James Potter and the Curse of the Gatekeeper jp-1

by G. Norman Lippert

  James’ thoughts were whirling. What could it mean? Why was it happening? “It does hurt sometimes,” James admitted. “But just a little. Mostly, it just itches. Except for one time, right outside the Headmaster’s office. Merlin looked at me and it… it stung. But just for a second.”

  Cedric nodded once, solemnly. “Pay attention to it, James. It must be there for a reason. But be careful. It might not be trustworthy.”

  James nodded, barely hearing. He glanced around quickly, just to make sure no one had approached and heard the conversation. The corridor was still empty. When he looked up again, Cedric’s ghost had vanished.

  “Cedric?” James whispered. There was no response. James couldn’t be sure whether the ghost had truly left, or just gone invisible. “Cedric, if you’re still there, and you change your mind… well, you know where to find me, right?”

  The corridor was utterly still and silent. James touched his forehead again, wonderingly and worryingly. Finally, he sighed, turned, and began to trudge back toward the staircases and the Gryffindor common room.

  As soon as James reached the common room, he told Rose about his meeting with Cedric. She was surprisingly understanding about the ghost’s refusal to teach the class, remembering the conversation they’d had in the corridor a week earlier.

  “He’ll probably come around,” she said, nodding. “We’ll just need to find somebody else in the meantime. It’s fine, really. None of the students we talked to today knew anything about Cedric anyway.”

  “But who can we get to teach in the meantime?” James fretted. “People will be coming tomorrow with some expectations, Rose! We can’t just tell them to open their Defence textbooks and start trying out whatever spells they feel like! It’d be a complete mess!”

  Rose looked thoughtful. “We could ask Viktor, maybe. He’s going to be here until the end of next week. He certainly knows his stuff.”

  “He’s too tight with Debellows,” James said. “He’d tell him first off and we’d never hear the end of it.”

  Rose had been scanning the room idly. Suddenly, her eyes widened. She glanced back at James, a crooked smile curling her lip. “There is one person already among us who seems to know a good bit of defensive magic.”

  “The older years don’t want to do it,” James sighed. “We’ve already been through it with them, Rose.”

  “Actually,” Rose said, looking askance again, “the person I was thinking of is a year younger than you.”

  James followed the direction of his cousin’s gaze. Scorpius Malfoy sat at a table across the room, idly flipping pages in a textbook. He glanced up, noticing James’ gaze, and sneered slightly.

  “Not in a thousand years, Rose,” James said flatly, turning back and crossing his arms. “Not in a million years.”

  “I’m just saying,” Rose said innocently, “you said he was using Stunning Spells on the train against Albus. And the other secondyears have been talking about what he did to your headboard, which is, you have to admit, pretty impressive. He knows levitation already, and—”

  “No, Rose!” James hissed, interrupting. “I’ll take a term of Debellows and the Gauntlet before I’ll ask him to teach me anything!”

  “Are you willing to speak for the rest of the club’s members too?”

  “He’s not a teacher! He’s a stuck-up prat! He probably wouldn’t even do it if we asked him! People like him aren’t exactly the sharing type.”

  Rose smoothed her robes primly. “Well, you can’t know unless you try. Really, James. Do we want a teacher or not?”

  James shook his head. “We want a teacher, not a smug little twit who’s learned a few tricks. If you want him to teach, you ask him.”

  “I might just do that,” Rose replied breezily. She collected her bag and walked away. James watched her, but she merely climbed the stairs to the girls’ dormitories. If she meant to ask Scorpius to teach the new Defence Club, she apparently wasn’t planning on doing it tonight. After a while, James climbed the stairs on the opposite side of the room.

