“The ‘Dementor pit’?” Ralph said, shuddering.
Rose sighed shallowly. “The Dementors used to be the guards at Azkaban. When they were deemed untrustworthy, most of them were rounded up and imprisoned there themselves, in a virtually lightless room in the cellar. Just like with the Borleys, the Dementors are creatures of shadow: without light to show up against, they’re helpless. Azkaban’s dark pit keeps them imprisoned and weak but mad with hunger. If a human was thrown into the pit with them, it’d be an extremely horrible death.”
Ralph asked, “But why would the guards throw that poor sap into the pit?”
“Revenge,” Scorpius said simply. “They believed he was holding out, protecting the worst Death Eaters, the ones who hadn’t yet been captured. Most of the new guards at Azkaban had been former Aurors and Harriers. They’d seen loads of people killed by the Death Eaters and had no mercy on someone they believed was protecting those responsible. Nothing was ever proved though.”
“So the baby was an orphan,” James said quietly. “Just like my dad.”
Scorpius nodded. “To my grandfather’s great anger, the baby was a girl child. To this day, he has no idea that it was the hex of Severus Snape that clouded his judgment, working through the dagger itself. He refuses to refer to the child as a ‘she’, calling it either ‘the Bloodline’ or even ‘it’. He simultaneously despises her and obsesses over her, knowing she bears the last shred of his dead master. The baby girl was raised by Lianna’s parents, who were not particularly loving. My grandfather has spied on them regularly through the years. The grandparents were never overtly cruel, but Grandfather believes they secretly blame the girl for the death of their daughter.”
Rose shook her head. “Stop. I don’t want to hear any more. It’s just too beastly.”
James face had grown hard and resolved. He looked at Scorpius. “No,” he said. “You’ve told us everything else. Now tell us the most important part. Tell us who the Bloodline is.”
“I’d thought you would have figured that bit out by now,” Scorpius answered. “She is the only known orphan girl currently at Hogwarts, although she never speaks of it. She has her mother’s dark hair and her father’s height, but everything else, she gets from the persistent dark influence of the dagger Horcrux, from the last fragmented wisp of the soul of Voldemort. She was standing right next to you this afternoon, hidden behind a bookshelf in the library, listening to you three. It was her presence that set off the Sneakoscope in Ralph’s satchel. You know who I mean. Tell me her name because I can’t bring myself to say it out loud. My grandfather would kill me, and he’d probably use that stupid dagger to do it.”
James looked at Rose and Ralph, measuring their faces, and then he looked at Scorpius.
“The Bloodline of Voldemort is Tabitha Violetus Corsica,” he said firmly. “Somehow, I’ve known it all along.”
“Then you know something else as well,” Scorpius said, sighing and standing up.
“What?” Ralph said, looking one by one at everyone in the room.
Rose answered calmly, “We know who Bloodline is, so we also know who the host of the Gatekeeper is going to be. Both are Tabitha.”
James shook his head slowly. “The only thing we don’t know,” he said, “is how and when it’s going to happen and what we can do to stop her.”
18. THE TRIUMVIRATE
Last year, during a rather harrowing adventure in the Forbidden Forest, James had met something called a ‘dryad’, a living spirit of a tree. The dryad had been quite beautiful, in a sort of sad, hypnotic way, and she had warned James that the blood of his father’s greatest enemy beat in a new heart, not one mile hence. The dryad had also said that James should beware: your father’s battle is over, she’d told him, yours begins.
