James Potter And The Morrigan Web (109 page)

Grudje ran ahead, his robes flying wildly, shoving students out of his way angrily, gasping with unbridled panic. And yet, James felt sure, the headmaster was not running from them. He was running from the figure that had appeared on the dais-- the completely inexplicable form of Albus Dumbledore.

They turned one corner, then another. Finally, Grudje passed the gargoyle that guarded the spiral stairs to the headmaster’s office. The gargoyle straightened to block Harry, but Harry flashed his wand, firing a bolt of purple at the ceiling.

“Official Auror business!” he called, jerking his head toward the glowing purple spell above him.

James glanced up. Printed on the ceiling in illuminated purple letters was his father’s name, the seal of the Ministry of Magic, the Minister’s signature, the symbol of the Auror department (two wands crossed over an all-seeing eye) and the words HEAD AUROR.

The gargoyle immediately stepped aside. As James bolted past, following in his father’s wake, he was certain he heard the gargoyle mutter, “go get him.”

The spiral stairs clanked with the pounding of four sets of footsteps. Harry reached the outer chamber first, his wand still out, steady as stone, his head lowered behind it. The door to the headmaster’s office was wide open, emitting a bar of golden light onto the stone floor.

“Stay behind me,” Harry growled, slowing. “And Ralph, keep that wand of yours at the ready.”

Behind James, panting and sweating freely, Ralph nodded. He levelled his wand before him.

Harry peered around the edge of the office door, inching his face into the yellow light that glowed from within. He paused. After a moment, he glanced back at James, Ralph and Zane and lowered his wand. The expression on his face was strange, unreadable. Was he happy? Upset? He nodded toward the door, beckoning the boys inside. They approached and followed him into the golden light.

The first thing James noticed was a figure collapsed against the wall just inside the door. It was huddled, panting harshly, its hands scrabbled over its face and its knees drawn up to its chest. It took James several seconds to realize that it was Rechtor Grudje. Only it wasn’t. As James watched, the figure melted into the shape of Avior Dorchascathan, his breath whistling in his chest, his eyes wild between his fingers. A moment later, it was the Collector, his face sheened with sweat, his hair standing up in terrified spikes.

“Terrible, I know,” a soft voice announced. “But he is nothing to be afraid of. Not anymore. Do come inside. We have very little time.”

James turned toward the voice. Albus Dumbledore stood before the headmaster’s desk, tall, thin and exuding a sort of grandfatherly warmth. His eyes sparkled benignly, but sadly. As James crept slowly into the room, approaching the revered headmaster, he realized that he had been wrong about Professor Avior. He was not this man’s twin-- he was barely a pale replica. The missing element was not in his physical appearance, but in the warmth, the restrained grandeur, the sense of laughter hidden just behind the eyes, even in sadness. Without those things, Avior was merely a grey shadow, devoid of life.

Gradually, James noticed that the office itself looked different than he’d ever seen it before. Grudje’s cold gloom had been replaced with golden light and subtle motion. Fire crackled happily in the hearth. Golden gizmos and clockwork wonders ticked and spun on small tables all around. Surrounding this, tall bookshelves lined the room, filled with curiosities, clocks, statues, and books, books, so many books, all bound with sumptuous cloth, or rich velvet, or somber leather, and all promising a lifetime of incredible adventures, tall tales, and dark mysteries. For James had the undeniable sense that this man, this Albus Dumbledore, did not only hoard textbooks. There was something of the child in him, not diminished by age, but tempered by it, made perfect, brimming with curiosity, yearning for adventure.

A huge, glorious bird preened on a perch next to the headmaster’s desk. Its plumage was brilliant crimson, edged with deepest gold. By comparison, the Jiskra seemed a mere winged lizard, no more dangerous than it was regal.

The strangest bit of all was the tall, rectangular mirror erected near the fire. James recognized it immediately, as did his father by the way he looked askance at it. The Mirror of Erised glinted darkly, its glass face obscured by shifting, silvery clouds.

Slowly, Harry led the three boys into the room, not taking his eyes from the wizard that stood before him. When he joined Dumbledore in the pool of golden light cast by the desk’s many candles, he finally spoke.

“Headmaster,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. “How are you here?”

