JAMES POTTER AND THE VAULT OF DESTINIES jp-1

by G. Norman Lippert

  “So,” Ralph announced after a meaningful pause, “if we can somehow find a way to follow Magnussen… we can find the key.”

  “Find the key,” Straidthwait mused, “and I expect the Nexus Curtain will reveal itself.”

  Zane shook his head. “But how do we follow someone whose been gone for a century and a half?”

  “Mercy, young man, you say you’re a member of Zombie House,” Straidthwait said, nodding at Zane. “I am surprised you haven’t already divined the answer to that question.”

  “Give me a second, already,” Zane replied, piqued. “I’ve only had a minute to think about it.”

  “And therein lies the solution, my friend.”

  “How’s that?” James asked, somewhat frustrated. “Time is exactly our problem. Like, a hundred and fifty years worth of it.”

  Straidthwait sighed wearily. “No, boy. Time is your solution. Have you forgotten,” he said, leaning slightly forward, his remaining eye twinkling, “that this school is, in essence, one gigantic time machine?”

  Shocked, the three boys looked at one another, their eyes widening slowly. In the dark heat of the mausoleum, Straidthwait chuckled hollowly.

  In the wake of the interview with Charles Straidthwait, James had gotten a vague idea of what they needed to do next. Unfortunately, with the Christmas holiday approaching, bringing with it a wave of midterm examinations, there was very little freedom to plan any time-traveling adventures in pursuit of the long lost Ignatius Magnussen.

  “Tell me again why, exactly, you are planning to do this,” Rose asked disapprovingly from the Shard as James and Ralph practiced Shield Charms for the next day’s Cursology exam. “Pardon me for saying that it all seems a tad complicated and ridiculous.”

  “It’s simple,” Ralph said, his tone of voice implying that he didn’t quite understand the plan himself. “Whoever broke into the Vault of Destinies stole a crimson thread from some other dimension’s version of the Loom. Normally, something that massively magical would be easy to track down since it’d be sending out waves of power like some kind of siren. For some reason, though, nobody’s picked up the slightest trace of it, not even James’ dad and the local police. Zane thinks that that’s because the people that stole the thread used it as a key to open the Nexus Curtain and hide it in the World Between the Worlds, which is sort of like a hub that connects all the dimensions.”

  “Right,” James agreed. “That’s the only way the thieves could escape without being traced. We need to follow Magnussen into the past to nick his key to the Nexus Curtain. If we can figure out how to get through to the World Between the Worlds, then we can try to see who really did steal the thread and prove that Petra isn’t really involved.”

  “And what will you do if this is all bilge and Morganstern really is the culprit?” Scorpius scowled from his side of the Shard. James had prepared himself for such a question.

  “She’s not, but even if she is, this is what friends do. She says she’s innocent, and we’re doing what we can to prove her case.”

  Scorpius narrowed his eyes and smirked slightly. “So you’re doing this for friendship, are you?”

  “You can’t just rush into something like that anyway,” Rose interrupted. “Time traveling is extremely dangerous business. You could do far more harm than good.”

  James sighed and rolled his eyes. He hadn’t wanted to tell Rose and Scorpius about it at all, but Ralph, being his typical self, had been unable to resist telling them all about the midnight conversation with the undead Professor Straidthwait.

  “We know, Rose,” James proclaimed, trying to head her off. “It’s Technomancy one-oh-one, all right? Accidentally step on a bug in the past and you change the whole present. Blah, blah, blah.”

  “But really, how bad can it be?” Ralph commented, sitting down on his bed. “I mean, James zapped himself a thousand years into the past and butted heads with Salazar Slytherin. He changed loads of things, but everything still seems just fine here in the present day.”

  Rose shook her head in annoyance. “One,” she said, stabbing a finger into the air, “we don’t know that James didn’t change the present since everything we know is based on the history he affected. It may be that there were changes, but they weren’t terribly important. Two,” she stuck a second finger into the air, “just because James got lucky once, doesn’t mean the three of you won’t bollix things up royally this time out.”