James hadn’t known what the dryad meant by that, but he’d had a nagging idea of who the Bloodline of Voldemort was. He’d suspected Tabitha Corsica all along, even though others had told him she was simply a smart, rather devious girl with some nasty delusions about recent history. Now that James knew that Tabitha was, in fact, the Bloodline of which the dryad had warned, he felt increasingly helpless. There was nothing he could do to stop Tabitha’s plan, mostly because he didn’t know what the plan entailed. Scorpius insisted that his grandfather had never told him the specifics of how the Bloodline was to become the Gatekeeper’s host apart from it being a test that would prove Tabitha’s willingness and commitment to the Gatekeeper’s purpose. James would have liked to ask Merlin about it, but his latest interview with the Headmaster had only increased his worries and fears about the great sorcerer. Similarly, James might have written a letter to his dad explaining everything and asking for his help, but his dad already had his hands full with the sale of the Burrow, providing living arrangements for Grandma Weasley, and heading up the new subdepartment for quelling the mysterious Dementor uprisings in London. Besides, in his last letter, James’ dad had admitted that they believed the whole Gatekeeper affair was a complicated ruse created by enemies of the Ministry to sow fear and instability. How could James ask his dad for help fending off something that his dad believed was imaginary? More and more, James found himself thinking of the dryad’s last words: this wasn’t Harry Potter’s battle; it was James’.
Scorpius had suggested that the best they could do was to simply watch Tabitha as closely as possible, a task that was increasingly difficult as the end of the term neared. James saw her regularly during rehearsals for The Triumvirate since Tabitha was the assistant director and increasingly in charge of the rehearsals while Professor Curry attended to final production planning. Tabitha’s malicious critiques of James’ performances had not let up. If anything, she was even harder on him, always apologizing for making him repeat his lines in front of the rest of the cast, as if she was trying to assume polite responsibility for his apparently woeful performance. “After all,” James had heard Tabitha saying quietly to Professor Curry, “I did consent to his receiving the role along with the rest of the casting committee. Nevertheless, hindsight is always clearest, as they say…”
The main task of observing Tabitha fell to Ralph since he shared the same house as her. Apart from the same general moodiness, however, Ralph couldn’t report anything unusual about Tabitha’s conduct. To James, she seemed either vaguely impatient or even more ingratiatingly polite than ever.
Classes began to wind down as the final performance loomed. Loads of parents and family were travelling to attend the show, including James’ mum and sister. His dad, much to his own disappointment, was needed in London for the first crackdown by the Dementor task force and therefore would not be able to attend the show. Ginny, however, had promised to record James’ performance on a borrowed set of Omnioculars so that Harry could watch later. In light of the suspected large audience, Professor Curry’s intention of conducting an entirely nonmagical, Muggle-style production had been overshadowed by her students’ increasing determination to put on a wholly sensational show. James had seen evidence of secret magical enhancement in nearly every aspect of the production, from the treadle-powered wind machine running mysteriously without anyone manning the treadles, to unplugged electrical spotlights that still glowed. In fact, since Hogwarts castle had no source of electrical power, several small Muggle generators had been delivered to the school to provide power for the lights. Even Professor Curry, however, had failed to realize that the generators needed a constant refill of petrol to run. In the interest of expediency, Damien had surreptitiously charmed the generators to emit an industrious chugging sound and, just for the look of it, plugged all the electrical cords into them. Professor Curry had wisely stopped asking after the generators and turned to more pressing matters.
Petra’s class schedule seemed to consistently conflict with James’ so that he rarely had the opportunity to rehearse with her onstage. This was unfortunate, Professor Curry admitted, but not a great problem since Tabitha Corsica had arranged for an understudy to fill in for Petra whene
ver she couldn’t attend rehearsals with James. Josephina Bartlett’s vertigo had abated to the point where she could read through the lines on Petra’s behalf, and having originally been awarded the part of Astra before her unfortunate ‘accident’, she was the logical choice to serve as Petra’s standin. She did so with a kind of resigned fervor, caught between her embarrassment at having to serve as understudy and her desire to prove how much better an Astra she would have made. She lurked on the stage, arms folded and barely noticing any of the other actors, until Astra’s lines came up. At that point, she would launch into her readings, switching from apathy to full melodrama in the mere blink of an eye, and then switching back to apathy the moment Astra’s lines were completed. She barely seemed to notice James on the stage even though many of her lines were meant to be directed toward him. For her own part, Tabitha seemed pleased with Josephina’s discomfiture, smiling smugly whenever her lines came up. James was especially annoyed to have to practice the climactic kissing scene with Josephina, especially since he’d never once rehearsed it with Petra herself.
