JAMES POTTER AND THE VAULT OF DESTINIES jp-1

by G. Norman Lippert

  James set his face into a resolved frown, lifted his right foot and planted it onto the beam of the skrim. It bobbed slightly but remained steady.

  “He’s going to try it!” a girl yelled. “He’ll plummet like a stone and bury himself in the field! Maybe he’ll take some of those Werewolf upperclassmen with him!” She laughed shrilly.

  Ralph raised his own foot and placed it awkwardly onto the tiger-striped skrim. “I can’t help feeling like this is a really bad idea,” he muttered to himself.

  “Buck up, mate,” James said. “At least it wouldn’t be our first sport-related disaster.”

  Ralph glanced at him. “Last time I saved your bum. Who’ll save us this time?”

  “Maybe we can save each other. Or maybe this time we won’t need any saving.”

  “So how do we do this?” Ralph asked, swallowing hard.

  James shook his head. “I think,” he said, steeling himself, “that you just don’t think about it.”

  Before Ralph could respond, James drew a deep breath, coiled himself, and kicked off.

  “Wait!” Ralph called out, but James was already gone. The skrim dipped sharply off the end of the platform, with James ducking low over it, and then, miraculously, it bobbed upwards again, wobbling wildly.

  “He’s doing it!” a voice announced incredulously. “So far, at least. Look at him dance!”

  “James!” Wood cried from across the bright distance. “That’s a skrim! What are you doing?”

  “He’s fine!” the Werewolf boy called, grinning meanly. “Look at him! He’s a natural!”

  There was a smattering of laughter. James struggled to keep his balance on the skrim as it bobbed and slithered beneath his feet, zigging out into the middle of the course. The field swayed far below, looking ridiculously distant and unforgivably hard. He gasped and nearly lost his balance. Instinctively, he closed his eyes, shutting out the sight and concentrating instead on keeping his balance. Amazingly, it worked. The skrim leveled out and ceased its terrible wobbling. James drew a deep breath, bent his knees a little, and relaxed his shoulders. Slowly, he slitted his eyes again, keeping them raised and refusing to look down. The line of broom-borne students strung out ahead of him, most looking back with curiosity and surprise.

  “Well, I’ll be jiggered,” a fellow Bigfoot named Norrick announced, smiling. “Look at you, James! You’re doing it!”

  “He’ll go over the side like a brick any moment now,” the Werewolf boy called, his grin faltering.

  James didn’t feel like he was going to go over the side, however. In fact, the more he relaxed on the narrow beam of the skrim, the more he thought he understood the way the unusual broom worked. Unlike normal flight, operating a skrim was all about how he angled his feet and maneuvered his center of gravity. These were skills that had come naturally to him on the football field. Maybe the same thing that had made him good with the football would make him good at flying a skrim. Cautiously, he experimented with leaning forward, accelerating slightly. He angled around the student who flew in the rear, passing somewhat nervously. The student was a girl from Pixie House, her streaming blonde hair tied in an immaculate ponytail. She frowned at him with disbelief.

  “No passing, please,” Oliver Wood called from the opposite end of the course. James glanced aside at him as he flew, slowing slightly.

  “Beginner’s luck,” the Werewolf boy proclaimed, looking back at James over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed. “Try that during a real match and see what happens.”

  James ignored the boy. He glanced down at himself, surprised at how well he was doing. Some part of him had suspected that he might actually be able to manage himself on a skrim. He hadn’t known why, but now he thought perhaps he did. Potters were born flyers. He’d never understood it before, but then again, he’d never been given the opportunity to fly like this before. It felt perfectly natural, as if the skrim was simply an extension of his own body. Experimentally, he tried a little shimmy, and felt the board carve effortlessly back and forth beneath him, cutting the wind like a knife. He began to speed up again, passing the Werewolf boy.

  “He’s gonna lap you, Pentz!” another boy called from across the course. “The newbie’s gonna show you up!” There was a hoot of laughter.

