JAMES POTTER AND THE CURSE OF THE GATEKEEPER
G. Norman Lippert
Based upon the characters and worlds of J. K. Rowling
Dear Reader,
A word before we begin. You don't mind, do you? I'd like to discuss, for just a moment, who this story is for, and who it isn't.
If you are the sort of Harry Potter fan prone to get exercised about the proper capitalization of terms like 'Umgubular Slashkilter', then this story is probably not for you.
If you are among that most faithful of fans who simply cannot countenance any slight discrepancy in the number of buttons on Professor McGonagall's tartan dress robes (six; tortoise-shell) or is driven to fisticuffs about the relative pulling and carrying strengths of Thestrals (1,120 kilograms and 70 kilograms, respectively) or breaks into cold, nervous sweats at the thought of improperly scheduled dates of any given season's Quidditch matches, (See HPL; 'Quidditch'), then this story might not be for you.
If, in short, you are among that most delightful and vigilant cadre of HP fans who believe that the Harry Potter stories and themes exist only to support the "canon" minutae of the Harry Potter universe, and not the other way around, then this story is most assuredly and emphatically not for you.
If, on the other hand, you simply loved the Harry Potter stories and characters and were sad to see them come to an end, then welcome. If you delight in shared adventure more than solitary navel-gazing, then come ahead and join hands. If you prefer battling evil over battling one another, then you are among friends. If, in short, you believe that the story is king above all else, then this story, most definitely and affectionately, is for you. Enter and join us on the ongoing journey! I hope you have a grand time.
For the rest of you, surely there is an argument going on somewhere about who the best movie Dumbledore was. I'd hate for you to miss it.
(Note: this book is a sequel to another story called "James Potter and the Hall of Elders' Crossing". While this story might stand on its own with a little imaginative help from the reader, it will be much better appreciated as part of the series.)
—GNL
CONTENTS
Prologue
1. Endings and Beginnings
2. The Borley
3. The Sorting
4. Trial of the Golden Cord
5. Albus and the Broom
6. the King of the Cats
7. Amsera Certh
8. The Audition
9. The Lady of the Lake
10. The Beacon Stone
11. The Circle of Nine
12. Questions of Trust
13. Christmas at Hogwarts
14. Artis Decerto
15. Out of Hogsmeade
16. Unexpected Confrontations
17. The Bloodline
18. The Triumvirate
19. The Sacrifice
20. The Long Ride Home
For Greer A Rose by any other name.
PROLOGUE
Rain fell in great sheets, hitting the pavement hard enough to send up a blattering, dirty mist. A small man stood on the corner, under the only working streetlamp, and studied the street.
Abandoned apartment buildings lined one side, dark and hulking, like dead dinosaurs. The other side was dominated by an equally dismal factory behind a chain-link fence. Warning signs on the fence squeaked and rattled in the wind. One car was parked along the street, looking as if it had been there long enough to become part of the local ecosystem. The small man shuffled his feet, his bald head glistening with rain. He glanced back, toward the busier streets from which he'd just come, and then made a harrumphing noise. He pulled his fist out of his overcoat pocket and held it up to the light. When he opened his hand, there was a small, sodden bit of parchment inside it. He read the words on the parchment for the tenth time. Blue-inked letters spelled the street name and nothing else. The man shook his head, annoyed.
He was about to close the bit of parchment into his fist again when the words bled away in the dripping rain. The little man blinked at the space where they had been. Slowly, new words appeared on the paper, as if inked by an invisible hand: an address.
The little man frowned at the parchment, and then shoved it back into his pocket. Glancing aside, he located a number over the door of the nearest abandoned apartment. He sighed and walked out of the yellow glow of the streetlight, splashing heedlessly in the flooded gutter.
As most people who knew how to look would know, the little man wasn't a man at all. He was a goblin. His name was Forge and he hated venturing into the human world. Not that anyone had ever noticed his unusual size or strange features. He wore boots with four-inch heels and a Visum-ineptio charm that caused people to see him as a kindly old man with a severe stoop. He simply didn't like humans. They were dirty, inefficient, and rowdy. Forge liked his world to be like his workshop: neat, organized, and constantly swept of any useless bits. It wasn't so much that Forge wished humans didn't exist; he was simply glad that they had their own special world to live in, and that he rarely had to go there, rather like a zoo.
He'd almost decided not to come out tonight. Something hadn't felt right about this appointment. Considering Forge's unique skills, it was not unusual that he didn't know the name of a client, but he was accustomed to a certain amount of decorum, not just a note and a number. Forge knew what the number meant however. It was the pay being offered for his services, and it was quite a surprising number indeed. Surprising enough to get Forge out of his workshop, chasing down the mysterious address in this decrepit stretch of human wasteland even in spite of his trepidation. After all, Forge was a goblin.
He stopped walking and stared up at the number of the apartment next to him. He glanced across the street, furrowing his brow. The factory fence had ended half a block earlier. In its place was an empty lot, choked with weeds, blowing trash and broken bottles. An abandoned lorry leaned drunkenly in the corner, settling into the mud and tall grass. A wooden sign in the center of the lot had half fallen over. 'Future Home of Chimera Condominiums and Recreational Complex', it read in faded letters. Forge took his fist out of his pocket again and opened it. The address was gone from the parchment. Two new words spelled themselves out:
Turn around.
Forge dropped his fist to his side. He stared at the vacant lot, chewing his lips. Was he being warned to go back? Part of him hoped so, but he doubted it. Slowly, he turned around on the spot so that he stood in the center of the deserted street, looking up at the dark bulk of the apartment building. A broken window stared down at him like the eye of a skull. The wind gusted, lifting the curtains of the broken window, making them flutter. Forge sighed and looked down at the parchment again:
Walk. Backwards.
"Well," Forge muttered to himself, "in for a Knut, in for a Galleon." He began to walk backwards, lifting his boots carefully to avoid tripping over the curb or the piles of rotting trash. He stepped carefully onto the footpath and continued, feeling for the muddy weed bed of the vacant lot. The footpath seemed wider than he'd expected. Each step backwards found solid, smooth stone. Forge glanced down. There were worn, carefully laid flagstones beneath his boots instead of the rough cement slabs of the footpath. He looked up again and drew in a whistling breath. Two monstrous shapes leered down at him. They were gargoyles, each perched atop a stone pillar. Rain splattered and ran down their horrible faces. Between the pillars was a tall wrought-iron gate. As Forge watched, it swung shut with a rattling, resounding crash, closing him inside. He turned on the spot, his heart pounding, and saw that the wrought-iron formed a fence all around the lot. It was six feet tall and spiked with angry points. Nor was the lot any longer filled with trash. It was a lawn, carefully cropped, each blade of grass eerily sharp and exactly the same length as its fellows. The rain beaded on the grass like crystal. Where the abandoned lorry had stood was now a long, black carriage, immaculately shiny and covered with gothic scrollwork. There were no yokes for horses on the carriage. Forge shuddered, and then looked up toward the center of the lot.