Dumbledore did not immediately answer the question. He merely smiled at Harry, regarding him with keen, fatherly interest. “You’ve grown up into a fine, fine man, Harry,” he said. “I knew you would. I am glad to witness it myself, if briefly.”

James looked up at his father. The elder Potter shook his head slowly, wonderingly, and yet, there was something darkening his face. Was it pain? Sadness? Confusion? Certainly confusion. James was feeling plenty of that himself.

“You can’t be here,” Harry said simply.

“I can, apparently,” Dumbledore said, bowing his head slightly. “It’s very unusual, but not impossible. Circumstances have allowed me a brief moment-- a second chance, as it were-- to undo something I was unable to undo during my lifetime. A tragic error. A lifelong regret.”

“Grudje,” James nodded, turning to glance back at the pathetic figure cowering near the door.

“Alas,” Dumbledore said sadly, “that is not his name. Nor is his name Avior Dorchascathan, even if it is the name given by those who raised him. He might best be known by his most recent alias, for a Collector is what he is. He collects faces, you see, trading them for the one he never knew. The one that should have been his from birth.”

Harry shook his head, frowning. “I don’t understand. What’s Rechtor Grudje have to do with any of this…?”

“I’ll explain it all later, dad,” James sighed. “It’s kind of a long story.”

Dumbledore lowered his gaze to James, offered him a small smile. “I am pleased to meet you, young Mr. Potter. You are not unlike your father in many ways. And there is a hint even of your grandfather in you. The woman, Judith, did not lie when she told you that.”

James shook his head. “Thanks. But I’m not like him at all. He was a Marauder.”

“He was much more than a Marauder,” Dumbledore’s smile widened secretively and his eyes glimmered. “Otherwise, your grandmother never would have married him. But this is not the point. Despite your family similarities, you, James Potter, are very much your own man. In you, the whole is very much more than the sum of the parts.”

James considered this, not sure if he fully understood. He glanced up at his father. Harry looked aside at him, and nodded.

“And you, Mr. Walker,” Dumbledore narrowed his eyes slightly in amusement. “I have observed you as well, if fleetingly. The Sorting Hat was wise to place you in Ravenclaw. And make no mistake,” he nodded meaningfully, maintaining eye contact with the blond boy, “once a Ravenclaw,
always
a Ravenclaw. But intellect is only one of the horses hitched to your destiny. The other two are a fierce spirit and a soft heart. You are learning to align them, rather than pit them against each other. I expect great things from you.”

Zane beamed at this, for once at a loss for words.

“And Mr. Deedle,” Dumbledore said, stepping forward, drawing Ralph’s attention. “There is more of the Dolohov in you than you know. And despite what you may believe, that is not a bad thing. Even for your grandfather, it was not the blood in his veins that spoiled him, but the choices he made. Merlinus was quite right in what he said about you. Quite right indeed…”

He paused, regarding Ralph seriously. For his own part, Ralph refused to look up, refused to make eye contact with the tall figure before him.

“But now I realize that I am dawdling,” Dumbledore announced reluctantly, “I have been outside of time for too long, and am disused to its constraints. The hour is nearly upon me, and my counterpart awaits… I can delay no longer.”

He paced slowly past Ralph, approaching the cowering, shuddering figure huddled by the door. James, Zane and Harry turned to observe.

The figure on the floor cringed away from Dumbledore, whimpering, whispering rapid curses under his breath in a high, whining voice.

“In my lifetime, I sought you, nephew,” Dumbledore said, lowering himself before the pathetic figure. “And I found you. I always knew where you were. And yet, I did not approach. Do you know why?”

James didn’t think the figure would reply. Grudje-- the Collector-- seemed almost beyond reason. Then, shrilly, he rasped, “you wanted to take it all away!”

“I did not approach you,” Dumbledore said softly, “because you would not allow it to be taken. What I placed into your infant mind was a mistake. I gave you the worst of me. I lied to myself, convinced myself it was the only way. I told myself I could take it back. And perhaps for a while, I could have. If I had located you when you were still young. But I found you as a young man. And even from a distance, I saw that you had embraced what I had sown in you. Not out of helplessness, but spite. I could no longer remove it from you, because you refused to let it go.”

