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

In the place of the leaning sign was a house. It was not huge, but it was almost unnaturally tall. Its shuttered windows looked twenty feet high and the mansard roof that topped it almost seemed to rake outward, like a vulture brooding. Pillars framed the front door, which was painted black and had a giant brass door knocker in the center. Forge swallowed, drew himself up, and approached the door.

As he climbed the steps, Forge wasn't surprised to see that the brass door knocker had been crafted to resemble a coiled snake with glittering emerald eyes. Nor was he surprised to see it stir to life at his approach. The head rose from its brass coils and flicked a golden tongue.

"You bear the parchment?" the snake hissed.

"You best believe I do. Open the door before I catch my death in this rain."

"Sssshow ussss."

"I didn't come all this way to argue with a bit of enchanted metallurgy. Open the blasted door and tell your master I've arrived."

The snake's head rose very slightly so that it looked down at Forge's head. The eyes glowed green and the tongue flickered. "Sssshow ussss the parchment."

Forge looked up at the snake's head. It weaved slightly, flicking the air with its tongue. Forge had grown up with a metalsmith father and knew how enchanted ornaments were made. Even so, there was something about the weaving brass head and the flickering golden tongue that worried him. He stuffed his hand into the pocket of his coat and retrieved the parchment.

"Here. See?" he said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. "Now open the door."

The snake stretched out toward the parchment in Forge's hand. It reared, and then spat a bolt of green flame. Forge yanked his hand away, yelping as the flame consumed the parchment in midair. The snake's eyes glowed brighter as it uncoiled even further from the door, leaning out toward Forge's face. Forge wouldn't have thought it was possible, but the sculpture seemed to grin at him.

"Prossssccceeed," it said. The door unlocked and swung ponderously open.

Forge entered slowly, peering around. He found himself in a long hallway, laid with rich, if rather threadbare, red carpet. There were thick doors on either side, lacquered to a mirror-black shine. All of them were closed except for the one at the very end. Voices came from beyond, echoing so that Forge couldn't quite understand them. He opened his mouth to announce himself when the door suddenly slammed shut behind him. Startled, he glanced back at it, his eyes wide, and then listened again. The voices were still speaking. The masters of the house must have heard the slam of the door; therefore, they must know he'd arrived. Water dripped steadily from the tail of Forge's overcoat as he walked quietly down the hall, toward the open door and the voices.

Beyond the door was another dark room. There was a bench along one side and a long, ornately framed mirror on the other. A second open door showed a corner of a third room. Forge thought it looked like a library. Firelight flickered on the walls and shadows moved. The voices had become more distinct.

"It is very dark," said a woman's raspy voice. "We are rather far away, my lord. It is impossible to be certain."

"Pray do not say that," a man's voice replied. "'Impossible' is such a very… final word. Perhaps you would care to be a bit more nuanced, madam."

"Yes," the woman said quickly. "I err, my lord. Let me look again."

There was a stirring, as of someone moving in a large chair, and a different man's voice spoke impatiently, "Just tell us what you see, woman. We will decide what it is."

The woman moaned, either in fear or concentration. "There are three figures… small. They are… no, they are not small. They are young. One is larger, another is fair-haired. They are… there is commotion. Fighting."

Forge listened, unsure of what he was supposed to do. He looked around the darker antechamber of the library and saw a coat rack standing next to the door. He shrugged off his overcoat and hung it there. Water pattered from it to the wooden floor. Apparently, he was meant to wait until this current interview was over. He approached the bench but did not sit on it. In the mirror across from the bench, Forge could see a reflection of the library beyond the doorway. Three large chairs were turned to face the fireplace. He could only see their backs.

"There is another figure," the woman's voice rasped. "Thin and tall. A wraith, if I know my psychic signatures. The boys are fighting her. I see… I see a cloud of embers descending. I fear I am losing the vision…"

"Let me look," the impatient voice demanded.

"Be still, Gregor. Divination isn't your strong suit," the first voice said silkily. "Let the woman exercise her talents."

In the mirror, Forge saw a hand moving on the arm of one of the chairs. It was very white and had a large black ring on it. The shadow of the woman moved on the wall of the library. Forge recognized the stoop and hat of a hag. She was bent over her crystal ball.

"No…," the hag breathed, now lost in her work. "This is not the fog of distance or any sort of Confusion Hex. This is something else. Something is descending on the place. Something is… forming."

There was a tense silence. Forge felt it, and knew that the two men were listening very intently.

"The fight is done…," the hag said in a singsong voice, now completely immersed in her divination. "There is a ghost now as well… it is assisting the wraith… or perhaps it is the other way around. There is much conflict in the ether. But the fog has descended. It is forming… it is making a… a…"

The hag suddenly gasped. Forge saw her shadow lurch backwards, clapping her hands to her head. There was clatter and a crash as something fell.

"Keep looking!" the impatient voice, Gregor, shouted. "Look and tell, or so help me…"

"Stop," the other man's voice said, almost playfully. There was a smile in it. "Gregor, leave the poor woman alone. Obviously, she has seen something that has upset her a great deal."

The hag was panting, and then, strangely, horribly, another voice spoke. It was very thin, high, cold, but nonsensical. Forge couldn't hear its actual words, but it seemed gleeful, somehow. The few remaining hairs at the base of Forge's neck stuck straight up.

"What did you see?" Gregor demanded, ignoring the thin, muttering voice. "What was it?"

"Let us not overtax the poor woman," the first voice said. "She has performed her services quite well. We shall see that she receives payment as agreed. Thank you, madam."

"It was a man," the hag panted, her voice trembling. "But then…"

"Yes, thank you," the man's voice said soothingly. "I believe we've heard enough. Gregor, perhaps you'd be so kind as to show our guest—"

"Horrible," she keened, and then sobbed hugely. Forge watched the hag's shadow dip, and then another shape, a fat man, jumped up, supporting her.

"Yes," the first voice said, dismissing her. "He was horrible, this man. Thank you."

"No!" the hag shouted. Forge saw her shadow lunge, pulling away from the shadow of Gregor. " Not the man! He was awful enough, but then…"

There was a pause as the hag seemed to crumple again. The white hand on the arm of the chair rose slightly. The black ring twinkled in the firelight. "And then?"

The hag shuddered. "Something else. Something… came through … it was…"

She didn't seem able to continue. The white hand on the arm of the chair remained still, poised in a gesture that looked almost like a benediction. Firelight flickered and snapped. The horrible, otherworldly voice buzzed and gibbered quietly to itself.

"Smoke," the hag finally said. Her voice had gone high, nearly falsetto. She sounded like a child. "Black fire. Ash and… and… eyes… and nothing. Living nothing ."