He had no idea what was behind it all. He only knew that it had something to do with Countess Vandergriff’s odd suggestions about the dusty title he would one day inherit, and the significance of the name Black, and the responsibility of some ancient, fundamental stewardship.
The answer came from the least of all expected sources.
“You should go to Grimmauld Place,” one of the headmaster portraits said with a sniff.
James at first didn’t know which one had spoken. He had been sitting in his office that late fall evening staring at a book, reading the same line over and over, his mind completely distracted and driven by phantom urgency, making both concentration and sleep impossible.
Somewhat irritated, he glanced over the portraits and asked, “Who said that?”
“I did,” a portrait in a high, cobwebbed corner answered in a nasal drawl. James squinted into the dimness above. It was the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black. He didn’t think he’d ever actually heard that particular portrait speak, although he did know that the same portrait of the dodgy old headmaster sometimes occupied an empty frame back at the Black estate.
James considered the portrait. “Why should I go to Grimmauld Place?”
“Because you are clearly agitated to the point of near complete uselessness here. I recognize the signs. Go and spare us your frustrated sighs.”
“But why there, exactly?” James pressed suspiciously.
But Phineas Nigellus merely crossed his arms and leaned back, his face dropping into flinty-eyed shadow.
“You’ll get no more answers from him, methinks,” the portrait of Dumbledore suggested, peering up and out of his frame. “But I expect his counsel, limited though it is, may prove fruitful to your current state.”
“Do you know anything about this?” James asked, lowering his eyes to the nearer portrait.
Dumbledore shrugged enigmatically. “I only know that we are all obliged to assist the sitting headmaster in whatever way we can, via our own unique perspectives. Phineas Nigellus’ perspective might arguably be the most unique of all.”
From the cobwebbed shadows, Phineas Nigellus harrumphed haughtily.
The portrait of Severus Snape feigned sleep, unconvincingly.
“Go,” a woman’s portrait sighed, speaking in a high Scottish brogue. “I for one can’t bear to watch you sigh and squint at the same page in that dratted book for one more minute.”
James nodded. Even if the old headmasters (and headmistress) had no clue what they were talking about, a short trip might well clear his head. And he hadn’t been to Grimmauld Place in years.
He left that very night.
Even as headmaster, there was no apparating out of Hogwarts castle, apart from examination times, when, as he well knew, the restriction was temporarily lifted. Thus, he donned his cloak and his new black peaked hat and left the office briskly, leaving the door to creak shut on its own behind him.
The halls were nearly empty, despite the lack of any Argus Filch or Mrs. Norris to strike terror into the hearts of wayward students across the campus. Mrs. Norris the cat had died nearly fifteen years earlier, at the tender age of forty-nine—ancient even for a Kneazle. Filch had outlived her unhappily until only three years previous. James still remembered Hagrid’s long eulogy at Filch’s funeral. The event had packed the country church outside Hogsmeade, much to James’ surprise.
He’d wondered at the time how many of those attending were former students who half expected the irascible old caretaker to climb back out of his casket, possessed of sheer stubborn ill-temper, and amble back to the school, zombie-fashion, to continue his cantankerous duties from the afterlife.
That didn’t happen. But the sight of Hagrid crying openly during the eulogy, blowing his nose noisily while a huge framed portrait of Filch’s scowling visage looked on, rolling its eyes in disgust, was perhaps an even odder sight.
Now, the caretaker’s post was occupied by young Edgar Edgecombe, and never a more fitting replacement could there be.
Edgecombe himself seemed to have long forgotten his spite toward James as a student. Now, the stout young man was the very picture of sniveling respect and deference, simpering to the staff out of one side of his mouth while lashing venomously at students from the other.
James knew he should keep a fairly tight rein on the nasty little man. But he also knew from experience that nasty little men tended to be rather useful when it came to maintaining a sense of order, so long as their bite was not permitted to exceed their bark.
James left the castle via the old rotunda entrance and met a hard, cool breeze from the distant Forest. The lights were lit in Hagrid’s hut.