  As he got ready for bed, he thought carefully about the conversation he’d had with Cedric’s ghost. He should’ve known that Cedric would refuse to lead the club, and yet it really had seemed like part of Cedric wanted to do it. And what could it possibly mean that Cedric was seeing a glowing green lightning bolt scar on James’ head? As James finished brushing his teeth in the tiny washroom, he leaned in, examining himself in the mirror. As far as he could see, his forehead was completely unmarked. And yet, even now, he could feel that tiny, telltale tingling. Often, James had seen people pointing at his father, recognizing him by the famous scar, and James had thought it would be cool to have such a mark. Back then, James hadn’t understood the price his dad had paid for that scar. Even now, he couldn’t completely understand it, but he understood it enough, especially now that he’d lost grandfather Weasley. He knew enough not to want such a thing for himself anymore. For a while last year, James had struggled with expectations of following in the footsteps of his famous father. Now, James knew those footsteps were far too big for him. More importantly, James had his own path to travel, and it was unique to him. It wasn’t just a replay of what his father had done. He’d learned that lesson, hadn’t he? So why was he experiencing this phantom lightning bolt scar? What was it trying to tell him? And could he trust it?

  There was no point in worrying about it. And yet it was hard to let it go. Eventually, as he climbed into his bed, James distracted himself by trying to think of someone else who might possibly serve as teacher for the new Defence Club. He couldn’t think of anyone, and he certainly wasn’t going to ask Scorpius, but it did take his mind off the mysterious tingling on his forehead. Finally, eventually, James drifted to sleep.

  There were voices, echoing indistinctly, or perhaps it was only one voice, but the echoes made it sound like more. James couldn’t understand any of the actual words, but the sound of the voice was both soothing and maddening, like scratching a poison ivy rash. It was dark, but there were flashes of something, like glints of light on the edges of blades scything the air. Beneath the voice was the clank and rumble of ancient machinery and a tinkling of water, all echoing disorientingly. Footsteps rattled on stone and the voice grew closer. James could hear words, but they were disconnected and strange. Light bloomed, flickering as if through water. It was green, and there were faces in it. A man and a woman, beckoning, smiling sadly, hopefully…

  “James, you’re dreaming, you big div. Wake up!”

  A bag of laundry whumped James’ head and he jerked upright, blinking.

  “S’bout time,” Graham muttered sleepily. “I been trying to get you awake for a solid minute. You always talk in your sleep?”

  James looked blearily at Graham. “How would I know,” he muttered grumpily, “if I do it when I’m asleep?” The dream circled his head like a swarm of gnats, but he couldn’t remember much of it. Dawn light seeped into the room as Graham slid out of bed.

  “Well, we might as well get up anyway,” Graham said. “I can smell bacon all the way up here. Let’s go get a plateful before Hugo gets down there and wolfs it all.”

  The day brightened to a wonderfully warm autumn afternoon. The morning’s classes droned by and James hardly noticed, distracted in turns by thoughts of the previous night’s strange dream, fretting about who could lead that afternoon’s first Defence Club meeting, and Cedric’s worrying words about the phantom scar on his head. At some point, James connected the dream with the scar, remembering that his father’s scar had once been a sort of gateway into the thoughts of Voldemort. But Voldemort was long since dead. His father’s scar hadn’t hurt him in two decades. Whatever the phantom sign on James’ forehead meant, it couldn’t be a link to any resurgent Dark Lord, for his dad would surely have felt it first.

  Unless, James thought with a start, it was connecting him to the Bloodline, the secret successor of Voldemort that the tree sprite had told him about last year. James shudd
ered as he knelt on the grass at Hagrid’s Care of Magical Creatures class. How could he possibly be connecting to the Bloodline? His father, Harry Potter, was the one with the scar, not James. Why him?

  Your father’s battle is over, the tree sprite had said, yours begins.

  “James,” Hagrid said, glancing at him over the other students, “something wrong with yer Eel den?”

  James looked down at the muddy, slimy mess in front of his knees. He plunged a hand into it, feeling for the Mucous Eel he’d just planted. “No, no, it’s great, Hagrid. Slimy as can be. Really, it’s great.”

  “This is completely repulsive,” Ralph said, mucking his hand in his own excavation. It slopped and slurped disgustingly. Suddenly, he lunged and pulled, yanking the tail of his Mucous Eel out of the muck.

  “Very good!” Hagrid called heartily. “Ralph’s got ‘is turned upright. As soon as the Eel’s facedown in its den, it goes limp. Jus’ rub its belly nice an’ slow. That’ll make it hibernate. Then we can harvest the Eel’s slime. Very useful stuff, Mucous Eel slime.”

  Graham grimaced and flung ropes of slime from his fingers. “So is this thing a plant or an animal, Hagrid?”