  James saw the look in the boy’s eye a moment before the grey-gloved hand lanced out. The Werewolf boy, Pentz, meant to smack the skrim as it passed him, knocking James off balance. Instead, his hand missed cleanly as James tilted his ankles, dodging momentarily out of the boy’s reach. Both of them blinked in surprise. Pentz’s face turned ugly, and he lunged out again, meaning to catch the end of James’ skrim. James feinted away again, marveling at how easy it was. Pentz was growing furious. He lashed out again, lunging on his broom, and nearly rolled it over as James dipped down and away, grinning.

  “Come back here!” Pentz hissed.

  “Be careful,” James replied. “I’d hate to see you make a crater on the field. But then again, maybe you’d take out some of your housemates on the way.”

  “No passing,” Wood called again. “This just a warm-up exercise, everyone.”

  James glanced around once more, peering over his shoulder to see where the professor was.

  “That’s right, Cornelius,” Pentz growled. “You can pass me when you’re on your way to the dirt.”

  He lunged out once more, this time with both hands. His fingers closed on air, however, as James dodged up over the boy, and Pentz did roll over this time. He scrambled to grasp hold of his broom as it slewed back and forth, arcing out of the line of flyers. James swooped over Pentz easily, picking up speed. All around, students began to respond, laughing at Pentz as he struggled to right himself on his broom, but James barely heard them. He hunkered lower on the skrim, still accelerating, and threaded through the flyers, now passing them one at a time.

  The pure pleasure of flight was intoxicating. It filled him from head to toe, tingling like secret magic. This time, however, it wasn’t wizard magic. This was the pure and simple magic of discovering some innate, hidden talent and finally, wonderfully, finding the means to exercise it. He leaned forward over the skrim, driving it onward, following the line of flying students, beginning to swerve through them like pylons. He didn’t hear Professor Wood calling out to him, nor did he hear Zane’s hearty whoop of encouragement as James passed him, still accelerating.

  This is what my dad felt, James thought happily. The first time he sat on a broom and took it up into the sky, this is what he felt! It makes sense to me now! Now I understand the feeling!

  A nearly absurd sense of pride and delight welled up inside James, flooding his heart and tingling all the way down to his toes. He couldn’t bear it any longer. Gently, instinctively, he leaned forward. The skrim sped up, and this time James didn’t hold it back. He leaned into the wind and dropped out of the rings of the Clutch course, angling out in a wide arc over the grandstands. Students peered up at him as he whooshed overhead, leaning so far over the flat of the skrim that he curled his fingers over its tip, baring his face into the thundering force of the air. He couldn’t bring himself to remain in the confines of the stadium, not when there was so much open air out over the rest of the sun-washed campus. With a whoop of joy and a wild lean, he spun off between the grandstands, angling out over the trees.

  The bell tower of Administration Hall swayed before him and he aimed for it, slaloming back and forth on the air currents. The wind felt almost like a solid thing all around him. It was as if the faster he flew, the steadier the skrim was beneath his feet, allowing him to lean dramatically from side to side with no sense of vertigo. The bell tower grew large with amazing speed and James swooped past it so closely that he saw his shadow flicker over the conical roof.

  Instantly, he tucked and leaned, drawing the skrim sideways into a tight corkscrew turn. James spiraled downwards and banked toward a cluster of huge pine trees. The air of his passage startled pigeons from the trees and dragged a wake of loose needles
and twigs out behind him, forming a pine-scented trail into the sky.

  He leaned over the skrim again and dipped low over the blur of the campus. Students glanced up as he flashed overhead, pulling a shaft of wind behind him like an aftershock. Still he lowered so that his reflection raced him in one of the long pools that lined the mall. The gargoyle birdbath loomed ahead and James pulled sharply up at the last moment so that he shot through the spray of the fountain itself, exploding it into mist.

  Laughing, he angled back again, rising and slowing, breathing a deep sigh of elated excitement. The campus unrolled beneath him until the stadium heaved into view once again, waiting for him. The rest of the class had finished their laps. They stood dumbstruck on the platform, holding their brooms at their sides, watching as James swooped expertly over them, lowering. Ralph and Zane stood on the edge of the platform, grinning madly and shaking their heads in wonderment. The small crowd opened beneath James, giving him room to touch down. Before the skrim touched the platform, James jumped nimbly off it, landing easily and collecting the skrim as it bobbed up alongside. He panted giddily, shook fountain water from his hair, and looked around at the class.