James was tempted to go knock, to share a late-night toddy with the beloved old professor and groundskeeper.
But he did not. Now that his journey was underway, he felt a slowly growing inertia behind him, pressing him forward, driving his strides through the hissing grass. The moon was a gigantic bone-coloured eye over the lake, presiding over its rippling reflection.
James entered a Forest trail, walked a quarter of the way toward Hogsmeade, and then apparated with a decisive crack.
The world snapped back into place around him in mid-stride.
He was in a cramped Islington street, crowded with parked cars, blowing trash and dead leaves. He slowed and looked up, turning to his right.
Number twelve Grimmauld Place wasn’t visible, of course.
Numbers thirteen and eleven pressed close together, now so distractingly old and decrepit that no one even blinked at the apparent mistake in numbering. The streetlamp nearest was broken, casting a pall of shadows over James where he stood. Traffic could be heard beyond the rooftops, but nothing moved on the street in either direction.
James produced a key and summoned the entrance to number twelve, causing the flats on either side to rumble aside, like drunken patrons making room at a bar.
No gaslights worked inside the old manor. Once inside, James lit his wand and startled when its glow shone on an exquisitely ugly, staring face, bare feet away.
“Good evening, Master,” a deep bullfrog voice grumbled.
“Kreacher,” James gasped, recovering. “How did you know I would be coming?”
“Kreacher’s first responsibility is to attend his master’s house with unfailing vigilance,” the ancient house elf said with the tiniest hint of indignation.
James rolled his eyes. “The empty portrait of Phineas Nigellus told you.”
Kreacher scowled and narrowed his eyes. “That as well, Master.”
James sighed and took off his hat, hanging it on a cobwebbed rack near the door. “Did he tell you why?”
“He suggested you might wish to view the Vault, Master.”
James blinked down at the knobbly old elf. Kreacher’s innate brand of ugly had blossomed over the last few decades, turning him into a truly spectacular specimen of grotesqueness. His nose and ear hair alone could well have been used to paint a rusty cauldron. James lifted his wand a little higher, distancing it from Kreacher’s attentive glower.
“I didn’t know that Grimmauld Place had a Vault,” he said.
“Precious few do, Master,” Kreacher nodded slowly. Then, as silent as a moth’s wing, he turned and padded away, apparently leading James further into the dark house.
James followed, his own footsteps creaking the floorboards, the breath of his passage drifting in layers of cobwebs.
James shivered. “When’s the last time this place was cleaned?”
“Kreacher cleans Master’s house twice per week,” Kreacher rumbled with sepulchral patience. “Top to bottom, stem to stern.”
James looked aside into the parlor as they passed. Dust lay in a thick film over every surface, clouding the tarnished mirror over the hearth, weighing down the closed velvet drapes. Clearly, Kreacher’s concept of cleaning was a unique and interesting entity unto itself.
Together, the two wended their way through the dark kitchen and then down the
narrow stairs into the cellar. There, no light shone at all apart from James’ illuminated wand. Shadows loomed behind the old collection of mismatched furniture. The tiny wrought iron stove was as dark and cold as a grave.
Kreacher stopped next to the stove. Without turning back, he said, “Master’s key, sir.”
James looked at the elf’s knobby back and hunched shoulders.
“I… don’t have any key.”
“The Vault can’t be opened without Master’s key, sir.”
James patted his pockets, half expecting to find a mysterious key in his robes. He found nothing but a few spare Knuts and an old train ticket. He shook his head and exhaled in frustration. “I don’t have any key,” he said again. “You’re just going to have to open it yourself.”
Slowly, ponderously, Kreacher turned his warty head and looked back at James with one huge, rheumy eye. He measured him silently, inscrutably. “No one can open the Vault without the key, Master. Not Kreacher. Not you. Not anyone in this wide world, or any others.”
