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

The goblin hadn't been paying much attention, being rather preoccupied with doing whatever he needed to do to get out of the house alive, but suddenly he remembered the words of the hag: Black fire. Ash… eyes… and nothing. Living nothing.

"What have you done?" Forge asked quietly.

"Me?" the pale man replied, raising his eyebrows. "Not a thing. I'm just passing the time. Gregor here tends to believe in fantastic stories like this. It amuses him."

Gregor grunted and rolled his eyes. The horrible, mewling voice came again. It seemed to be coming from the chair that still faced the fire. Forge felt the skin of his scalp tighten. The voice was mad. It chilled him.

"But let us get down to business, as it were," the pale man continued. "Mr. Forge, we require your services. We understand that you are a bit of an expert on, er, restoration. Would that be accurate?"

Forge shifted. "I am just a simple trade goblin, sir—"

"You are a master forger ," the pale man said suddenly, his voice as cold as an ice pick. "Tell me you are. I'd hate to think that I've summoned you here in vain."

"Y-yes, sir," Forge answered quickly, trying not to tremble.

"Excellent," the pale man replied breezily, leaning comfortably back in his chair. "And I have come to understand that this expertise of yours extends to restoring portraits. Would that also be correct? Don't lie to me, Mr. Forge. I'll know."

Forge gulped and glanced at Gregor. The man seemed to be paying no attention. He stared idly at the wine in his glass as he swirled it.

"I… yes," Forge said. "It takes more time, of course. It isn't merely a matter of replacing the paint. The correct potions must be determined for each color… unimportant bits have to be scraped and reused to get the proper compositions… it's very delicate, but I have achieved a level of success."

"That's very fascinating," the pale man said, his blue eyes boring into the goblin. He's mad, Forge thought. Completely nutters. I wonder if the other one knows it. I wonder if they are both mad, but in different ways.

The pale man stood. "We have a job for you, Mr. Forge. It will be rather difficult, I am afraid, but I suspect a goblin of your obvious skills will find it a worthy challenge indeed. It is a priceless family heirloom, you see. For the longest time, we believed it was lost. Funny, isn't it, how things tend to turn up when you need them most? It's been rather dreadfully damaged by, er, vandals. But if there was anything you thought you could do to help, we'd be most eternally… grateful."

The thin voice was gibbering again as the pale man began to turn the middle chair. Suddenly, Forge absolutely did not want to see what was there. He wanted to run, or at least avert his eyes. He knew if he did, they would probably kill him. He watched and listened, and as the chair turned, the voice finally became intelligible.

"Show meee himmm!" it rasped in its awful, tiny, broken voice . "Show him meee!" And it began to laugh, high and crackling, a thoroughly mad, fragmented, twisted laugh.

The portrait was not large. It was almost entirely destroyed. Only a few shreds and scraps remained: the corner of the mouth, two fingers of a thin, pale hand, a single glittering red eye. It had been slashed. The back of the frame showed dozens of deep gouges and punctures.

"Make him repairrr meeee…," the portrait screamed in its thin, insectile voice. "Do it, Luciussssss! Make him repairrr meeeeee… "

"It will be his pleasure, my Lord," the pale man smiled, looking up at Forge, his eyes wet, glistening.

"M-my Lord?" Gregor said, as if shocked to hear the decimated portrait speak so clearly. "You remain! But we thought…"

"It matterssss not!" the portrait of Voldemort cried . "The Gatekeeper isss descended! The work of our forefather is at hand! Vennngeance!"

Gregor seemed hopelessly at a loss by this sudden change of events. "But… but how will we find it, my Lord?"

" Weeee will not… ," the portrait hissed. The sound of its broken voice flapped a shred of the canvas. Forge dreaded the sight of the horrible thing, dreaded what they were going to make him do to it. But he dreaded most what he knew it was going to say next.

The painting sighed deeply and said, on the exhale, "It will find ussss …"

1. E NDINGS AND B EGINNINGS

"C ome on, James!" Albus cried, hopping impatiently. "Let me give it a try. Nobody will tell!" "You know I can't, you Skrewt," James replied calmly, swinging a leg over his Thunderstreak. "You're underage. You'll just have to learn in school like everybody else does." He kicked off, leaning forward so that the broom rocketed out over the garden.

"You just want me to look as much a fool as you did on a broom your first year!" Albus called, running after his brother. "It won't work! I'm gonna be brilliant! I'll fly circles around you, you watch!"

James smiled as the wind whipped through his hair. He pulled up and banked, circling back toward Albus. Albus stopped, frowning, and ducked as James flew past, tousling his younger brother's hair.

James hugged his broom and climbed into a streaking corkscrew, pulling up into the blue dome of the sky. Below, the Burrow spun lazily, casting its shadow out over the garden and the nearby fields. James drew a deep breath of the rushing air, and then dipped his broom, pulling it to a sudden, practiced stop. He knew he shouldn't show off in front of his brother, but he was quite proud of his increasing skills. His dad had been working with him over the summer, and James had become cautiously confident that he'd make the House team this year after all.

"About time, Potter," Ted called, swinging in next to James on his old but well-maintained Nimbus 2000. "Three-on-three is hard enough, even with experienced players. You'll need to play Beater and Seeker. Just keep an eye on Angelina. She'll let you think she's delicate as a flower until she drafts you into a tree. George is playing Beater and Keeper as well, so he'll be plenty busy, but his long-range Bludger will still find you if you don't watch it. But the one you've really got to keep an eye on is—"

Something red and green roared between Ted and James, forcing them into opposite tumbles. James gripped his broom and swung it around, craning to look. His mum spun to a stop and drifted gently over him, grinning, her cheeks flushed and her hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. She was wearing her Holyhead Harpies tunic.

"What do you think, James? Still fits!"

James heard the sound of an appreciative whistle behind him. He looked and saw his dad smiling at Ginny, pulling his broom into position thirty feet away.

"Dad! Mum!" James reproached, stifling a grin. "Quit it! You're both an embarrassment!"

Ginny blew a stray hair out of her face. "You just watch your back out there, love. I may be your mum, but that doesn't mean I won't broadside you to get to the Snitch." She grinned at him, and then spun on her broom and zoomed to the opposite side of the pitch.

"She's not serious," James said, turning to Ted.

"You better hope not," Ted answered, watching Ginny fly off. "I've played against her before, and I tend to think your only hope is that she won't Bludger her own son in the back of the head."

"You're a great help," James said, but Ted had already dropped back into formation.

"Knock James off his broom, Mum!" Albus yelled from below. James glanced down and saw him standing at the edge of the orchard. Nearby, Lily, Rose, and Hugo sat on a huge tartan blanket, grinning and squinting up into the sunlight. Charlie's twins, Harold and Jules, were perched in a gnarled old oak tree by the barn.