  “We’ll be careful, Rose,” James insisted, lowering his wand and turning toward the Shard. “I know you’re jealous because you can’t come along with us and all, but that doesn’t mean you have to try to scare us out of doing it.”

  “That’s not it at all,” Rose fumed, crossing her arms and flopping back against the sofa in the Gryffindor common room. Next to her, Scorpius grinned a little crookedly, apparently seeing the truth in James’ words. “I’m smarter than you,” Rose went on sulkily. “I know how much damage you lot can do, tinkering about with history. And I know that you’ll barely think any of this out before you do it.”

  James shook his head. “We’re plenty smart. We’ve thought about it loads.”

  “Oh?” Rose replied, her eyebrows shooting up. “Is that so? Well, then I assume you’ve already realized that there’s no point in your attempting anything at all without first knowing what, precisely, this pan-dimensional key thing actually is?”

  James rolled his eyes dramatically and spread his hands, as if to say, well duh, of course we’ve already figured that much out, but the effect was ruined by Ralph’s querulous response.

  “Er, no,” he said, frowning, and James slumped. “We just thought we’d travel back to the day when Magnussen escaped and try to follow him into Muggle Philadelphia. He’d just lead us to the key, wouldn’t he?”

  “Nice to know you’ve given this some serious thought,” Rose said wearily. “Have you asked yourselves how you’ll even recognize the key?”

  James looked at Ralph for a moment, and then glanced back at the Shard. “Well, I mean, it’s a key. It’ll be obvious, er, won’t it?”

  Scorpius spoke up now. “It could be anything, Potter. For instance, if your theory is accurate—and I’m not entirely sure that it is—then the ‘real thieves’, as you call them, have accessed this Nexus Curtain using a piece of red thread. Not exactly the most obvious pan-dimensional artifact in the world. Magnussen’s key could come in any shape or form. Were you perhaps planning on just walking up to him and saying, oi, Mr. Murderer sir, would you please be so kind as to give us this dimensional key thing, and never mind that we won’t know the difference if you just hand us a chunk of lint that you might happen to have in your pocket’?” Scorpius smiled smugly at his wit.

  “Well,” James began, but couldn’t immediately think of anything else to say. He glanced back at Ralph for help.

  “We have another clue,” Ralph said, perking up. “Something about Erebus Castle. Magnussen said that the secret of the key walked around in the halls of Erebus Castle, or something like that. We just need to ask Lucy to take us on a tour. If we can figure out the riddle, then maybe we’ll know what the key is.”

  “How hard can it be?” James nodded, grinning sheepishly.

  Scorpius looked meaningfully at Rose as he asked James, “Why do you need Lucy’s permission to get into Erebus Castle?”

  “That’s the House of the Vampires,” Ralph replied. “They’re totally wiggy about who they let inside to bump around. You have to get a member of Vampire House to chaperone you around the whole time.”

  “Or you have to be a real-life vampire,” James added, rolling his eyes. “The President of their house, Professor Remora, says that Erebus Castle is a ‘sanctuary for any fellow wandering Children of the Night’. As if there are any of those in America.”

  Rose looked vaguely disgusted. “Did she actually say that? Children of the Night?”

  “She says loads of stuff like that,” James nodded. “She’s completely batty.”

&
nbsp; “Hah hah!” Ralph added, nudging James with his elbow. James groaned.

  As the final days of the autumn semester unwound, James spent most of his time cramming (as Zane called it) for his semifinals. His fellow Bigfoots were a great help in that endeavor, forming spontaneous study groups in the game room of Apollo Mansion. There, Jazmine Jade, Gobbins, Wentworth, Norrick, Mukthatch, and anyone else who happened to be in the same classes would produce all of their notes and quiz one another for hours on end, all while consuming vast quantities of licorice soda and snacks from the Apollo kitchen.

