The Curse of the GateKeeper (James Potter #2) (53 page)

Zane nodded. "In the meantime, I'll check with Madame Delacroix about your voodoo doll. I'll try to get her to tell me what it can do. After all, she's the one that made it."

Rose asked, "You can talk to her?"

"Sure. She's right here on the grounds, on the psychiatric floor of the Poe Medical College. They keep her under lock and key, but she's allowed visitors. She's pretty dotty after that whole experience in the Grotto Keep, but I bet she remembers me. And a big chunk of log." Zane grinned a little wickedly.

"I doubt it will come to that again," Rose said, rolling her eyes. "But it might help loosen her tongue. After all, it was one of your presidents that said to speak softly and carry a big stick."

"Yeah," Zane agreed, "big sticks are a specialty of mine."

After that, Zane wished James and Rose a goodnight and Merry Christmas. He apparently had a Christmas party to go to himself, since it was quite a lot earlier where he was. He broke into a rather rude Christmas carol and vanished halfway through the chorus.

James and Rose said goodnight as well and went their separate ways, climbing the stairs to their dormitories. It occurred to James that he had the second-years' dormitory all to himself during the holiday, and it worried him a little. He reminded himself that if what Zane said was true, Merlin couldn't harm him inside the walls of Hogwarts. Still, the thought that Merlin might actually
desire
to harm James, as well as Rose and Ralph, was slightly terrifying. It was one thing to have a nebulous, generic enemy floating loose on the earth, but it was another thing entirely to have a specific enemy under the same roof as you, and to know that that enemy was one of the most powerful sorcerers ever. Fortunately, after the day's activities in the snow and the stresses of his conversations with Petra and his parents, James was exhausted enough not to care. Besides, James had a vague sense that Cedric was watching out for him. If Merlin came for James, Cedric would find a way to warn him first. Thinking that, James fell into a deep sleep.

He had the dream again, and it was clearer than ever. There was the flash and swish of blades and the rattle of old machinery. There was the flickering pool and the sad faces of the young man and woman. Worst of all, there was the keening voice of the dark shape in the shadows, constantly enticing, promising, instructing. A sense of deep sadness pervaded the dream, but under the sadness, like sharp knives under a soft blanket, there was anger. It was a cold, pulsing rage, broad as the sky and deep as the ocean. And finally, for the first time, James saw his companion, reflected in the rippling surface of the pool; a silhouette and a hint of a face. He still didn't know where the pool was or where this secret, hidden place was buried, but he finally had a sense of who this tormented person was. Long, raven hair hung past piercing eyes. The eyes were like coals: hard and cold, but concealing a fire that could burn anything and everything.

"You have cursed," the voice of the shadows said softly, evilly. "You have tested the waters, yes. But you must perform the ultimate rite to become truly worthy. You must make a sacrifice so great that there will be no turning back. You must take from those who took from you. It will be a hard and painful path, and only you can walk it, but it is the price of balance. You must be willing to tread that path for all those who will come after you. And for that sacrifice, they will honor your memory. They will sing of you. Your story will become legend. And through that legend, you will live forever, no matter what happens to your mortal form. Through your trials, justice will be achieved. Those you've lost will be returned. Their blood will be repaid in the only way that it can be: with more blood. It is your duty and your honor."

"It is my honor," the raven-haired figure answered in a cold, calm voice. A tear dripped from the figure's chin and struck the pool, where it steamed.

James slept on. And in the morning, he barely remembered the dream. But his phantom scar throbbed worryingly, and James wondered about it, knowing it meant something, but unable to quite work out what. He made his way down to breakfast, and by the time he entered the Great Hall, the pain in his forehead had gone entirely. Albus and Rose were seated at the Gryffindor table with Hugo and Petra, and all of them were engaged in raucous conversation. James joined them, smiling happily.

By the time breakfast was over, he'd completely forgotten the dream.

T
he Christmas holiday ended strangely for James. Since neither he, Rose nor Albus had gone anywhere, there was no doleful return trip. Instead, it felt as if school returned to them. On the Sunday when most of the students arrived back from their travels, James and Rose sat in a sunny window seat overlooking the courtyard. Silently, they watched bundled classmates unloading their bags and trunks, lugging them up the steps to the main entrance. The enormous snowman James, Rose, and Albus had erected was becoming soft in a sudden thaw. Its carrot nose drooped sadly and one of its stick arms had fallen off. Melting snow dripped steadily from the castle roofs and balconies. James felt rather glad that the holidays were over and looked forward to resuming classes and drama rehearsals.

Strangely enough, none of them had seen Merlin at all during the entire holiday. James had passed Professor McGonagall in the hall outside her office, and she had informed him that, as far as she knew, Merlin had spent the holiday at the castle.

"It isn't as if the Headmaster has any family, you know," she'd commented. "And one can only assume that his Christmas traditions would be rather different than ours, at any rate. Besides, Headmaster Ambrosius is a very private man, as you may have noticed. If he had any plans, I doubt he'd have told any of us."

Classes began again and James noticed that the second half of the term had a rather different tone than the first. Especially with the older students, there was a noticeably more serious attitude about homework and studies. All in all, it made James glad he was not yet old enough to participate in O.W.L. or N.E.W.T. examinations.

As Defence Against the Dark Arts classes resumed, Professor Debellows introduced techniques from a form of magical martial arts called
Artis Decerto.
James' attitude about such things had been rather transformed by his encounter with Salazar Slytherin on the top of the Sylvven Tower, where he'd surprised himself by putting Debellows physical defensive techniques to very good use. He paid close attention to the new moves, which looked quite a lot like dancing, but were actually a method of keeping one's body light and flexible, allowing for impressive displays of spell dodging. As an example, Debellows invited the class to form a line and make their wands ready. One by one, each student was to attempt to Disarm, Stun, or Sting Debellows. "Your choice," the professor said, grinning and hopping lightly from foot to foot.