  “Mr. Potter,” Professor Wood called out sternly. James glanced around, and the smile dropped suddenly from his face. Wood’s face was taut with severity. “I have exactly two questions for you, young man. The first is what detention do you prefer? Writing lines or scrubbing bathroom floors?”

  James’ face fell. “Er. Um,” he stammered. “Writing lines, I guess?”

  Wood nodded slowly. “Writing lines it is. See me in my office this evening.”

  James sighed. “Yes sir. Sorry. What’s your second question?”

  Wood’s face turned very slightly thoughtful. James had the sudden sense that the professor was trying very hard to suppress a smile. In a more conversational tone of voice, he asked, “What size jersey do you wear?”

  11. JARDIN D’ÉDEN

  Professor Wood’s Bigfoot office consisted of a small space in the corner of Apollo Mansion’s basement game room. A single rickety desk sat near the giant old refrigerator, overlooked by the stuffed heads of Heckle and Jeckle. Both heads were awake and listening intently as Wood gave James his line-writing assignment.

  “It’s the principle of the thing, really,” Wood said apologetically. “I can’t be seen to go easy on you, James, especially if you are going to play for the Bigfoot Clutch team. A hundred lines should suffice.”

  “This isn’t really lines, Professor,” James said tentatively, looking down at the small booklet in his hand. The cover was grey with tarnished silvery letters embossed onto it, reading, ‘Official Rules and Regulatory Overview of the Sport of Clutchcudgel by Quincy Dirk Triplington, Commissioner, United States Parochial Clutchcudgel League’.

  “Lines are lines, cadet,” a voice bleated nearby. James glanced up to see Heckle, the deer head, studying him severely. “May as well make them useful, eh?”

  “Who are you talking to?” Jeckle, the moose head, inquired, raising his chin and bobbing back and forth on his short neck. A bell jingled faintly from where it hung on his antlers. “I can’t see. Somebody replaced my glass eyes with ping pong balls again.”

  James saw that the moose head’s eyes had indeed been replaced with a pair of large white balls, each hand-decorated with a cartoonish bloodshot pupil. He grimaced uncomfortably.

  “Jeckle’s right,” Wood replied, sighing briskly. “No sense copying down meaningless repetitions. One hundred lines from chapter one, ‘An Introduction to the Game’, should do quite nicely.”

  “I’m Heckle,” the deer head corrected tartly. “He’s Jeckle.”

  “I’m Jeckle,” the moose head agreed blindly, its bulging eyes peering in two different directions. “Who are you talking to?”

  “This new cadet whose unnatural flying skills are going to give us a fighting chance in this year’s tourney, you big antler-brain. Pay attention, why don’t ya?”

  “You know, you’ve been a real grump ever since they turned your body into stew,” Jeckle sniffed, turning away.

  “I don’t even remember having a body, you nappy-furred sawdust-head,” Heckle groused. “But at least I was tasty enough to eat. I hear they used your body for a big doorstop, but threw it out because it kept farting every time the door hit it.”

  “Anyway,” Wood interrupted, turning back to James.

  “I keep telling you,” Jeckle insisted loudly, “I still have my body. It’s just stuck on the other side of this stupid wall! If only I could break through, you’d see!” The moose head thrashed and grunted weakly.

  Heckle rolled his glass eyes. “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Moosey.”

  “Anyway,” Wood said again loudly, throwing a warning look at the stuffed heads on the wall. Jeckle, of course, missed the look, and continued to twist back and forth, kicking his nonexistent legs. Heckle peered back at Wood with his brows raised challengingly, as if to say what are you going to do to me? I’m already a stuffed head on the wall.

  “Moving along,” Wood exhaled, turning back to James. “Clutch can be a rather complicated sport, but you’ll catch on quickly since you already know Quidditch.”

  “Er,” James began, glancing around, “I, uh, I didn’t really, you know… play Quidditch. Official-like. As such.”

  Wood frowned. “What do you mean? You’re on the Gryffindor team back home, right?”

  “Not really on the team, exactly,” James answered miserably. “I mean, I support the team, of course. From a distance. I, er, planned to make the team this year.”

  “But the way you flew…!” Wood said, shaking his head in wonderment.