The sense of urgency descended over James again. Impatience came with it. Where would he find any mysterious key? Why had Phineas Nigellus sent him without telling him what he needed? He opened his mouth to demand an answer from Kreacher—an answer he knew he would probably never get—when a push of dusty air sighed down the stairway behind him. It was accompanied by a distant thunk, and then the unmistakable sound of hurrying footsteps, growing swiftly closer.
James turned on the spot and raised his wand warily, pointing it toward the stairs both for light and warning, as a figure began to clump down them.
The figure stopped on the second to last step, its own wand lit and held at head-height.
“Oh,” the figure said, “Hi, son.”
James slumped with relief and lowered his wand. “Dad! What are you doing here?”
Harry Potter tromped down the remaining step and moved to join his son. They were of equal height now, even if the elder Potter was still rather broader through the shoulders. His glasses reflected their lit wands brightly, but his smile was easy and comfortable, despite the fine lines that belied his age.
“It’s time, apparently,” he answered with a shrug. “I knew this day would come. Just didn’t think it would come quite this soon. The duty shall be yours now, such as it is.”
“What duty?” James asked, unable to keep the impatience out of his voice. “I feel like a Howler’s been going off in my own head for days, only it’s just screaming me onward, not using any actual words.
What’s this all about?”
Harry put a hand on his son’s shoulder and gave a commiserating squeeze. “I understand your frustration. Just think how it was for me! Sirius was dead by the time I got the calling. He wasn’t here to do for me what I’m about to do for you. I had to find the key all by myself. About drove me mad. And Kreacher here was about as useful as a candyfloss broomstick.”
Kreacher turned around fully and bore this comment with something approaching dark relish, scowling hard enough to curdle milk.
“What… key?” James asked with barely contained impatience.
Harry fished in the pocket of his robe and pulled out a simple key. It was made of some black metal, perhaps six inches long, ornately crafted with a ringed head, a long shaft, and complicated geometric teeth extending beneath. It was a handsome object, diminished only slightly by the layers of ancient tarnish and patches of rust that scuffed and darkened its surface.
“I found it in an iron lockbox beneath the bricks of the master hearth,” Harry said, cocking his head at his son. “It was about the hundredth place I looked. If it wasn’t for a handwritten clue I found in one of Sirius’ old record sleeves, I would likely be tearing this place apart to this very day. Once the calling comes, there’s no denying it. I expect you know that yourself, now.”
James took the key from his father, held it in his palm. Despite its tarnish and rust, its weight implied a very fine construction, heavy and solid. He looked back up at his father, his eyes narrowed.
“Years ago, when I asked you about this, you acted like you didn’t know anything.”
“And you will, too, should anyone ask you,” Harry replied soberly. “Although they won’t. Not even Merlinus knows this secret, though he may have his suspicions. Now go ahead.” He nodded toward the patiently waiting Kreacher.
James turned to the elf and, somewhat reluctantly, held out the key.
Carefully, almost reverently, Kreacher put out his huge hand, open, allowing James to place the key gently onto his palm. Kreacher closed his fingers over it slowly and turned away again.
“Apparently,” Harry said softly as Kreacher stepped toward the blank brick wall beyond the stove, “before this room was a lounge or a servant’s kitchen, back when it was first purchased by Slade Willibrord Black, it was outfitted as the antechamber to an ultra secret hidden chamber, long since forgotten. Pay attention to how Kreacher accesses it. He may not always be here to assist you.”
James watched as the old elf raised the key and held it approximately sixteen inches from the brick wall. He shifted it minutely, as if searching for some hidden quadrant of empty space. And then, strangely, metal clinked on metal. Decisively, Kreacher pushed the key forward, slotting it as if into an invisible keyhole. It chinked home, and the old elf gave the key a single, clockwise turn.
Purple light bloomed out from the key, fizzing as it went, first revealing a round metal panel and the hidden keyhole. The panel was as black as onyx, engraved with ornate scrollwork in the shape of an old English letter B. The sizzle of purple light expanded still, spreading side to side, up and down, revealing a complicated circular door made of the same black metal, studded with bolts and rivets, festooned with crawling scrollwork that picked out every feature, embraced every detail. When it fully resolved, the door stood like a round layer cake turned onto its side, ten feet tall, comprised entirely of black iron plates, ringed and bolted together, as heavy as a cathedral and twice as imposing. The key still jutted from the centre, slotted into its key-plate.