  Occasionally, Yeats would drift through the room with a trash bag, collecting empty cans, cups, and candy wrappers, all the while muttering insincere apologies through his gritted teeth for interrupting the students’ studies. Heckle and Jeckle hung near the cellar refrigerator and called out wrong answers to any quiz questions they overheard. James learned that Heckle, the deer head, answered wrongly on purpose, in the hopes of starting arguments with passersby. Jeckle, the moose head, however, got the answers wrong because he was, essentially, a moose head.

  It was thanks to these study sessions, which often lasted well into the night, that James finished his last week of school before the Christmas break with a somewhat giddy sense of confidence. His final test, a three-page practical in Precognitive Engineering, was possibly the hardest of all. For the two-hour examination period, James and the rest of the students were given three separate divining tools—a small crystal ball, a cup of tea leaves, and a random selection of octocards—and instructed to recount on parchment their predictions, being careful to assure that they were a) accurate, b) measurable, and c) essentially in agreement.

  This meant, James knew, that the second half of the test, which would occur sometime during the spring semester, would be a rigorous detailing of how the predictions did or did not come true. If this had been Professor Trelawney’s class, James would have been less concerned about that second part—predictions for her class were always expected to be purposely vague and rather comically disastrous. The American Precog teacher, however, Professor Ham Thackery, was a fussy little man with a much different approach to the ‘science of divination’, as he called it. He frowned upon disastrous, major prophecies, preferring instead smaller, more measurable predictions regarding things like what colour bird might next fly past a specific window, or the number of candies in a box of Every Flavor Beans, or what dishes the cafeteria might choose to serve for dinner on any given evening.

  As a result, students had taken to spending inordinate amounts of energy attempting to steal advance copies of the menu from the head cook’s desk in Administration Hall. James had joined Jazmine, Gobbins, and Wentworth on one such escapade and had succeeded in nicking a full menu plan for the entire month of December, right down to dessert options. Unfortunately, they had neglected to realize how far ahead the cook planned. It wasn’t until after they had made their remarkably detailed classtime predictions that Wentworth had noticed that the menu plan was for December of the following year.

  “Easy enough,” Gobbins had proclaimed, flush with inspiration. “We just tell Thackery that our predictions are super advanced and won’t come true until next year at this time!”

  Against all probability, the plan had actually worked. Thackery had placed the students’ predictions into a wall safe that he’d had installed for just such a purpose, explaining that he would grade the assignments in precisely one year, when the predictions could be measured.

  For now, however, James still had twenty minutes of examination time left. Feeling sleepy and vaguely hungry for lunch, he set the crystal ball aside and reached for the handful of octocards. It was very still in the Precog classroom, which was high and dusty, lit by a bank of tall windows that ranged along the left side of the room. The windows were nearly opaque with curls of frost, reducing them to bright blindness. The only noises in the room were the busy scritch of quills on parchment and the occasional frustrated sigh and clunk as students shuffled their divining objects about on their desks.

  James glanced around. Two desks to his right, Zane leaned over his parchment, writing furiously. The feather end of his quill shook wildly over his shoulder, as if he was systematically choking it by the nib. James sighed quietly and turned over the first octocard on his desk. He looked down at it.

  the LADY of MYSTERY

  James blinked at the card. For a moment, the face of the dancing, smiling woman on the card had looked familiar. It had looked, in fact, like Petra Morganstern. James frowned and leaned over the card. It no longer looked like Petra, and yet it still looked familiar. Now, it looked like the strange woman that he had seen in the midnight halls of the Aquapolis and later aboard the Zephyr shooting hexes out of the windows without any visible wand. Who was she?

  James’ hair suddenly prickled. It was her, he thought. She was the other woman that came out of the Hall of Archives right after it was attacked! How could I have forgotten? But who is she? He peered down at the card, concentrating furiously. The woman on the card didn’t move, and yet she almost seemed to be smirking up at him. For the first time, James felt a deep sense of dismay about what he had seen that night. Was it possible that this woman and Petra had really done it? Was the woman somehow controlling Petra? Where had she come from, and what was the source of her power? Was it the same as the mysterious power that Petra herself seemed to demonstrate? In the warmth of the classroom, James shuddered.

