went to join them.

  “I hear Grandmother might sell the Burrow,” Louis said as James pulled over a chair.

  “She can’t do that,” Rose said, shocked. “It’s been the Weasley home since… since… well, since I don’t know how long, but since befo
re our parents were even born! It’s like a part of the family!”

  Louis shrugged. “Dad says it’s too big for her to manage all alone. I mean, the place is seven stories tall, not even counting the attic and the cellar. Besides, it takes a lot of magic just to keep the place upright. Now that the kids are all moved out, and Grandfather gone, it’s just too much work for her all by herself.”

  “It just doesn’t seem right,” Rose insisted, kicking the table leg. She glanced up, widening her eyes. “So why shouldn’t somebody just move back in with her? George could bring Angelina here when they get married, couldn’t he?”

  James glanced out over the yard at the knot of family and friends milling morosely in the sun. “George can’t stay at the Burrow,” he said. “He has the shops to run. Besides, Angelina’s taking a tutoring job in Hogsmeade. They’re looking at renting a flat just down the street from the shop.”

  “I hear Ted is going to live in the upstairs part,” Louis said, brightening. “He wants to try out for the National Quidditch Team, so George said he could live with them and work at the shop while he trains.”

  “He can’t be serious,” Rose grimaced. “Ted’s all right, but does he really think he can make the national team?”

  Louis shrugged again. “Mum says it’s a mistake for George to take him in. She says that Ted just doesn’t know what to do with himself and that he should just buck up and find some regular work.”

  “Aunt Fleur thinks that about pretty much everybody,” Rose commented.

  “Are you two looking forward to starting school next week?” James said before Louis could reply.

  “Is the main ingredient of Halflinger Root potion Halflinger Root?” Rose said, sitting up excitedly.

  James blinked. “I assume the answer to that is ‘yes’.”

  “The new Headmaster’s made some changes since last year, you know,” Louis pointed out. “No more sharing dorms between different years. Much more regulated class schedules. No more putting off secondary classes until your last year. He pretty much completely wiped out the changes made by that guy that was Headmaster before McGonagall. Tyram Wossname.”

  “I kind of liked having some of the other years in my dorm last year,” James muttered.

  “Yeah, well, Mum says it was Tyram’s ‘forward-thinking’ business that led to the Progressive Element and all this reforming Voldemort rubbish,” Louis said wisely, raising his eyebrows.

  James didn’t have a response to that. He wasn’t surprised in the least, however, that Merlin had made some very conscious choices to take Hogwarts back to its pre-battle standards and procedures.

  “What house do you think we’ll get into, James?” Rose asked. “Dad thinks I’ll be a Gryffindor, but what would you expect from him? Personally, I hope I get into Ravenclaw.”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what houses you’ll be sorted to,” James said. “The Sorting Hat itself doesn’t even seem to know until it sits on your head. I wouldn’t be surprised if it takes one look at you and throws eleven O.W.L.s at you.”

  Rose arranged the napkin on the table in front of her. “Just because I’m my mum’s daughter, doesn’t mean I’m some unnatural genius, you know.”

  “No,” Louis agreed. “But the fact that you’ve read the entire Encyclopaedia of Magical Poisons and Antidotes and can actually remember the exact page number for Barglenarf salve… does.”

  “That didn’t actually happen!” Rose insisted, her cheeks going red. “Mum’s been telling that story for months and it’s pure rot. She bought me those encyclopaedias for my tenth birthday, for Merlin’s sake. The only reason I read them at all is because I wanted to learn how to make the Draught of… er…”

  Louis smiled politely and raised his eyebrows. “The Draught of…?”

  “Well, it hardly matters,” Rose said stiffly, still fiddling with her napkin. “But I simply can’t help it if I have a mind for details. Besides, it was just a cure for poison ivy. And I didn’t remember the exact page. Just the chapter it was in.”

  “Well, that’s different, then,” Louis replied sardonically.

  “Don’t try that expression on me,” Rose said, throwing the napkin at him and hitting him in the face. “Nobody does it like Aunt Fleur. She was practically born with that look on her face.”

  “Well, I expect to get into Hufflepuff,” Louis said, tossing the napkin back to Rose and trying to look composed. “It’s the house most known for diligence and hard work. I plan to take school very seriously.”

  Rose rolled her eyes and soundlessly mimicked Louis’ words. James smiled.

  “What about you, Albus?” Louis said, nudging James’ brother.

  Albus sat back and glanced around. “What’s it matter, really?”

