The Curse of the GateKeeper (James Potter #2) (40 page)

Before James' face, the mirror glass altered as the pages of the Focusing Book riffled. Scenes flickered past, rising and falling out of the silvery smoke. Elsewhere in the office, the portraits of the former headmasters were now awake, although none spoke. The silhouetted figure stalked through the room, searching it. James had been discovered. Whoever it was would see him at any moment. James huddled, pressing his hands to the glass, panting and terrified. He wished he could be anywhere else at that very moment.

And then, suddenly, he was.

There was a horrid, disorienting sense of flipping, as if James' entire body had been turned inside out. It was over almost before he knew what was happening. Suddenly, the scene in the Mirror wasn't the silvery smoke; it was the Headmaster's office, but backwards, somehow. James could clearly see the shadow of a large man moving over the floor on the other side of the Mirror, and then the man himself walked into view, very close. It was Merlin, his eyes wide and searching.

Without thinking James ducked below the surface of the Mirror. Desperately, he peered up, craning his neck to see if he'd been discovered. From this new angle, the scene in the Mirror looked different. In fact, the mirror itself was different. It was rather smaller, framed in silver, and hung on a stone wall rather than in a wooden frame. James frowned, confused and frightened. Now that he looked around, he could see he was in an entirely different place. Somehow, he'd come
through
the Mirror. When he'd wished to be somewhere else, he'd been touching the Amsera Certh, and the Mirror had apparently made his wish come true. How could he have been so careless? The Focusing Book's pages had been riffling in the wind, so there was no way to tell what page of the Book he had been sent to.

James tried to take stock of his surroundings. He was still huddled below the new mirror, hunkered in a narrow space between the wall and a sort of huge stone block. There were voices nearby. Very carefully, James raised his head. The block was about three feet high with an enormous, complicated shape rising out of it. With a start, James realized it was a statue. It looked vaguely familiar, although it was hard to tell from this angle. James peered around a monstrous carved foot, trying very hard not to breathe. The voices were very close by, and as James peered, he finally saw the owners of the voices. There were four people, all dressed in robes and cloaks of various colors. They were facing away from James, forming a rough line. Suddenly, there was a blinding flash and a puff of acrid smoke.

"One for the ages, methinks," a hearty voice cried. "A pity it won't be in color."

"Color will come soon enough, Godric," a woman's voice trilled happily. "And perhaps even movement, like little living paintings."

"We already have moving paintings," a second man's voice said with a hint of a sneer. "I fail to see how this process is in any way superior."

"Always the skeptic, Salazar," a different woman's voice commented. "Rowena's inventiveness should be lauded, not criticized. Leave that to the apprentices whose work it is to refine her technique."

James' eyes nearly bulged out of his head. Now that the photo had been taken, the four individuals were gravitating toward the rotunda exit. Nearby, a small, grizzled goblin was extinguishing the flash mechanism while another goblin disassembled a gigantic, ancient camera. As the two women and two men walked out into the sunlit hall, James looked up at the high archway. There, carved carefully in the stone at the peak of the arch, each letter as sharp as the chisel that had cut it, were the words: 'SCHOLA HOGVARTENSIS ARTIUM MAGICARUM ET FASCINATIONUS'.

James slumped back against the wall as the voices faded. There was no doubt about it. Somehow, impossibly, he had been hurled back in time to the founding of Hogwarts. He was in the old rotunda, hiding under the intact statue of the founders, as the founders themselves walked into the light of a thousand year old sunset. But what struck James as the most absurd thing of all was that Ashley Doone had been right that day in History of Magic.

James was the ghost in the plinth.

J
ames waited until the goblins finished disassembling the handmade camera equipment, loaded the pieces onto a rough cart, and wheeled it away, talking the entire time in a strange goblin language. When they were gone and the rotunda was empty, James jumped up. He peered into the silver-framed mirror, wondering why anyone would hang a mirror behind a statue. The mirror showed merely the shadowy backsides of the statues and James' own face, which was rather wild-eyed. His glasses were askew. He whipped them off and stuffed them into his pyjama pocket. For a moment, he was filled with a horrible panic. The Mirror-portal had closed! How would he ever get back? But then, as he placed his hands on the surface of the mirror glass, the reflection changed. Merlin's office leapt into view, as if summoned by James' touch. Candles had been lit and Merlin stood at his desk, his back to the Mirror. He was turning the pages in the Focusing Book. He seemed to sense James' gaze, for he suddenly turned his head, peering back at the Mirror, his eyes sharp. James leapt aside, throwing himself against the stone wall next to the mirror. The moment his fingers left its surface, however, the reflection changed back to normal; the Headmaster's office winked away, replaced by the reflection of the enormous statue and the rotunda.

James breathed a huge sigh of relief. All he needed to do was to wait until Merlin left his office again. Then, James could simply touch the mirror on this side and wish to go back to his own time. Hopefully, he'd be sent back through the Amsera Certh again. Once he got back, he'd still have to escape the Headmaster's office undetected, but he'd work that out when the time came. Quietly, James hunkered down behind the statue plinth and leaned against the wall.