  “Well, what class are yeh in, Mr. Warton?” Hagrid asked in reply.

  “Care of Magical Creatures,” Graham answered in a monotone.

  “Then since this isn’t Professor Longbottom’s Herbology class,” Hagrid said, grinning, “I s’pose yeh can assume the Slime Eel is a magical creature with some unusual planty tendencies, can’t yeh?”

  “Professor Hagrid!” Morgan Patonia suddenly called, struggling to keep her voice even. “I think I pulled my Eel too hard!”

  Everyone looked. Morgan had leapt to her feet and was holding her Mucous Eel at arm’s length, cringing away from the flailing, meter-long creature. Fans of greenish slime flew from the Eel, splattering Morgan’s robes and the ground beneath it.

  “Don’ let ‘er go!” Hagrid cried, throwing up his hands. “Lower ‘er back to ‘er den, but don’ let go! She’ll wriggle down to the lake an’ we’ll never see ‘er again, an’ those Eels are right dear! Just lower ‘er carefully head-first into the den, that’s the way, Miss Patonia.”

  Ralph watched Morgan dip the wriggling Eel back to the mess of slimy dirt. Her face was a mask of utter disgust. The Eel’s arrow-shaped head touched the mud, and the body lunged forward, trying to burrow into the den.

  “There yeh go, then,” Hagrid sighed, relaxing. “No harm done. A good lesson for us all, in fact. Keep the head in the den. Better safe than sorry, eh, Miss Patonia?”

  Morgan smiled gamely, looking as if she was, in fact, plenty sorry. Slime glistened in ropey slashes across her robe.

  “Before I found out I was a wizard,” Ralph said wistfully, staring at Morgan’s robes, “I was planning to attend the Byron Bruggman School for Boys. I bet they don’t do anything with Mucous Eels there.”

  “Just think what you’d be missing,” Graham said, smiling ruefully. He flicked a fingerful of slime at Ralph.

  Later that day, James was making his way through the crowded halls, glancing surreptitiously around, as if worried he was being followed. The afternoon free period had been co-opted by Professor Curry’s drama auditions, and James was on his way to the Muggle Studies classroom. At a cross-corridor, James met Rose and Ralph, who were talking animatedly.

  “What are you two doing?” James asked, stopping and glancing at each one in turn.

  “Well, I was coming to watch Petra audition for the role of Astra,” Rose replied, “if that’s all right with you, cousin.”

  “And I’m just going along because the alternative is to go start my Charms homework,” Ralph replied. “Rose says she’ll help me with it if I wait until tonight. It’s a no-brainer. What about you?”

  “Me?” James said, his voice squeaking guiltily. “Nothing. Really. I just… Same reason. Come on, let’s go then.”

  As they entered the Muggle Studies classroom, James’ face was beet red. He walked quickly to the front of the classroom, hoping Ralph and Rose wouldn’t follow him. He angled into the second row, and was annoyed to see that both of them were filing in after him.

  “What’s with you, James?” Rose asked, sitting down and frowning at him curiously.

  “Did you find a place for the Defence Club to meet?” James replied, changing the subject.

  “Yeeaahh,” Rose said slowly, still studying James’ face. “The gymnasium isn’t being used in the evenings, so I’ve gotten us permission to meet there. It’s all taken care of.”

  “The gym?” Ralph moaned. “I hate that place. That’s where Debellows has his class. Is that all you could find?”

  “It’s the perfect meeting place,” Rose replied stiffly. “There’re no tables or chairs to get in the way and there are already plenty of targets for spell practice. And eventually, if we begin conducting practice duels, the padded floors will be very helpful.”

  “Are you sure duels are a good idea?” Ralph asked. “I mean, James did tell the Headmaster we wouldn’t be practicing on each other.”

  “Duels are essential to proper defensive technique, Ralph,” Rose said, rolling her eyes. “You can’t get any good shooting spells at non-moving targets. Besides, I’d rather the Headmaster not know the extent of our training. He might try to shut us down.”

  James scowled. “Rose, that’s ridiculous. Merlin would probably be happy that we’re learning real magical battle techniques.”

  “Oh? Then why’d he hire Debellows in the first place?” Rose asked, raising her eyebrows.

