Ralph interrupted. “It’s not that we don’t like Professor Debellows or anything, either. He’s really great. We just want to… practice.”
“I understand that the good professor doesn’t prefer to be called a professor,” Merlin said, allowing a tiny smile.
“Er, that’s true,” Ralph agreed, his face reddening. “Kendrick, then.”
“What sort of spells do you intend to practice? And who do you expect to be involved?”
“Anyone who wants to be involved,” James answered. “And we’ll just be practicing basic defensive techniques. Stuff we learned in our classes last year. We’ll only be practicing on dummies and targets, never each other. Any teachers who want to supervise can come, of course. Although I expect that it’d be a little… er, boring.”
James stopped, feeling that that last bit might have been too much. He was counting on the fact that no teacher would wish to volunteer for any extra time in class just to watch a bunch of students fling Expelliarmus spells at wooden dummies, but Merlin was quick enough to see through such a ruse. Knowing him, he might just assign a rotation of teacher chaperones, and Debellows would probably be first on the list.
Merlin opened his mouth to respond when, suddenly, the brass device on his desk shifted. Everyone in the room looked down at it. It was something like a hollow globe made of interconnected brass hoops, marking the globe’s latitudes and longitudes. Inside, a complicated network of gears and ratchets operated a silver pointer. The pointer had begun to spin, making the globe roll slightly on the desk. After a moment, the pointer ceased spinning, ratcheted upwards a few notches, and went silent. Merlin stared at it.
“What is—” Ralph began, but Merlin interrupted him.
“You may proceed with your club, my young friends. Please send me a notification of when and where you plan to meet as well as a list of students who choose to be involved. After all, what kind of Headmaster would I be if I didn’t keep abreast of such things?” Merlin had produced an official parchment with the Hogwarts crest emblazoned on the top. He scribbled a few notes on it and signed his name at the bottom with a flourish. “This should suffice in terms of official sanction. I wish you the best of success.”
Ralph glanced at James, wide-eyed and smiling in relief.
“But Headmaster—” Rose began.
“If you will excuse me,” Merlin said, rising, “it happens that I have some unexpected business to attend to. I’d hate to detain you, as I expect that you have preparations to make. Please do see yourselves to the staircase, and close the door on your way out, thank you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ralph said, herding James and Rose toward the door. “You won’t regret it!”
“Ralph!” Rose hissed.
The three nearly stumbled over each other as they crowded through the doorway.
“‘You won’t regret it’?” Rose whispered at Ralph, rounding on him in the hallway. “What kind of thing is that to say? You want him to be suspicious?”
Ralph grimaced. “I was nervous! So sue me! Come on, let’s just get out of here before he changes his mind.”
James was just pulling the door shut when he stopped suddenly, his eyes going wide. “The permission parchment!” he exclaimed, looking from Ralph to Rose. “Did either of you pick it up?”
“I didn’t get it,” Ralph said. “I thought Rose got it. She was closest.”
“You shoved us out of there before I could get to it, you giant prat!”
“I’ll get it,” James said, turning back. The door hadn’t yet latched shut. He pushed it slightly open, peering in.
“Headmaster?” he called. “We forgot the parchment you signed for us. Can I just…”
James frowned and pushed the door further open. The Headmaster’s desk was vacant. The room appeared to be completely empty and was almost unnaturally still. Perhaps Merlin had gone somewhere by Floo Network. The brass device on his desk must have been an alarm or a reminder, telling him of a meeting he had to rush off to. James walked across the office and grabbed the parchment from the Headmaster’s desk. As he turned back toward the door, a strange feeling came over him. With a sudden chill, he remembered the dart of pain that had shot through his forehead when he’d been waiting in the hall, right before he’d seen Merlin staring at him through the door. His heart quickening, James looked around and saw why the office seemed so unnaturally still. Across the rear wall of the office, from floor to ceiling, were the dozens of portraits of the former headmasters. Among them, of course, were the portraits of Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore, although as usual, Dumbledore’s portrait was empty. Every portrait was perfectly still and silent.