  Slowly, he turned over another card.

  the MAN of MIXED DESTINIES

  James’ eyes widened as he stared down at this card. He’d never seen it before—would have sworn, in fact, that there was no such card in a deck of octocards. Worse, however, he thought he recognized the face on this card as well: it was his own. The figure on the card was skinny, dressed in a quaint black suit with tails and an orange tie. Rather unsettlingly, however, the head had two faces, one looking right and smiling, the other looking left and frowning uncertainly. As James watched, the faces seemed to change places, to shift without moving. It made his eyes water and he blinked. With a shiver, he turned over another card, covering the first two.

  the STAR of CONVERGENCE

  James had seen this one before, of course—the four-point golden star. He had drawn it once last year, in Professor Trelawney’s class. Back then, it hadn’t seemed particularly meaningful. Now the sight of it atop the other two cards made his stomach drop slowly, as if he were standing on a high ledge, swaying perilously. The points of the star were like paths, merging together, forming something new and unknowable. He had a strange premonition that he was one of the four points. The strange lady, with her enigmatic smile and sourceless magic, was another. But who were the other two?

  Petra, he thought. Of course, she’s one of them.

  But that didn’t feel exactly right. James leaned low over the star, squinting at it, concentrating. The star almost seemed to pulse, and a dull ringing came with it, blocking out the other faint noises in the room.

  Petra isn’t one of the other two points, he now realized, and the sinking sensation in his stomach grew worse, chilling him. Petra isn’t one of them. She’s both of them. Petra… and Morgan.

  He frowned to himself. That didn’t make any sense at all, did it? Petra and Morgan were the same person, like two parts of the same mind, like the Jekyll and Hyde character in Mr. Walker’s book. The Morgan side was the part that was influenced by the cursed shred of soul that once belonged to Lord Voldemort. The other part was the Petra that they had always known: smart, honest, inquisitive, and quirky. The good Petra had subdued the Morgan part of her personality— once in the Chamber of Secrets, and again at Morganstern Farm, when she had almost (but not quite) sacrificed her own sister to the lake.

  But what about Petra’s mysterious dreams? What did it mean that Petra had been plagued by visions of her sister dying in that very lake? Was the Morgan side of Petra’s mind growing more powerful? Was the balance of power tipping? I watch and I wait, the
voice of Morgan had said, echoing from the dark tower in Petra’s new dream of the strange, ocean-locked plateau. My time is very near. I am the Sorceress Queen. I am the Princess of Chaos…

  James looked at the last octocard again, the Star; four points merging toward the center, like paths meeting, forging a new destiny. The four of us are converging somehow, he thought, and even though it seemed vaguely mad, he knew that it was true. Petra and Morgan, the mysterious lady, and me—all leading to something. But is it something good or bad? Is it something that should be stopped? Is it a destiny? Or a choice?

  James didn’t know the answer to the first part of that question, but the second part was all too clear. Destiny, as Professor Jackson had once said, is merely the name we give to the sum total of all of our life’s choices. Was James making the right choices? Were the octocards offering him confirmation of his recent decisions… or a warning?

  “James,” a voice said, startling him. He glanced up and saw Professor Thackery standing in front of him, his hand out. “The examination period is over, James. Your test, please.”

  James was shocked. How had the last twenty minutes gone by so quickly? He looked around and saw that the rest of the classroom was empty. Everyone else had finished and headed off to lunch.

  “Uh, sure, Professor,” James stammered, glancing guiltily down at his parchment. To his continued surprised, he saw that the last page was covered with his own handwriting. He had no recollection of writing anything at all. With no chance to read his own prediction, he handed the parchment to the professor.

  “Very good,” Thackery said, peering through his glasses at the parchment. “Very, er, thorough.”

  James nodded uncertainly. “Thanks, Professor.”

  Feeling shaky and a little spooked, he virtually fled the classroom, following his friends to lunch.

  16. CHRISTMAS IN PHILADELPHIA