James Potter And The Morrigan Web (76 page)

“Gellert pounded upon the door, not with his fists, but with a
convulsis
spell. I recognized the strength of it. He called to me, demanding that I open the door, that I face him and finish what was begun. I knew that he would not relent, and that the sealed door would not keep him long at bay. The walls shuddered and cracked as he renewed his attacks.

“And it is at this point in the tale that I hope the reader-- not that there shall ever be one-- will extend to me some small grace. I was young, and desperate, and afraid. I had, perhaps, a bit more intelligence than wisdom. For when I turned back to the darkness of the bedroom, I saw the very thing I most needed. I saw a pensieve. It awaited me patiently, silently, sucking its tiny fist as it regarded me with solemn, wide eyes.

“The infant could hold my conflicting thoughts for me. There was no harm in it-- the child’s tiny brain would no sooner comprehend them than it could comprehend the words in my spellbooks. My own thoughts and memories could lie undiluted in that tiny brain for the time it would take to defeat Grindelwald, leaving me unconflicted and steady of conviction.

“And that, I fear, is exactly what I did. I approached my infant nephew’s crib even as the floor shook and the door pounded, even as magical light exploded through widening cracks in the ceiling and walls. I touched my wand to my head, and amidst the increasing chaos, I concentrated, calling on every shred of my creative magical energies.

“I siphoned off all memory of my friendship with Gellert Grindelwald, leaving no echo of it in my own mind. For good measure, I included all of our shared ideas-- the inherent weakness of the Muggle world, the justification of all in the name of the greater good, the memories of my mother’s death, and before that, Ariana’s demented fugues, and even before that, the attack of those who did not understand her and her powers. I poured it all into a long, silvery thread, pulled it carefully from my own temple, and felt it emptying blissfully from my mind. The thread pulsed on the end of my wand, long and thick, loaded with my own haunting past. Even in the midst of the ensuing chaos, I felt some small thrill of gratification: the experiment had worked. Echoless memory extraction was indeed possible.

“With no compunction, carefully, gently, I placed the memory against the temple of my infant nephew. He absorbed it without blinking. I saw it vanish into his head, slowly but surely. When I took my wand from him, it was dark, empty, and cold. It was ready for battle.

“As was I.

…

“And here, dear Impossible Reader, is where my direct memory of these events falters. The rest I only know by the retelling of others, by guesswork, and by my own considerable skill at divination.

“The duel recommenced. But there was no clear winner. Ariana and Aberforth returned to the cottage in a panic at the very height of the battle, finding two figures locked in warfare so bright, so intense, so devastating that it destroyed what remained of the cottage. Ariana, unfortunately, was killed, crushed in the wreckage. Aberforth was thrown some distance away, unconscious as the cottage burned merrily, sparking with magical aftermath.

“Gellert Grindelwald barely escaped with his life, chased by his nemesis, a man whose conviction had returned in force, shocking in its severity and grim in its determination.

“And forgotten amidst it all, if only for a moment, was a young baby boy, crying amidst the flames as the cottage crashed all around him. His cries floated into the night air, reaching the ears of a man who had run to the cottage in alarm, summoned by the noise of the duel. Finding the cottage collapsing in flames, the man-- a poor itinerant Muggle of nearly fifty-- braved the inferno, burning his hands quite severely as he sought out the tiny wailing cries.

“He took the baby home to his wife.

“He assumed that the baby’s family had died in the fire.

“He and his wife raised the baby as their own, taking him with them on their interminable travels, naturally untraceable, even when, some years later, they finally settled on the coast of Norway’s Svalbard region.

“And as the baby grew-- as his tiny brain expanded and took on language and began to form its own memories-- the thoughts that had been planted inside him began to blossom. Like an invasive vine consuming an entire garden, the power of those memories took control of the boy. He somehow knew they were not his, but he absorbed them helplessly.

“They defined him. His innate personality bent before the personality injected into him, even influencing his appearance. He
became
the person from whom those memories originated.

“He resented this. And simultaneously embraced it. He hated the person that had invaded him, made him his dark mirror. But there was a good side.

“Because that person had been
powerful.
And even at a young age, even in the midst of a perfectly prosaic Muggle upbringing, the boy knew that power was good. Someday it would allow him to become everything that his benign double had been afraid to be.

“I, of course, was that boy. I have adopted the name given to me by my Muggle family-- Avior Dorchascathan-- but I am now, and will forever be, Albus Dumbledore’s unwitting doppelganger. He abandoned me to my fate. Admittedly, he searched for me. I know this now. I have made quite a study of my now-dead ‘benefactor’. But he failed to find me. He failed because
I did not wish
to be found-- I used his own prodigious magic to construct a shield, to hide myself from him, and others like him. He made me. He gave me both his convictions and his powers. The guilt of this consumed him, but I would not allow him relief. I was a mere ghost to him, untraceable, haunting his past. I desired nothing more than that he live with the torment of what he had done.

“Not to mention the fact that, had he found me, he could have undone his work. He could have removed the memories that define me, and with them the exceptional power that drives me. I refused to allow that to happen, despite the fact that his memories imprison me. I am their slave, and for me there is no respite, no bliss of a pensieve.

“I
am
a pensieve, you see.

“This is the burden that I have borne throughout my years. I lived in the terror that Albus Dumbledore would find me and take from me his dark gift. And yet, I lived in the hope that he
would
find me nonetheless, and grant me release. The friction of those two desires was like a fault line in my soul, tearing me in two.

“But now, thankfully, blessedly, Albus Dumbledore is dead. His body lies buried in a White Tomb. I go there to be sure of it sometimes-- to assure myself that he is indeed gone, a mere husk of dead flesh and bone.