  “It’s skrim-specific,” Zane clarified from over a nearby couch, where he was watching with interest. “Trust me. I’ve seen James in action on a regular broom. Not bad, but not what anyone would call a broom wizard. So to speak.”

  “I saved him from certain doom the first time he tried out for the team,” Ralph grinned from his place next to Zane, holding up his huge green-tipped wand. James rolled his eyes and glared back at his friends.

  “Well then,” Wood replied airily. “No matter, of course. You’re quite keen on a skrim, which is the important thing. We can verse you on the specifics of the game over the next week, and your lines will help. We field a solid team, if I do say so myself. You may be just enough to push us over the top this year.”

  Zane screwed up his face in an effort not to laugh.

  “We’ll put you Zombies in your place!” Norrick announced brashly from a nearby easy chair.

  Jazmine, the rather portly Veela, sat across from him. “Er, in the nicest possible way, of course,” she said, and grinned sheepishly at Zane.

  “It takes more than excellent flying to win at Clutch,” Zane said lightly, not meeting Norrick’s eyes. “Zombie’s magic game is going to be especially strong this year. What do you Bigfoots have planned in that department?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know!” the small boy, Wentworth, interjected from his own chair, sitting up straight and puffing out his narrow chest.

  “I sure would,” Zane agreed with a smile. “And I bet you would too!”

  “Enough, Mr. Walker,” Wood sighed. “Let’s keep the trash talk on the course. Bigfoot House prides itself in an honest game, pure and simple. Good fundamentals are our primary strategy.”

  Zane shrugged and flopped low onto the sofa so that only the top of his head was visible. “That’s done wonders for you so far,” he said in a muffled voice.

  “Tomorrow is Saturday,” Wood announced, ignoring Zane. “Let’s meet at Pepperpock Down after breakfast, shall we? We’ll give you a crash course on the basics of the game before the official practice begins. You’ll be up to speed in no time.”

  “I’ll come too,” Ralph smiled crookedly. “And I’ll bring my wand. You never know when it’ll come in handy.”

  James shook his head ruefully but couldn’t help smiling at the bigger boy. So muc
h for his Saturday off, he thought, but it did feel quite good to be prized as a member of the team. He determined he would do everything he could to master the sport of Clutchcudgel in as short a time as possible. With his help, maybe the team could even win the tournament and unseat the reigning Werewolf champions. That would certainly put Albus in his place, if nothing else.

  “All’s fair in love and war,” he muttered to himself as he climbed the steps to his dormitory room, Clutchcudgel rulebook in hand. “We’ll see how you feel about it when the tables are turned on you, little brother.”

  As the days passed and James attended Clutch practices with the rest of team Bigfoot, he did indeed come to feel confident that he might help propel the team to victory over the course of the year.

  “So now you know about the three positions in Clutchcudgel,” Wood explained to him as they walked back from practice one chilly autumn afternoon. “Clipper, Bully, and Keeper. Clippers are the offense, Bullies and the Keeper are defense. You’ll notice, though, that you haven’t been assigned to any of those positions.”

  “Yeah, I did notice that,” James agreed, walking along with the grey breeze in his face. “I’ve been playing every part in every practice. But so has everyone else. Even Mukthatch gets pulled out of Keeper every now and then, which I don’t understand at all since those Bigfoot arms of his are about as long as broomsticks and as strong as tree trunks. What’s the point?”

  “The point is, on Bigfoot team, everybody is trained to play every position,” Wood nodded, looking aside at James. “That way we don’t have any weak links. With the other teams, if their star Clipper gets sidelined by an injury or a well-placed hex, the whole team suffers the loss. A team is only as strong as its strongest player, you know. In Bigfoot House, every player is as strong as the others.”

  James frowned as he thought back on the skills of his teammates. “Which is how strong, exactly?”

  “Well,” Wood replied, taken aback, “strong enough, at least. Quite solid, if you ask me. The point is, if we lose one member of the team, any other member of the team is prepared to take their place. Even Mukthatch on goal. Harold Gobbins has nearly as good a reach and Jazmine Jade has the strength of any two boys her size, although she’d hate it if anyone knew it. Frankly, though, I’d be hard-pressed to find anyone as solid on the skrim as you are, my boy. You do your old dad proud. Why, I wager you might even beat him, skrim to broom!”