“Don’t you dare try to kiss me, you little upstart,” Josephina muttered as she leaned in, smiling mistily.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” James growled through his own loving smile. “Just try not to fall on me, all right? You’re still looking rather tipsy.”
He made sure to miss Josephina’s lips by a wide mark. A moment later, the lights extinguished and Tabitha called for a ten-minute break while the stage crew refilled the rain machine.
That night, James had the dream one more time, although this time he felt that it was a true dream and not a direct vision into someone else’s reality. It began as always with the flash and whicker of blades and the rattle of old wood. The figure in the dream walked toward the rippling pool and looked in. As always, two faces swam up out of the depths, a young man and a young woman. This time, however, they looked different. He recognized them vaguely as his own long dead grandparents, his dad’s mum and dad. They didn’t seem to be looking at the girl with the long dark hair. Instead, they seemed to be looking directly at James, where he floated in the darkness next to her. Their faces seemed grave and worried, and although they couldn’t speak, they communicated with their eyes: Beware, grandson; watch closely and step lightly. Beware…
The darkhaired girl turned away from the faces in the pool, and James looked up at her. Even now that he knew she was Tabitha Corsica, her face remained lost in shadow. James tried to speak, to tell her not to hide any more, that there was no point, but his lips felt as if they were sewn shut. He moved along with her as she passed the pool, and as she moved, the dream changed. The mossy, dark walls faded into distance and were replaced by cold wind on a grassy hilltop. A huge full moon burned overhead, yellow and bloated, as if it meant to fall on him. The Tabitha shape continued to walk, and James saw that they were in a graveyard. A leaning wrought-iron fence marched drunkenly on the right, embracing a collection of worn headstones and crypts.
“I’ve never been here before,” a young man’s voice said. James looked and could just make out a tall silhouette walking next to the Tabitha shape. Tabitha herself seemed taller as well, and her voice was rather different when she spoke.
“Why would you have come here before?”
“My grandparents are buried here,” the young man’s voice said somberly. “I’ve no memory of visiting their graves.”
“How sad for you,” the Tabitha shape said.
“If you say so.”
They came upon a glow in a hollow. It emanated from a lantern hooked onto a post. Near it, a stooped man was scooping earth from a grave. He straightened as they approached, surveying them with a cold, appraising look, as if he’d been expecting them.
“Whose grave is this?” the Tabitha shape asked.
The young man sighed, and suddenly James recognized who it was. “It is mine,” Albus answered, turning to the Tabitha shape. James finally got a good look at him in the lantern glow. He looked about seventeen or eighteen, handsome but sallow, gaunt, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. “You knew this day was coming,” he said, removing his wand from his robes. “All sides have been chosen. He senses you are here; he comes now, flying like the wind. But there is something you must do first.”
And Albus handed the Tabitha shape his wand.
Even knowing this was a dream, James tried to cry out, to warn Albus, but his lips wouldn’t obey him. He could do nothing but watch. The Tabitha shape raised Albus’ wand, pointing it toward the sky. She sniffed, and her shoulders hitched as if she were crying. Then, without warning, there was a burst of green light and an awful hiss. The stooped man with the shovel looked up first, and then so did the Tabitha shape. Albus didn’t raise his eyes. Finally, James found he could look up. Spreading overhead was a bright, shimmering shape. It was a huge green skull, its mouth open. Out of the skull’s mouth poured a leering snake, its jaw unhinged and menacing. The eerie glow of the Dark Mark lit the entire graveyard. On one of the nearer headstones, James saw his and his sister’s names. His blood chilled even though he knew these were the names of his dead grandparents.
There was a loud crack, and another figure appeared, wand already out and pointing.
“Stop!” the figure cried, and James thought the voice sounded oddly familiar. “Both of you! I know what you think you have to do, but it doesn’t have to be this way! Albus, don’t let it end like this!”