Ralph and Rose had edged into the room, following James. Rose was staring at the portraits, her eyes wide and nervous.
“Now that’s just eerie,” she said in a low voice.
“This is the only place on earth where a wall full of unmoving paintings is a bad omen,” Ralph said. “But I am in total agreement with you, Rose. What’s going on here? Where’s Merlin?”
James crossed the room and stood in front of the portrait of Severus Snape. He had spoken to this portrait several times last term, and had been insulted by it on more than one occasion. Gingerly, he reached out and touched the portrait’s face. He could feel the texture of the dried paint, feel the stroke that formed the man’s hook nose. The face didn’t so much as blink.
Rose gasped. “Look,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
James turned. The black curtain had once again been lifted from the Amsera Certh, but the surface of the Magic Mirror no longer showed merely swirling, leaden smoke. It showed a scene. The view was hazy and murky, as if seen through a very dirty, very imperfect window. James and Ralph joined Rose by the Mirror and peered past their reflections, trying to make sense of the cloudy scene.
The view looked through a stand of gnarled trees into a thick forest. It was very foggy, and the trees were dense enough to block most of the stormy daylight. There was a small clearing beyond the nearer trees, and in the center of the clearing was a sort of monument, caked with moss and vines. It was tall, thin, and leaning. As the scene moved in and out of murkiness, James could see that the monument was a statue of a man. The stone figure was rather handsome, dressed in a very old-fashioned suit. On the base of the statue were lines of engraving, but James couldn’t make them out.
Rose suddenly covered her mouth, stifling a gasp. “I know what that place is!” she whispered. “But why would the Mirror be showing this?”
James had a terrible feeling he also knew the place. He’d heard about it but never seen it. Very few people ever had. On the base of the statue, just below the unreadable words, three large letters were engraved: T. M. R.
“T. M. R.,” Ralph said wonderingly, then gasped. “Tom Marvolo Riddle! Is it really Voldemort’s grave? Who’d bury a monster like him?”
“Nobody knows,” Rose said quickly, still studying the ghostly scene. “There was an anonymous donation for the burial costs and the monument, specifying that he was to be buried as Tom Riddle and not Voldemort. No wizarding cemeteries would accept the remains, though. They finally buried him in a secret location in an unplottable forest. Hardly anyone even knows where it is.”
In the Mirror, a figure moved. The three students gasped in unison. The figure hadn’t walked into the scene, nor had it appeared. It was as if it had been there all along, but no one had noticed it. Only when it moved slightly was its presence made known. It wore a long, black, hooded robe which obscured its face, but there was something very unsettling about the fabric of the robe. It looked more like a robe-shaped hole in space, filled with swirling, churning dark smoke. The ragged bottom of the robe did not quite reach ground, and yet no feet came out of it. James shuddered at the sight of the awful figure, thinking of the tabloid clipping Lucy had sent him. It had referred to the ‘creature of smoke and ash’. Could this be that entity? Could this be the Gatekeeper? The figure raised an ar
m, revealing one thin, white hand. The hand seemed to beckon. A moment later, the statue of the youthful Voldemort shuddered. The proud expression went out of its face and the arms dangled like a puppet with its strings cut. And then, distantly, a voice spoke. It came out of the Mirror very faintly, barely heard over the sound of the wind and the creaking trees.
“Are you he whose echo has called to me?” the voice of the hooded entity asked. “He whose motives, more than anyone else’s in this sphere, once aligned with mine? Reveal yourself.”
The statue spoke, and its voice was very high and misty, nearly lost. “I am Tom Marvolo Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, dead of this world these many years, reclaimed to dust, passed on to the realm of torment.”
“And yet,” the robed entity said, “your imprint is strong enough to draw me. Your mortal remains are of no use to me; therefore, it must be your intention to tell me who bested you, that I may seek him for my purposes.”
“He who bested me is no friend to you,” the statue stated blandly, its voice nearly lost in the rising wind of that far-off place. “He was a boy then, but even then, he was stronger than could be deceived by your kind. He shall not assist you. But there are others…”
The vision in the glass was growing fainter. James reached out to touch the Mirror, to lean on it, but Rose stopped him.