"This is finally getting good," Trenton Bloch muttered, fingering his wand.

As the first spells began to fire, Debellows dodged them with amazing, almost effortless ease. He barely seemed to be watching the line of students. He simply glanced once as each person in the line raised their wand, then he'd turn, lunge, duck, or even pirouette, allowing the spell to flit past him harmlessly, usually missing him by mere inches. James had to admit that it was a rather amazing display, but he was determined that his spell would strike its mark. He decided he would aim directly for Debellows' feet since they, at least, were usually attached to the floor. When his turn came, James raised his wand, aimed fleetingly for Debellows chest, and then, as quickly as he could, pointed downwards and fired. Even as the spell shot from his wand, Debellows was in the air, turning lightly. James' Stunning Spell snuffed itself out on Debellows' shadow. A moment later, the big man came down on his hands and the tips of his toes, as if he was doing a push-up. With a heave and a grunt, he flung himself upright again, landing easily on his feet. Deftly, he caught his own wand, which he had lobbed upwards during his leap.

"Bluh-dee hell!" Graham Warton cried. Amazed applause rippled over the students.

Kendra Corner raised her hand. "How long before we can do that?"

"Patience, students," Debellows called, chuckling and mopping his brow with a towel. "Artis Decerto is a lifetime study. It is much more than a physical art; it is a mental discipline. It incorporates the skills of levitation, divination, and even Apparition, allowing the wizard to know when and where his opponent is going to strike and not to be there when it happens. Only the clumsiest wizard relies solely on the strength of his spells. The ablest wizard knows that if he plays the game well, he need not use spells at all."

James decided that, as unlikable as Debellows was, Artis Decerto was a technique well worth learning. He devoted himself to the practice drills and mental exercises Debellows prescribed even though they seemed hopelessly difficult and abstract.

"Know your opponent better than he knows himself," Debellows commanded. "It need not take years of study; most wizards know very little of themselves. Gauge them in an instant. Take their measure. If you succeed in this, you will always have the upper hand, for you will know what they are going to do before they do themselves. You will already be preparing your defence, and eventually, your counter-attack."

"When do we get to that part?" Trenton said, lowering his wand in frustration. "I'm sick of trying to read the other bloke's mind. I want to magic something."

"In time, Mr. er, young man," Debellows replied, waving a hand. "First, you must understand the logistics of battle. No action should be taken unless you have already foreseen the outcome. Planning and deliberation are key! Magic is but one of the choices available to the cunning wizard. At every stage of the battle, there are three options a warrior may choose. The first choice is to curse his opponent."

Kevin Murdock pointed his wand at his drill partner and mimed a Killing Curse. "Kapow! You're dead! That's what we've been waiting for," he said cheerfully.

"A wholesale and clumsy response, my friend," Debellows said. "Perhaps you'd like to try that technique on me?"

Murdock's face reddened as he remembered the way Debellows had dodged the myriad spells. He shook his head quickly, lowering his wand.

Debellows nodded once. "Good choice, boy. You have just illustrated the second option a wizard may choose in battle: to wait and watch for his opponent to make the next move. The cunning warrior will be able to exploit his opponent's action and use it against him. If any of you ever see battle, you will likely find yourselves facing an untrained and undisciplined enemy: an enemy who believes that either bravery, power, or enthusiasm will be enough to see him to victory. Get the measure of this enemy, wait for him to make his move, and know it the moment he does. If you succeed in those things, then the battle is already in your hands."

Trenton Bloch rolled his eyes, obviously unsatisfied. "What's the third option, then?"

"The third option, my friends," Debellows said, raising his eyebrows, "is to turn around and walk away."

"The third option is to retreat?" Morgan Patonia asked, frowning.

Debellows shook his head, smiling grimly. "Not at all. A true warrior never retreats. But a true warrior
does
know when a battle is not worth fighting. This might be because the enemy is too great, or because the enemy is too weak. Either way, there is no valor in such a battle. The sign of a true warrior, students, is knowing when not to fight."

"Inspiring stuff," Trenton muttered, unimpressed. James glanced at him, then back at Debellows. He understood Trenton's annoyance, and yet, after the duel against Salazar Slytherin in the distant past, James realized he wasn't quite as quick to dismiss Debellows' methods as he had been before.

As spring began to descend on the school grounds, Neville Longbottom started taking his Herbology classes on wandering field trips, teaching them how to identify certain magical plants and trees in the wild. The class slogged reluctantly behind as he led them along the perimeter of the Forbidden Forest and into the marshy shores of the lake.

"Many magical plants have adapted to Muggle environments by disguising themselves as something rather more innocuous," Neville called happily, kneeling by the edge of the lake. "For instance, this breed of spynuswort has acclimated to life in Muggle areas by disguising itself as stinging nettles, thus assuring no Muggles will attempt to pull it up or harvest it. You can tell the difference by the slight purple hue on the bottom of the leaf. Once the plant is pulled up, however," Neville gripped the stem and gently tugged it, drawing the root out of the wet earth, "you can see the characteristic taproot of the spynuswort plant, useful for any number of potions and elixirs."

"I'm not seeing the taproot," Ashley Doone said, examining the uprooted plant in her own hands. "Just a big root ball."

Neville looked up. "Er, that's because that particular plant, Miss Doone, is not so much spynuswort disguised as stinging nettles as it is stinging nettles disguised as, er, itself."