“Do it,” Albus said, but James couldn’t tell if he was speaking to the newcomer or the Tabitha shape.
“No!” the newcomer cried, and there was an edge of desperation in his voice. “The rest are coming, and they won’t waste time on words! We only have a few seconds! Albus, don’t be a fool!”
“I’m sorry,” Albus said, still looking at the Tabitha shape. He nodded slowly to her. She lowered the wand, aiming it at him.
The newcomer stepped forward, crying the name of the Tabitha shape, appealing to her. “Please don’t! This isn’t who you really are!”
“You’re right, James,” the Tabitha shape said quietly, almost sadly. “As of tonight, I will be known by an entirely different name.”
There was an ears-splitting cry and a blast of light, obliterating everything. James fell into that light, struggling to maintain the dream, but it broke apart like glass, like a scene glimpsed in a shattering mirror.
James woke up, panting and slick with sweat. He scrambled to a sitting position on his bed, his heart pounding. The phantom scar on his forehead throbbed so hard he thought it must split his skull open. He clapped a hand to it, hissing through his teeth. After a minute, the pain began to recede, but very slowly. When he could bring himself to do it, James turned to sit on the side of his bed. He opened his satchel in the darkness and rooted inside, searching for his quill and a bit of parchment. Finally, just as the sweat on his body began to cool in the midnight air of the dormitory, he leaned over his bedside table and scribbled three words. He stared at his own handwriting in the moonlight. It didn’t make any sense. Probably it was meaningless. It had only been a dream, and not at all like the other dreams his phantom scar had induced. But it had been wrong in some fundamental, very worrying way. For reasons he couldn’t bring himself to admit, he felt that it was important to remember it.
Finally, now shivering, James folded himself back into his covers. He had no idea what time it was. Tomorrow was the official performance of The Triumvirate, and after that, the last week of school. Somewhere out there, perhaps not far away, the Gatekeeper was lurking, waiting for its human host. And here, inside the very same walls, was that host, preparing herself for the task that would make her worthy. And somehow, in some way, James was meant to stop it all from happening. Your father’s battle is over, the dryad had said, yours begins. They were not comforting words, but they were the words that rang over and over in his head, following him as he descended, slowly, into a fitful, dreamless sleep.
Nearby, Scorpius Malfoy lay awake, watching, not speak
ing or moving. When he was certain that James had finally drifted back into sleep, he slid out of his own bed. Tiptoeing, he crossed the room, passing before the window and casting his shadow over James. Scorpius leaned over carefully, squinting. He didn’t have his glasses, but the moonlight was very bright and Scorpius could just make out James’ handwritten words. He scowled at them for a long time, unmoving in the moonlight. Finally, Scorpius made his way back to his own bed.
Unlike James, Scorpius did not sleep for the rest of the night.
“Today’s the big day!” Noah proclaimed, plopping into a seat next to James at the breakfast table. “Eat up, ‘Treus’. Can’t have you fainting onstage, can we? After all, you don’t have an understudy.”
James groaned. The tables seemed unusually crowded this morning since some of the families planning to attend the performance had arrived the evening before. Ralph’s dad, Denniston Dolohov, sat with him at the Slytherin table, smiling uncertainly at the noisome throng. Noah’s own parents sat at the head of the Gryffindor table with Steven, his brother.
“Shouldn’t you be sitting with your family?” James asked grumpily.
“Bad luck, mate,” Noah said wisely, tapping the side of his nose. “None of the family are supposed to see you before the performance. S’tradition, isn’t it?”
Sabrina shook her head, wobbling the quill that was stuck in her red hair. “You’re thinking of weddings, you prat. Grooms and brides aren’t supposed to see each other.”
“Well, where do you think they got the idea?” Noah asked around a mouthful of toast. “After all, what’s a wedding but a big real-life performance?”
“You’re not nervous, are you, James?” Sabrina asked, ignoring Noah.
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