“Even now, they await you,” the dead voice of Tom Riddle said. “It is as you say: I am merely an echo, a memory, a fading ripple of a life gone. But they can bring you to another… one in whose heart beats my own essence. They are prepared for you… they await you here, this very night…”
At that, another figure pushed through the branches, moving out of the shadows of the trees. James couldn’t make out the figure’s face, but he could tell it was a man. Like the first figure, he was dressed in a hooded robe, but because of the man’s position, James could see his face. He was pale and wary, but his eyes were resolute. The trees had begun to pitch and groan as the wind increased. The sounds of the place began to drown out the distant voices. James could barely make out the words of the pale man.
“We are prepared for you, o Master of the Void,” he said, holding out his hand. “We have been awaiting you, as has been the whole world. Your time is near.”
Suddenly, a third figure moved out of the woods, opposite the pale man. This figure was also dressed in black but was taller than the pale man. He didn’t clamber out of the woods, as had the pale man, but moved with a sort of malevolent grace, stepping out into the clearing to face the shrouded form of the Gatekeeper. James was dismayed. Something about the proud, effortless gait of the taller figure made him think of Merlin. The pale man did not seem surprised to see the third figure, although his wariness increased. He smiled thinly. The tall man and the Gatekeeper exchanged words, but a crack of thunder drowned them out. The wind grew to a steady howl, bearing the promise of a storm. Fat drops of rain began to fall, and the image started to blur. Suddenly, the pale man glanced around and then pointed, up and out, and James gasped. He’d pointed directly at James, as if seeing him through the Mirror glass. The man’s pale face stared right into his eyes. The taller man turned as well, but if it was Merlin, James couldn’t tell because of the shadow of his hood. Worst of all, the face of the statue had also turned. The stone representation of Tom Marvolo Riddle looked out of the Mirror at James, grinning an empty, carved grin, showing all its teeth.
James stumbled backwards, away from the Mirror, and bumped into the desk. He barely heard Ralph and Rose calling him, grabbing him, trying to pull him toward the door.
“Come on!” Rose called frantically. “We have to get out of here! They saw us! And it looks like they’re coming! They’re coming!”
James’ eyes widened. Suddenly he turned, looking down at the desk behind him. The Focusing Book was open. There was only one notation on the page, written in Merlin’s own hand: ‘GRAVE OF THE SOUGHT HOST’. Without thinking, James used both hands to slam the book shut. Instantly, thunder boomed right outside the office window. Lightning flickered and a gust of cold wind roared into the room, lifting the curtains.
“Potter!” a voice rang out stridently. James spun on his heels. The portraits were all alive again. Most of them were looking around and blinking. Parchments swirled into the air as wind shifted wildly through the room, whickering through the curtains. The portrait of Snape glared at James, its eyes wide and very black. “What do you think you’re doing? This is old magic! Magic like you have never imagined! You must leave this place. Now! Quickly!”
Ralph grabbed James and pulled, dragging him toward the door, which swung wide open of its own accord.
“Come on!” Rose called, running through the doorway and looking back. The door began to close again, cutting her off. James lunged, following Ralph. Snape’s face was tense, dreadful, as James ran past, slipping through the doorway a moment before the heavy door slammed shut with a reverberating crash.
James and Ralph barreled into Rose, and all three collapsed onto the bench in the hall, hearts pounding and breathless. As one, they scrambled back up and ran toward the spiral staircase, clambered down to the corridor below. They kept running until they reached a wide balcony where they finally pounded to a clumsy halt, breathing hard and staring wild-eyed at each other.
“I hope,” Ralph wheezed, bending over with his hands on his knees, “that one of us… at least remembered… the parchment this time.”
After a night of squalls and thunderstorms, Sunday morning dawned like a blooming flower, kindling rose-colored sparkles in the drenched grass and trees. After breakfast, James, Ralph, and Rose picked their way across the wet lawns to Hagrid’s hut, where they banged on the door. When the half-giant didn’t answer, the three students followed the stone path around to the back. There, they found Hagrid and his bullmastiff, Trife, moving about in the curling vines and broad leaves of the pumpkin patch. Hagrid was humming cheerfully, wet up to his knees as he rolled and weeded his pumpkins.