  “Merlin’s not in charge of those kind of decisions,” James replied, but uncertainly.

  “My mum and your dad both work at the Ministry, James. We both know that the Headmaster has final verdict about faculty. Besides, Merlin isn’t the kind of man to let other people make decisions for him. Debellows is here because Merlin wants him here.”

  Ralph said, “That doesn’t mean he’s trying to keep us from learning anything useful.”

  “No,” Rose agreed easily. “But if he was, Debellows is a great way to make sure we didn’t. And after what we saw in the Mirror, I’d rather not take any chances.”

  James opened his mouth to argue with Rose, but at that moment, Professor Curry stood and cleared her throat.

  “Thank you all so much for coming,” she trilled. “These auditions aren’t mandatory class-times, so I take it as a sign of healthy interest in our production that so many of you have come to observe. Of course, this is not exactly how auditions are conducted in the Muggle theatre, but in the interests of education, we’ve chosen a rather more public casting format. Today, we’ll be completing auditions for the role of Astra, Treus, King Julian, and the Marsh Hag. Final decisions will be made by myself and the elected representatives from the major theatre departments. Let’s show some appreciation for the head of the props department, Mr. Jason Smith, the director of the costume shop, Miss Gennifer Tellus, the head of the stage crew, Mr. Hugo Paulson, and finally, my official production assistant and associate director, Miss Tabitha Corsica.”

  The four representatives were seated at a long table arranged in a front corner, positioned at an angle so that it faced both the classroom and the area designated as the audition stage. The four students accepted the round of halfhearted applause, nodding and smiling. Hugo stood and threw his arms wide, as if accepting an award. He bowed deeply and Gennifer Tellus yanked him back into his seat, rolling her eyes. At the end of the table, Tabitha smiled inscrutably. Briefly, she made eye contact with James and winked. James frowned at her.

  “First up,” Professor Curry said, consulting a sheaf of parchment in her hand, “we will be viewing the final two candidates for the role of Astra. Miss Josephina Bartlett, seventh-year, Ravenclaw, will read first. Please, as always, silence from the gallery is appreciated. That means no applause, thank you. Miss Bartlett, whenever you are ready.”

  Josephina Bartlett virtually pranced to the front of the room, h
er robes bouncing around her and her long blonde hair catching the sunlight from the windows.

  “Thank you, all of you, and particularly the parts committee,” Josephina said, smiling winningly. “Whomever you choose, this has been a wonderful opportunity for me and all of the other candidates.”

  “Just read, Josephina,” Gennifer said, arching an eyebrow.

  Josephina cranked her grin a notch higher, glaring at Gennifer, then suddenly dropped her arms and head as if she’d been switched off. She took a deep breath, apparently staring at the floor between her feet. Then, slowly, she raised her head. Her eyes were glistening. She stared out over the assembled students, a look of beatific anguish etched onto her face.

  “Behold!” she exclaimed, raising her arm so fast that her sleeve flopped. She pointed straight ahead. Sitting at the committee table, Hugo actually looked to see what Josephina was pointing at. Gennifer nudged him in the ribs with her elbow. Josephina drew a huge, shuddering breath. “Be that the waning sun to light my love’s returning sail, or are my eyes deceived by heart’s desire? If’t be that now he lies at th’ ocean’s deepest grave, then ne’er permit my soul to wake, nor fervid dreams to pass: t’is better laid in slumber’s crypt than t’walk in living death, the world, my hell, without dear Treus! Hark, my heart, from plight to break, it must! O Treus, is’t thee? State thy coming now, or let me join thy bed and sleep in dreary death! But daren’t restrain my soul to waiting anguish! Treus, make thy answer known, or bid my soul depart— depart!—to flee to everlasting sleep—to death!”

  Josephina fell silent, and a single tear traced a path down her cheek. Her lip quivered minutely. Then, suddenly, her face cleared. She wiped the tear away with her sleeve and smiled at the gallery. There was a collective exhale. Even James had been holding his breath. Rose glanced over at him, annoyed. James shrugged and Rose rolled her eyes.

  “Nicely done, Miss Bartlett,” Curry said from her seat at the table. “Perhaps a bit, er, melodramatic but certainly quite evocative. Any comments from the table?”