James Potter and the Curse of the Gatekeeper

        '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.'

        There was a pause, and then the white hand closed into a loose fist. 'Well,' the first man's voice said casually, 'that changes things a bit. Perhaps you should like to be paid here and now, madam. Tonight. Lemuel, please escort our guest… er… some place else, won't you? You'll find a proper place to pay her, I'm certain.'

        Shadows moved. A heretofore unseen figure arose and led the hag away from the firelight. Forge felt a sudden panic that they would come through the antechamber and find him, and then he remembered he was supposed to be here. They were expecting him. He wondered fleetingly if it was too late to sneak back out. Price or no price, this was looking to be a very bad group with which to get involved. To Forge's relief, Lemuel led the hag out through another door at the back of the library. Lemuel moved like a trained servant, though rather older than Forge had expected. The hag lolled as she walked, her eyes grey and blank. Neither of them paid Forge any mind.

        'Then it is done,' Gregor said as the rear door of the library closed. 'Merlinus is returned. Your plan is complete.'

        'The plan is far from complete, but yes, up to this point, everything has proceeded as expected. The Delacroix woman will be disposed of. The Potter boy will be mortified to know that he was the tool to bring about our ends. And Merlinus Ambrosius is loosed upon the world yet again. But, Gregor, you should be careful in calling this my plan. You know whose design this is. I'll not take credit for the work of the Dark Lord.'

        Gregor ignored the rebuke. 'How can we be certain that Merlin will be one of us?'

        'We cannot. Merlin's loyalties never belonged to anyone but himself. This is why the Dark Lord was never interested in such an alliance while he was living. Merlin himself was never the prize, as you know.'

Forge heard Gregor shift again in his seat. 'Not everyone believes these tales,' he said quietly.

        'Only fools doubt the existence of the Otherworlds. Even the Muggles believe in Heaven and Hell. All that concerns us is that the Dark Lord believed in them. If he had not fallen, we would never have resorted to it. But even he saw the value of a fail-safe.'

        'Yes,' Gregor replied. 'The fail-safe. The Bloodline.'

        'No,' the first voice said quietly. 'The Bloodline is not yet perfect. It knows not who it is. Its power is undiscovered, divided, and dim. The Bloodline has not yet been sharpened by the gauntlet of death, as was the Dark Lord, its creator. It must be… refined.'

        'And this is the work of the Otherworlder?'

        'Among other things.'

        Gregor sighed theatrically. 'Even so, the faithful are scattered. Many are in Azkaban. More are dead. The dog, Fletcher, is in the custody of the Ministry. The Langlock Jinx silences him, and his identity is still undiscovered, but if your conspiracy crumbles, connections will be made. Potter will recognize him from his days with the Order. They will find a way to communicate with him. Sacarhina and Recreant will be incriminated first, but you will be next. After all, you were there with them in the cave of the throne. You yourself performed the curse upon them. Fletcher will betray you.'

        'Fletcher has nothing that the Ministry can use against us,' the silky voice soothed. 'Like all weak governments, they are far too enamored with their ideals of justice to be effective against a truly wily enemy. Potter