“His death has freed me. Now, finally, I will accomplish the destiny that he was too conflicted to fulfil. I will finish the work of the man he bested. For I have the best of both of them: I have Gellert Grindelwald’s singular conviction, and Albus Dumbledore’s unmatched power.

“Let this record stand for the manifesto I could never write, but which will surely arise once my work is complete. My plan is set into motion. The pieces move according to my design. Allies have come to my side. Soon, the destiny of all magical kind will be fulfilled with finality.

“For Wizardkind.

“For Progress.

“For the Natural Order.

“For the
GREATER GOOD
.”

James stared at the diary’s last phrase, too stunned to move. Albus stirred next to him. Tentatively, he reached forward and turned the page. It was blank.

“You were right, James,” Rose said, awed. “Avior
is
Dumbledore’s magical twin.”

James shook his head. “He’s not a twin at all,” he said, stepping back from the diary. “He’s… something else. Something worse.”

“He’s a golem,” Nastasia said soberly.

Albus glanced at her. “A what?”

“A golem. We just learned about them in Professor Bunyon’s History of Magic. It’s a clay statue brought to life by a magical scroll in its head. The words on the scroll give it its personality and drive its every action.”

“Except the words on Avior’s scroll are all the worst things about Albus Dumbledore,” Rose nodded, her eyes wide and grave. “It’s all of his faults, but without any of his virtues. He’s… he’s
evil
Dumbledore!”

The words hung in the air sounding simultaneously preposterous and chilling.

And in the main chamber of Avior’s office, the hearth flared bright green, illuminating the room and throwing shadows up onto the flimsy curtains of the diary alcove.

“He’s coming!” Albus declared, slamming the diary shut. “Quick, hide!”

Instinctively, James jerked the alcove curtains shut and threw himself against the wall next to them, dragging Nastasia alongside. Albus and Rose disappeared in a flurry of vanishing fabric. At precisely the same moment, a pair of footsteps clunked onto the stone floor of the main chamber. A shadowy silhouette appeared against the alcove curtains as the green light died away, replaced with flickering yellow.

For nearly a minute, the shadowy figure did not move. James struggled to hold his breath. He realized he was still clutching Nastasia to him. Silently, he let go of her and pushed her backwards into the alcove. She sidled up next to him.

And then, startling James severely, the shadowy figure spoke his name.

“James Potter. I knew we would meet again. Do come out. There is no need to hide.”

James couldn’t move. His eyes bulged in the darkness. It wasn’t just that he was caught. It was that the voice was all wrong. He had expected Professor Avior. But this voice was different. It was deeper, more vicious, with a hint of a teasing growl in it. He recognized it.

The last time he had heard it, he’d been in New Amsterdam.

He turned to Nastasia, his eyes wide and shocked. “The Collector?!” he mouthed. She frowned at him in the darkness.

Finally, the silhouette on the curtains moved. “You’ve been reading my diary, Mr. Potter,” the voice chided. “You should not be surprised that I know this. The warnings at the beginning were quite clear: as you read my words, I read you. Be grateful that I waited for you to finish before interrupting you.”

Nastasia was still frowning at James in the dark. She shook her head. “Avior,” she mouthed. She was right. Despite how the voice had initially sounded, it was now unmistakably that of Avior Dorchascathan.

Behind James, the curtains jerked back, opening fully and admitting the yellow flicker of the hearth, as well as a long, tall shadow on the back wall.

“There is no need to fear, Mr. Potter,” the shadow said. “And good evening to you as well, Ms. Hendrix. Tea?”

Nastasia smiled and shrugged. “Why not? When in Rome. Lots of sugar, lots of cream if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” the figure sighed.

James turned and looked up, studying the tall figure. It was Professor Avior, right down to the half-moon spectacles, crooked, blade-like nose, and rakish peaked hat. He smiled coolly at James, then, with a welcoming sweep of his arm, beckoned them into the office proper.

“You now know all of my secrets, Mr. Potter,” he said, noticing James’ hesitance. “Please, let us not stand on formality. We are like the closest of friends and the deepest of confidantes. You need not hesitate in my presence.”

Nastasia tugged at James’ arm, drawing him out of the alcove. He followed her to a large, low sofa near the hearth. She plopped onto it easily but James remained standing.

“Ask what you will, Mr. Potter,” Avior called as he flicked his wand, summoning a silver tea set from across the room. It lofted effortlessly, glinting in the darkness, and followed him to the sofa. “It does not take an expert at divination to know that you are simply bursting with questions.”

James’ lips remained clamped shut. The truth was that he was so full of questions-- and no small amount of fear-- that he felt completely stymied. Finally, as Avior used his wand to levitate the teapot and fill a steaming cup, one question pushed to the forefront of his curiosity.

“Why did you let us read your diary?”

Avior smiled as he poured a second cup. “Straight to the root of the matter,” he nodded, “Your forthrightness is one of your strongest traits, Mr. Potter. It’s a gift, really.”

He finished pouring the tea, and then settled himself into a large armchair opposite the sofa. He stared at James over his raised teacup, smiling faintly.

“I allowed you to read my diary, Mr. Potter,” he answered slowly, “because I wished you to. I knew you were curious about me. That is why I invited you to my quarters, if you’ll recall. I knew that if we were to be friends… and perhaps even compatriots… then we needed to start with a foundation of trust and honesty. I already knew your story, James. I have been quite a student of your exploits, albeit secretly. It was only fair, then, that you should know mine.”

James shook his head, confused. “But… why? What’s the point? I mean, I feel sort of bad for what happened to you and all--”

“Tut,” Avior said, closing his eyes and raising a thin hand. “You misunderstand me, James. You really might try being a bit more like Ms. Hendricks here. She understands these things very well, I suspect. Am I correct, young lady?”