  “What does it matter?” Louis repeated incredulously. “It’s only the single most defining thing about your school life. I mean, what if you get sorted into the wrong house?”

  “And what house would that be?” Albus asked pointedly.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Louis answered, throwing up his hands. “It’s different for everybody, isn’t it?”

  “Albus Severus Potter,” Rose said meaningfully. “Louis hasn’t figured it out, yet. So much for diligence and hard work.”

  Louis frowned at Rose. “I figured out Albus’ full name quite a few years ago, thanks.”

  “It’s his initials, you git,” Rose said primly. “A. S. P. An asp is a kind of snake.”

  “So what’s that supposed to mean, then?”

  “Albus is afraid he’ll get sent to the Slytherins,” James said, rolling his eyes. “It’s been a bit of a family joke for some time. First Potter to go to the snakes.”

  “Oh shut up, why don’t you?” Albus said dourly.

  “What?” James replied. “It’s possible, you know. I almost got sent there myself.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you keep saying,” Albus said quietly. “But then, glory be, you ended up in Gryffindor. The first-born son of Harry Potter goes to his dear old dad’s house. Who’d’ve thought it?”

  “It’s true, Al. But come on, Slytherin can’t be all that bad anymore,” James reasoned. “Ralph’s there, and he’s all right. Maybe you can join forces with him and turn the old Slytherin legends inside out, eh?”

  Albus scowled, leaned forward, and rested his chin on his forearm.

  “Green really is your color, Albus,” Rose said thoughtfully. “Goes with your eyes and your darker hair.”

  “Yeah,” Louis chimed in, “and I hear their dormitories have hot and cold running dragon’s blood.”

  Albus suddenly stood and skulked away from the table as the others watched. Rose glanced aside at Louis, one eyebrow raised.

  “What?” he said defensively. “It was the best thing I could think of. Hot and cold running… you know, they say Slytherin families hunt dragons.” He rolled his eyes. “Never mind, it’s probably over your head.”

  “It’s unwise to believe everything you hear,” a voice said from directly behind them. James turned and looked up into the face of a man with pale skin and sharp features. A darkhaired woman stood next to him.

  The man smiled tightly. “Please forgive the interruption. I was about to ask if this was the correct home, but I see the evidence right here in front of me. I cannot but assume I am speaking to Mr. James Potter, yes?”

  James nodded, looking back and forth between the man and the darkhaired woman. They were both good-looking in a rather cold way, and both were dressed in very tasteful black. James was suddenly sure that if Zane, his American friend, were present, he’d make some comment about how brave it was for them to be out in the daylight, or how they managed to comb their hair so nicely, not being able to see themselves in mirrors. Needless to say, he was quite glad Zane wasn’t present.

  “Perhaps,” the man went on, “you’d be kind enough to direct me to your father, James. My name is—”

  “Draco?”

  James glanced aside a
nd saw his mum approaching slowly. She looked at the newcomer with a mixture of disbelief and caution.

  “Ginny,” the man said. There was a long, uncomfortable pause, and then the darkhaired woman spoke.

  “We’re very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Potter.” She tried to smile, but it was a rather strained attempt.

  “Does Harry know you’re…,” Ginny asked, still looking at the man.

  “I think he does now,” Draco said, raising his chin slightly and glancing past Ginny.

  Harry stepped next to his wife and looked the pale man up and down.

  “It’s good to see you, Draco.”

  Draco nodded slowly, not quite making eye contact with Harry. “Yes, it has been quite a long time. When we heard about Mr. Weasley’s passing, I thought it would be… appropriate… for us to offer our condolences.”

  James recognized the pale man now, even though he’d never seen him in person. He compared this grown man to the few pictures he’d seen of the young Draco Malfoy. The eyes were the same, and so was the whiteblonde hair combed back from the temples. There was still the trace of a sneer there too, just like in the old school photos, but as James looked, he thought the sneer was no longer particularly mean, or even conscious. Draco had simply been doing it for so long that it was now just part of the topography of his face.

  Harry studied Draco for a long moment, and then smiled. James recognized it as his dad’s polite smile.

  “Thank you, Draco. Ginny and I appreciate it. We really do. This must be your wife?”

  Draco put an arm around the thin woman’s waist. “Of course, I apologize. This is Astoria.”

  Harry bowed and Ginny shook the woman’s hand lightly.

  Ginny brightened and said, “Would you like to come up to the house for some refreshments?”

  Astoria half turned to Draco, raising her eyebrows.