G. Lippert - James Potter and the Curse of the Gatekeeper

"Wow," James breathed in awe. "I bet my dad would love to know about this place. He and Dumbledore were pretty close. Look! Is that Fawkes the phoenix's perch? I bet it is!"

"This stuff is probably really valuable," Rose said, picking up a heavy book from a table. "Most of these books are one-of-a-kind. They're hand-printed and illustrated…"

"That's all well and good," Scorpius said, stepping aside and gesturing at the open cabinet. "But this is why I brought you here."

Ralph and James peered into the cabinet, confused at the display of dusty tools and ancient gadgets. A large bowl-shaped object on the top shelf emitted a pale glow. Rose gasped, her eyes going wide.

"Is that the Pensieve?" she whispered. "Dumbledore's Pensieve?"

Scorpius nodded. "I came here once on my own, the night before James' return. I sneaked out of the dorm and used Ravenclaw's signal to find this room. I wanted to be sure it really existed. When I found it, I explored a little and found the Pensieve. It contains many of Headmaster Dumbledore's memories, and Severus Snape's as well, since Snape apparently kept it in the Headmaster's office and used it after Dumbledore died. I knew the memories would be rather faded now that Dumbledore and Snape are both dead, but there was one set of memories in particular I was curious about. Grandfather Lucius had already told me his side of the story, but I wanted to see if Dumbledore's and Snape's version was any different. It was—a little."

James asked in a low voice, "What's the memory about, Scorpius?"

Scorpius looked James in the eye again. He didn't blink as he answered. "Something my grandfather and Gregor call 'the Bloodline'. It's about who the Bloodline of Voldemort is, and how they came to be."

There was a long moment of perfect silence, and then, firmly, James said, "I want to see."

Scorpius nodded. "I thought you might." He gestured at the gently glowing bowl.

"How does it work?" Ralph asked, following reluctantly as James and Rose stepped forward. "Does it, like, make a film or something? How does it know what memory we want to see? Will it hurt?"

"Shut up, Ralph," James said, not unkindly. "Just hold my hand. You too, Rose. I think we just have to look. That's all."

Slowly, carefully, James, Rose, and Ralph leaned over the stone bowl. The surface of the liquid inside the Pensieve looked uncomfortably like the swirling mercury smoke in Merlin's Magic Mirror except that it glowed rather more. It lit the three student's faces. And then something began to swim up out of the depths of the Pensieve. It seemed to come from far deeper than the mere depth of the bowl. James held his breath as the light intensified. The swirling increased, becoming larger as the liquid in the bowl rose. It filled James' vision and then, swiftly and painlessly, it seemed to grab him. At once, James, Rose, and Ralph fell into the Pensieve as if it had grown to the size of a pool. It swallowed them completely, and for better or worse, there was no turning back. They were a part of the faded memories of Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape.

Each of the three experienced it uniquely and separately. When James landed in the middle of the first memory, neither Ralph nor Rose was anywhere in sight. As Scorpius had said, the memories were slightly faded; James felt more as if he was dreaming them than living them. As the world of the memory resolved around him, he found himself standing in the Headmaster's office, but not as he'd ever known it. It rippled and swam, like a scene witnessed underwater, but then it began to solidify. Fawkes the phoenix preened on his perch, proving to James that he was seeing the room as it had looked during Dumbledore's term as Headmaster.

"We must be prepared for the eventuality, Severus," Dumbledore was saying, not looking at Snape, who stood by the window, looking out at a black sky. "It cannot be assumed that Voldemort will be too proud to resort to such a tactic. If he comes to fear that his plans—and therefore his life—are in jeopardy, we must assume he will prepare a successor of some kind."

"The Dark Lord is not given to preparations for failure, Headmaster," Snape said. "His vanity will not admit the possibility of defeat. The sheer number of Horcruxes he has prepared are evidence of his assurance."

"I disagree," Dumbledore said, steepling his fingers as he sat at his desk. James saw that one of the old headmaster's hands was rather horribly blackened and sickly. "One Horcrux would be enough for a confident villain. Voldemort's substantial collection of them proves quite the reverse. He lives in terror of death, believing nothing but the most extreme measures will ward it off. This is not the behavior of a man confident in his immortality. If, in time, he fears that even this collection will fail him, he will turn to even more desperate measures. You will know this when the time comes, and if it does, your duty will be clear."

Snape turned away from the window and approached the desk. "It pains me to admit it, but this task is very nearly beyond me, Headmaster. You are far better equipped to manage it than am I."

Dumbledore nodded slowly and smiled. "I will not argue that, Severus, but we both know it is unlikely that I should still be alive when the time comes. The task falls to you by default. Nevertheless, I am quite confident in your ability to do what is necessary. Despite what you believe of yourself, you are rather uniquely qualified for this type of work…"

As Dumbledore said this, the memory slowly dissolved. The room faded into obscurity and both Snape and Dumbledore vanished. An indeterminate amount of time seemed to pass, and then James found another memory solidifying around him. He was in a drawing room in a grand house, although it was apparent that the house was quite old and its best days were behind it. A large crystal chandelier lay shattered on the floor like a corpse. Bits of broken crystal lay everywhere, sparkling in the firelight.

"Potter," a high, silky voice said. James turned to see a horrible cloaked figure standing in front of the hearth. It was like a man, but only just. Beneath the cowl, the face was so pale as to be nearly translucent. There was no nose, save for a pair of grotesquely flaring slits, and the red eyes glowed with thin vertical pupils. James' knees went weak with fear as the figure seemed to stare coldly at him, but then it turned its gaze away, looking askance at a woman huddled at the end of a nearby sofa.

"I thought I was quite clear," the high, cold voice went on, and James now recognized the figure for who it was. This was Voldemort himself, in the flesh. "I was not to be disturbed for anything other than Harry Potter. Bellatrix here assures me I was, indeed, rather specific about that requirement. And yet she herself is the one responsible for interrupting my work without any Harry Potter to present me upon my return."

Bellatrix sobbed and rolled off the sofa, throwing herself onto the floor at Voldemort's feet. "He was here, my Lord! I tell you: he was my prisoner when I summoned you; otherwise, I would never have dared! Lucius and Narcissa can attest to the fact! But we were betrayed at the last minute—" Bellatrix flung an arm toward a man James hadn't noticed yet. The man stood in the shadows, his face deathly pale and blank. His hair was long and white. "Tell him, Lucius!" Bellatrix implored. "Tell the Dark Lord that we had Potter in our grasp!" When the man didn't respond, Bellatrix's face contorted into desperate rage. "Then perhaps you should tell him how you were bested by the boy Potter! Tell him, Lucius, how you were Stunned unconscious mere moments after they burst upon us! Tell him!"