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

Lily's chin touched the surface of the pool. A drop of water hung there, and then she stepped forward again, her mouth dipping below the surface. Her hair spread around her, floating on the water like a corona. The ghostly figure of Lianna Agnellis put one foot onto the stone floor. She wasn't even wet.

"This isn't real!" James screamed desperately, struggling to his feet. "It's all coming from that voice! What is it?"

"There is no voice," Petra sang lightly, rocking her head back and forth. "There is no voice other than the voice of my dead father. You see, I have brought his things here, where they await him. His shoes and hat, his coat. Even his Cloak of Invisibility, which I've used myself these many visits. He'll be so happy to see them again, don't you think?"

James shook his head fervently. "That's my father's Cloak, Petra! You're being deceived!"

Petra didn't seem to hear him. Her eyes gazed trancelike at the shape of her mother, but her wand was still pointed at Lily as she descended the last step, slipping beneath the surface of the water. The heavy, dark sense of the Gatekeeper's presence increased. The task was nearly done; Lily would soon be dead and the Gatekeeper would unite with Petra, its host. Then there would be no sending it back, no stopping it from running rampant upon the earth. James wanted to lunge toward the pool again, risking everything to pull his sister out of the water, but even in his desperation he knew Petra would easily repel him once more. There was no hope, and yet James realized this was his last chance for action. Frantically, he looked from his drowning sister to the shadowy figure in the corner. He could see now that it wasn't a figure at all but simply an assembly of clothes—Petra's father's belongings, propped like a scarecrow. The voice came from within, hidden somehow. Suddenly, horribly, James knew what he had to do.

"This isn't your father," he exclaimed, scrambling across the room, skirting the pool and his dying sister. "Petra, look!"

Before Petra could stop him, James grabbed the empty arm of the coat. He pulled as hard as he could, yanking the coat loose. It tore away from the shape that had supported it, knocking the hat loose as well, and the horrible voice cried out in fury.

"Nooo!" it keened. "Beastly boy! How dare you touch me!"

James stumbled backwards, nearly fainting at the intensity of the pain in his forehead.

Petra gasped, and her wand wavered. "James… what have you—" she exclaimed, and then her voice changed, became very slightly doubtful. "Father?"

The coat had concealed a portrait in a frame. James could see instantly that the portrait had been quite severely damaged, almost entirely destroyed, and then very systematically sewn back together and repainted. The repainted portions didn't move very well, giving the face a twisted, maimed look, but James could clearly see who the portrait represented. One eye stared blankly while the other followed him malevolently, glowing red with one snakelike, vertical pupil.

Petra's face contorted in involuntary disgust. "You're not my father… you're… you're…"

"Finish the task!" the portrait hissed furiously. "Kill Lily Potter first! Then James Potter! Correct my one fatal mistake! It matters not who I am! All that matters is what was stolen from you, and making those responsible for it pay! It is the only way to return those you've lost!"

"Correct your mistake?" Petra said, her expression melting slowly into horrified revelation. "But I thought…"

"My single mistake!" the portrait of Voldemort shrieked urgently . "Killing James Potter first, leaving the stronger one to protect the boy! It was old magic, but powerful magic, and I forgot it! She should've died first, leaving the man and the child to wither before my wand! It was my single, fatal mistake! I was foolish, yes, but now the circle will be closed! You, my soul's final vessel, will kill the girl, Lily Potter, and then the boy, James Potter, and then—" the voice dropped to a seething, greedy hiss, "Harry Potter will come, and finally—finally—we… will… kill… him!"

"Harry Potter?" Petra whispered.

"The doll was meant to summon him," the portrait said quickly. "The plan seemed so simple: add a scar to the forehead, thus making it the father instead of the son. Surely, once Harry Potter's scar reawakened, he would come, and then he would be ours! But instead, we have lured the boy James, granting him the phantom scar and the ability to know our plans, and this, my dear, is even better! I might have foreseen it! My one mistake will be rectified, the order reversed! Lily Potter dies, then James, and then, finally, Harry Potter will lie dead at our feet!"

Wonderingly, Petra said, "But my parents… the promise of balance and perfection… you used me…" Her voice rose, became angry. "You used me!"

"That is because in your heart, you and I are one and the same!" the horrible portrait rasped. "Your living soul carries the last vestige of my own, like a flame in a lantern! We wish for the same things, but from different directions. In the end, we arrive at the very same place: revenge!"

Petra shook her head sadly. "What have I done? I didn't want revenge," she said. "All I wanted was justice…" She turned away from the portrait and looked back at the woman standing on the ledge of the greenly flickering pool. Petra's mother smiled back at her sadly and nodded. Petra hitched a sob. "Justice… and my parents back," she said, her voice cracking. She raised her wand. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

"NOOO!" the portrait screamed, so loud that it seemed to shake the walls.

Lily flew up out of the pool, limp as a rag and streaming water. The shape of Lianna Agnellis fell in on itself, reverting to water. It splashed onto the stone floor and streamed back into the pool.

"Mum!" Petra screamed, unable to resist reaching out to the departed shape, tears shining in her eyes . "I'm sorry, Mum! Dad! I'm so sorry! I couldn't do it!"

James ran forward to the suspended shape of his sister. He reached and pulled her to him, hugging her. She was as limp and cold as death. Gently, he laid her on the floor, and placed his ear to her chest.

"Her heart's still beating!" he cried.

"You foolish girl!" the portrait roared, its face distorting grotesquely. "It is the only way! The part of me in you rebels even now! Resist at your own peril! Kill the girl! It is not yet too late!"

Petra shook her head slowly, approaching the portrait.

"You can't destroy it, Petra," James called, cradling Lily in his arms. "Look at it; other people have tried! Portraits can only be destroyed by the painter, remember?"

Petra was still shaking her head, tears streaking her face but her expression a mask of stern resolve. "That's not entirely true, James," she said quietly. With both hands, she gripped the portrait by its frame and lifted it.

"You are the host of the Gatekeeper!" the high, cold voice of Voldemort proclaimed urgently. "Even now it awaits you! You can feel its presence! You have been chosen since the time of Salazar Slytherin himself! Hundreds of years of prophecy lead to you! You cannot turn aside from the weight of that destiny! It will crush you! Turn back! All is not yet lost! It is not too late!"

"There are two people that can destroy a portrait, although the second person is rarely ever available to do it," Petra said, speaking to James and ignoring the raving voice. She held the painting out with both hands, leveling it over the rippling surface of the pool. "A portrait can only be destroyed by its painter, or if fate allows it, a portrait can be destroyed… by its subject."

"NOOO!" the portrait shrieked, and James saw the canvas bulge slightly at the force of it. Petra dropped the portrait and it fell into its reflection, splashing heavily. The voice of Voldemort's painted visage continued to scream furiously, bubbling as it bobbed for a moment. Horribly, the painted face began to run and streak, as if the liquid in the pool were acid rather than water. Paint bled over the sinking canvas and mingled with the glowing waters, diluting and thinning, drawing feathery black tendrils into the depths. The voice gurgled and faded, ran out of breath, rasped desperately, and then died, leaving only its echo in the Chamber of Secrets. The portrait frame sank out of sight and was lost forever in the bottomless pool.