“Power!” the Collector hissed furiously. “Strength! That’s what it gave me!”

“Loneliness,” Dumbledore agreed somberly. “Emptiness. The slow, unrelenting destruction of your true self. That’s what it gave you as well.”

“Yes!” the Collector gasped, and the gasp turned into a sob. “Yes…!”

“I could never take it from you because you were too angry to give it up. I considered fighting you for it, demanding that you release it, not for me, but for your own good. But I sensed such an approach would be futile. And then… well, I died.”

“You died!” the Collector agreed eagerly, triumphantly. “You died and I was finally free!”

“You were finally imprisoned forever, with no hope of release,” Dumbledore said with a shake of his head. “And in my death, in the timelessness of the ever after, I realized something. I had been so obsessed with taking something from you… that I never realized that I needed to ask something from you first.”

The Collector shivered, shuddered, covered his face with his hands. He was terrified to ask, but seemed unable not to. “What? What is it you want?”

“Your forgiveness,” Dumbledore nodded gravely. He drew a deep, sorrowful breath. “I wronged you. I was foolish. Desperate. Arrogant. I faced a disaster of my own making, and looked for the surest way out. That way was you. And I am sorry. I am sorry for what I did to you. I beg your forgiveness.”

The Collector clamped his hands over his ears and shook his head. James saw that the pathetic man had been living with rage and pain for so long that it had become his world. He could no longer imagine living without it.

He did not offer Dumbledore his forgiveness. For his own part, Dumbledore did not seem to truly expect it.

“Your plan is in ruins,” he said plainly. “Your secrets are revealed. And you, my poor nephew, are a fractured, broken man. Will you, finally, after all these many years… allow me to help you?”

James watched breathlessly. The Collector’s shivering, shuddering restlessness increased. He seemed to retreat further into himself, his hands still clutching his head, refusing to answer for nearly a minute. Dumbledore did not rush him. Finally, faintly, the shuddering figure nodded his head.

Dumbledore nodded back. Wordlessly, he withdrew a long wand from his robes. Slowly, gently, he touched it to the Collector’s temple. The Collector flinched, but did not draw away. Dumbledore waited, his eyes closed. After a long moment, he drew the wand away again, pulling a long, brightly glowing thread behind it. The Collector moaned. At first, James thought it was a sound of pain, but as Dumbledore continued to withdraw the banked memories from his nephew’s temple, James understood that it was a groan of release, pent up for decades, nearly as old as the Collector himself.

The silvery thread broke away, dangled from Dumbledore’s wand brightly, fluttering as if in a silent wind. The Collector slumped, his shivers suddenly and completely stopped.

Silently, Dumbledore placed the wand against his own temple. The silvery thread dimmed, faltered, and vanished. The wizened old man grimaced as it did.

Finally, he stood erect, pocketing his wand once more. He held out a hand to the man on the floor.

“Do you understand what just took place?”

The man looked up at Dumbledore. After a moment, he nodded.

“Do you remember everything that’s happened up until this moment?”

Again, slowly and reluctantly, the man nodded.

“Then you know that you will be made to stand for your crimes. You must face this, and bear the consequences. They will be fair to you, considering what transpired here today. But I cannot promise you freedom. Nor should you expect it. Can you accept this?”

A third time, the man nodded, his eyes dimming with the realization of what he had done, and what he was sure to face.

“Then I shall remand you over to Mr. Potter,” Dumbledore said, gesturing toward Harry. “He will take you where you must go, to face what you must face. But for now, stand with me, nephew. My time is up. Be with me as I depart.”

The man on the floor reached up wearily, taking his uncle’s hand. Dumbledore pulled him easily to his feet.

Standing, James saw that the man’s face had reverted to Avior’s-- but different. There was something of Rechtor Grudje in it, albeit softened, less cold. Further, there was a hint of the Collector as well. And yet, the sum total made the man look different than all three. He was suddenly, James saw, the nephew of the man before him, bearing a distinct family resemblance, but with his own unique face.

Dumbledore turned and crossed the office once more, this time approaching the tall shape of the Mirror of Erised. Silvery clouds still swirled behind its glass face, but there seemed to be other shapes moving beneath the veil of smoke, coming closer as James watched, mesmerized.