Kreacher bowed his head and stepped backwards, retreating into a far corner.
James was dumbfounded. He had been in the cellar room dozens, probably hundreds of times. Never had he suspected that it had any secret significance.
Tearing his eyes away from the huge Vault door, he asked his father, “Have you been in there?”
Harry gave a rather equivocating nod. “A few times. Three, in fact. Once to do the duty of our office. Twice… simply to see for myself, as you will now.”
James looked at his father. Harry met his eyes and gestured with his hand. An invitation.
James stepped toward the door. On the right side was mounted a thick metal handle, curved to conform to the door’s shape. James reached for it tentatively, touched it. He expected the black iron to be cold, but it was not. It was pleasantly warm, like the shade on a summer’s day. The metal thrummed a little, as if connected to some secret, far distant power source. The vibration of it carried up to his elbow. He swallowed nervously, and then gave the door a tentative tug.
The door unlatched, its bolts already unlocked by the key. It swung silently, slow and heavy on well-oiled hinges. The initial tug was all it took. Inertia swung the door in an irresistible ponderous arc, revealing a sort of shadowy cell beyond. The walls, floor, and ceiling of the space were seamless stone, as if the room was hewn from one gigantic, perfectly solid block of granite. The cell seemed perfectly empty and dark except for a single object in the centre of the floor. It was a sort of plinth or pedestal, constructed of the same ornately engraved black iron as the door, anchored to the floor with fist-sized bolts. Its base was wide and curled into baroque twists. Its body tapered upward like a tree trunk, flaring delicately toward a flat, pedestal surface.
A single, small object sat there, in a pool of mysterious golden light.
James stepped forward, up into the space. It was cool inside, cave-like, but not dank. The air was
fresh somehow, mysteriously scented with running water and night-blooming flowers.
Upon the pedestal, a tiny book sat, open on its leather cover, its blank pages turned up to the light, as if waiting to be filled.
Harry moved close behind his son, unable not to look down at the strange little book and its blank, expectant pages.
“Merlin had a book like that,” James breathed, both awed and confused. “I saw him with it years ago. He was reading it on Hagrid’s ship. And on the morning after the Triple-Six enigma.”
“Merlin’s is a copy of a copy of a copy,” Harry said, his voice quiet and somber. The space seemed to inspire solemnity, not out of obligation, but out of a sort of innate, secretly giddy respect. James suddenly felt that he had to contain his emotions not because they were inappropriate, but because, if he gave them voice, he might laugh out loud with inexplicable joy, or break down into inconsolable tears, or draw his wand in search of a villain to best or a monster to slay. Here, in the presence of the Book, emotions were magnified into their purest, most visceral, gut-wrenching, and intoxicating selves.
Harry went on, keeping his voice low and steady, “This is the Book that all other books strive to be. It took me a little while to understand it myself. And even now, I grasp it only barely. Like a child grasps quantum technomancy.”
James tore his eyes from the creamy, golden, waiting pages, turned to his father, wanting to understand. Needing to understand.
Harry met his son’s eyes. “Every magical title is a custody of the elements of humanity. And each one is defined by their colour. You have observed this yourself. Greene is for ambition. Rose is for love.
Blue is for intellect. But Black… that one is different from them all.”
James remembered. “Because Black is where all the other colours come together. It’s every hue in one.”
Harry smiled. “That’s as true as our minds can understand. Black is the junction of all the other facets of humanity, where they combine and blend together. Black is the alchemy of love and hate, cowardice and courage, jealousy and intellect, revenge and redemption. It orders all the other colours and makes them into something cohesive, something larger and greater than the mere sum of their individual parts. The Black guardianship, James, is the element of Story.”
James Potter and the Crimson Thread Page 68