“Good mornin’, yeh lot! Fancy seein’ the three of yeh out an’ about this early on a weekend!”
“Good morning, Hagrid,” Rose said, sweeping beads of water off the top of one of the huge pumpkins. Satisfied it was mostly dry, she sat on it. “We came out to talk to you about something.”
“Blimey,” Hagrid replied, “with yeh here, young Rose, it really is just like old times. Come now, let’s go on inside. I was just tellin’ Trife here that we ought to brew a mornin’ tea, I was. We can talk all we want by the stove.”
They made their way inside and Hagrid hung an enormous copper teapot on a hook over the fire. James, Rose, and Ralph clambered onto the oversized chairs around the table.
“Hagrid,” Ralph began, glancing at Rose, “we saw something when we were up in the Headmaster’s office yesterday. Rose thinks maybe we should tell someone about it because it could mean trouble.”
James kicked the table leg idly and glared out the window. “Not everybody agrees with Rose, mind you.”
“How can you say what we saw wasn’t cause for alarm, James?” Rose demanded. “Even Ralph agrees that—”
“I’m not saying that it isn’t cause for alarm,” James interrupted, glaring back at Rose. “I just don’t think it means the Headmaster is in on it like you keep wanting to believe.”
“I don’t want to believe it, but there’s such a thing as evidence. There’s seeing a man in the Mirror who looks and moves suspiciously like the Headmaster. You said so yourself! And he was consorting with… with known enemies and outright scary people. And at least one of them I don’t think was even human! Not to mention the statue of You-Know-Who!”
“Whoa, now, wait just a minute, yeh three,” Hagrid said, scowling and settling himself into his old easy chair. “I don’t know what yeh saw, but let’s not be dragging that old beastie out in the open. Yeh just tell me what happened, why don’yeh.”
Rose began to explain what had happened the day before, beginning
with their interview with the Headmaster. As the story progressed, James and Ralph joined in, adding their own insights and corrections, so that by the time they were explaining how the portraits came back to life and the painting of Snape warned them to flee, all three of them were talking at once. Finally, they finished the account and fell silent, turning to view Hagrid’s response.
The half-giant sat in his huge old chair by the fire, a distant, tense look on his face. He was looking in the direction of the three students but not directly at any of them. James had been confident that Hagrid would simply dismiss the tale as wild exaggeration. He’d tell them that what they’d seen in the Mirror had just been small-time shenanigans, engaged by men who refused to accept the fact that they’d long since lost the war. James knew from his father that while Hagrid may not always love the leaders of Hogwarts, he was loyal to the core. He’d defend Merlin, and assure them that there was absolutely nothing to worry about. That was partly why James had suggested they come out to the hut to talk to the big man. Now, as Hagrid sat in silence with that strange, tense look on his face, James wondered if it had been such a good idea after all.
Suddenly, the teapot began to shriek, causing everyone in the room to jump. Hagrid shook himself, and then reached to pull it from the hook. He carried it to the table and clanked it onto a trivet.
“Er,” James said, prodding, “what do you think, Hagrid?”
Hagrid glanced at him, wiping his hands on a huge towel. “Well, it’s a bit difficult, innit? Who’s to say? Could’ve been anythin’, I s’pose. The Headmaster, he’s got some terrible powerful devices an’ all. Ol’ Professor Snape’s portrait was pro’lly right tellin’ yeh to stay well away.”
“But Rose is saying she thinks it was Merlin that showed up by Voldemort’s grave,” James clarified, gesturing at his cousin. “Tell her she’s daft if she thinks that! I mean, he’s the Headmaster, Hagrid!”
China clattered as Hagrid gathered saucers and cups, returning to the table with his arms full. “Right yeh are, James. He is the Headmaster, an’ all I can say’s if he did show up in that Mirror, talkin’ to whoever it was yeh saw, then he musta had plenty good reason to.”
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