Now that he had calmed down a bit, James began to notice the noises and smells of this ancient version of Hogwarts. The rotunda itself was empty, but the rest of the castle sounded like a hive of activity. Voices echoed, overlapping and busy. There was the sound of footsteps and even the clatter of hooves on stone. Clanks and hisses indicated a nearby kitchen. The smells were a mingled potpourri of stew and plowed earth, sawdust and animal dung. James found that he was curious. If he had to wait anyway, was there any reason he shouldn't explore the original Hogwarts a little? Rose would probably punch him if he didn't take advantage of the opportunity. James climbed up and peered between the enormous feet of the statue of Helga Hufflepuff. The rotunda remained completely still and empty. Cautiously, James crept out from behind the statue and crossed the room. It was just like the old rotunda in the Hogwarts he knew, except that it wasn't old; every block in the wall was straight and sharp-edged, perfectly fitted in its place. At the archway, James turned back and looked at the statue. He'd often wondered what it had looked like before it was broken. The stone figures of the founders were each twenty feet tall, all smiling except for the statue of Salazar Slytherin, which seemed to smirk slightly, the eyes narrowed. On the wall behind them, above the silver-framed mirror, was a gigantic Hogwarts crest fashioned from wood and painted brightly. The overall look was quite imposing.

"Boy!" someone cried nearby. James jumped, wheeling so fast that he nearly fell on the floor.

A man in a long fur cloak was standing in the doorway of the rotunda entrance. His bushy eyebrows were furrowed over bright, deep-set eyes. He held the reins of a regal white horse. "Stable the packhorse and send word to your lord that his guests are arrived. We can find our own quarters if none can be bothered to greet us."

James was completely flummoxed. Not knowing what else to do, he ran over to the man and tentatively reached for the reins. The man looked him up and down suspiciously, and James remembered that he was dressed in blue- and white-striped pyjamas.

"Not the steed, boy," the man growled. "No one handles this beast but myself.
Your
charge is yonder packhorse." He pointed out over the portico to a huge packhorse laden with canvas burdens. Hitched to it was a cart with thick, wooden wheels. The man leaned toward James threateningly. "Are you a stable boy or a jester? What manner of reception is this?"

"Er, sorry sir. No problem," James stammered. "I can handle your horse, uh, Sire. Master. Er, Your Highness."

The man's face suddenly spread into a toothy grin, as if he thought James was mocking him and was pleased to plan his comeuppance. "Amusing, boy. Your lord will surely enjoy the joke as much as I do. See to it that our baggage is brought to our quarters, and I'll personally strop the porter who proves careless. Spread the word."

With that, the man flung the reins of his steed over the nearby hitching post and strode into the dimness of the castle, his furs swaying. He left a strange, spicy scent behind him. James turned back to the enormous packhorse and the wagon. He considered simply running away now that no one was watching, but then thought better of it. Surely, he could at least lead the horse to the stables. All he'd have to do was follow his nose. Besides, the task would allow him a view of the original castle without looking too conspicuous. First though, he needed something else to wear. He looked around quickly. Instead of the weedy hilltop of James' time, the rotunda entrance overlooked a carefully cropped courtyard surrounded by a low fieldstone wall. Running across the center of the courtyard was a babbling stream, fed through stone gates on either side. There, sitting on a large boulder near the stream, were three baskets of clothing. James ran over, hoping whoever was doing the washing would stay away a bit longer.

The contents of the baskets were very rough robes, much larger than James could comfortably wear. He struggled into one anyway, trying to roll up the enormous sleeves. The bottom of the robe pooled around his feet comically. The robe was better than his stripy pyjamas, but not by much. Perhaps he'd find something better later. He turned and ran back to the packhorse, holding up the robe to avoid stumbling over it.

He took the reins of the horse, which was easily twice his height. The horse continued to crop the grass of the courtyard, chewing methodically, but it followed amiably as James tugged the reins. The wheels of the wagon creaked as the horse pulled it. James didn't know where he was going, but he assumed if he walked around the castle he'd eventually come to the stables. He took the opportunity to look around.

Hogwarts castle was much smaller than he knew it in his time. It huddled around the rotunda entrance, which was festooned with a great iron portcullis, currently raised. The turrets gleamed in the sunset, their conical roofs looking sharp enough to prick James' finger. Much higher than the turrets was the Sylvven Tower, which James knew well. It looked exactly the way he remembered it, although in this time it dominated the silhouette of the entire castle. As James circled the castle, leading the horse through a rough stone gate, he noticed that the land around the castle was dotted with farms and cottages. James was a little surprised. In his time, Hogwarts castle stood alone in a large, forested wilderness, secluded and hidden. Here, however, the castle overlooked a bustling community. People moved busily all around, obviously consumed with the business of peasant life. As James led the horse and cart, trying to look like he knew where he was going, he passed people carrying baskets and pots, herding sheep and cows, or pushing wooden handcarts laden with vegetables. Several people shot James careful looks, and at least one woman laughed, but at least no one was accosting him or demanding to know what he was doing.

Finally, James caught the scent of fresh animal dung on the shifting breeze. He looked and saw a huge stone barn. He grinned, recognizing it; it was the same barn that Hagrid, in James' time, was currently holding Care of Magical Creatures in. The roof was different, and there was something like a blacksmith's shed attached to the side, but it was otherwise unchanged. As James approached, he heard the stamp and whicker of horses and the clang and hiss of the smith.

"What's all this, then?" a burly man with bare arms called, stepping out of the main barn door and eyeing James.

"Er, this packhorse needs stabled," James replied, holding up the reins. "The owner sent me here. I'm not really a stable boy."

"That I can tell," the man said gruffly, scowling, "seeing as you've brought me yonder horse without even releasing its cart. Perhaps you expect me to stable it as well?"

"No!" James replied. "It's supposed to be unloaded and taken to the owner's quarters. He said he'd… er, strop anyone who wasn't careful with his stuff."

"Don't tell me how to do porter work, boy," the man said, rolling his eyes wearily. "I'd strop you myself if I had the time. Thomas! Send for the page. We need this cart returned to the valet before Lord Maarten gets frisky."

The man looked down at James again, sighing. "You're either a thief or you're the youngest cleric I've ever seen. Your mistress will lash you good when she sees what you've done to that robe. What's your name?"