JAMES POTTER AND THE VAULT OF DESTINIES jp-1

by G. Norman Lippert

  Espinosa asked, “And why would the W.U.L.F. have murdered their own leader only moments before their escape from our raid?”

  “Perhaps for being sloppy,” Harry suggested curtly. “After all, it was his own paper trail that led us to him. Organizations like the W.U.L.F. do not easily forgive such ineptitude.”

  “Could be,” Price agreed reluctantly. “Then again, it could be that Tarrantus was getting ready to talk. Maybe he was getting cold feet about the organization’s tactics and was planning on telling us everything he knew. Maybe someone else decided he was a threat and planned to overthrow him as leader. They’d have no choice but to kill him, of course. Whoever tipped them off about the impending raid, seems likely to me that that’s the same person who’s probably in charge now. What do you think, Espinosa?”

  “Just makes sense,” Espinosa agreed. “Find the snitch, find the murderer. Find the murderer, find the new head of the W.U.L.F.”

  “And you think that person is me,” Harry said with a sigh.

  Price shook his head. “We’re paid to be suspicious, Mr. Potter. Don’t take offense. If we had any actual evidence of your involvement, then we wouldn’t be standing here in your study having this little chat. But I’ll be honest with you. There’s loads of circumstantial evidence piling up against you. The bloody name on the wall doesn’t help.”

  Harry’s voice was no longer restrained. “That’s insane,” he proclaimed darkly.

  “Lotta things are insane, Mr. Potter,” Price agreed. “Wanting to maintain power over nonmagical people by not sharing your world with them, that seems a little insane to some of us. Conjuring up shadowy villains like the W.U.L.F. to scare your own people into living by outdated laws of secrecy, that also seems pretty insane. Of course, all of this is just conjecture at this point, I admit. But if it ever stops being conjecture, well…”

  “The W.U.L.F. is not a creation of the Department of Aurors,” Harry said with cold emphasis. “Has it even begun to occur to you that it might have been one of your men who tipped them off about the impending raid? Frankly, if the Wizard’s United Liberation Front believes what they claim, then your own people are much more sympathetic with them than is the Department of Aurors.”

  “Really, Mr. Potter,” Price chided. “That’s a little childish, isn’t it? You perceive that we are accusing you, so you accuse us in response. I expected better from you.”

  “Someone alerted them that we were coming,” Harry insisted. “On my side, the only people who knew about the raid were Titus Hardcastle and myself.”

  “And we have your word for that only,” Price said, effecting an apologetic tone of voice. “Be reasonable, Mr. Potter. Do you mean to say that you didn’t tell anyone else at the Ministry of Magic? Or even your wife and family?”

  “I mean to tell you that those on my side who knew about today’s raid,” Harry growled, “are people who I trust completely. Members of our raiding party, including myself, might have gotten killed today had the W.U.L.F. chosen to ambush us instead of run. Why would my own people have risked that?”

  “If your people and the W.U.L.F. are one and the same,” Espinosa suggested, “then it wouldn’t be a risk at all, would it?”

  Harry drew a deep breath, composing himself. “Gentlemen, if this is where we stand, then I fail to see how we can continue to work together. Either arrest me for conspiracy or let me and my associates work alone.”

  “Now let’s not get huffy, Harry,” Price said, softening his tone and raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Espinosa and I are just doing our jobs. The task of the Magical Integration Bureau is to protect the interactions between the magical and the nonmagical world and to see that the two coexist with as much harmony as possible. Your people have chosen to hide yourselves and live among us in secrecy, which has always struck the Bureau as suspicious on the very surface of it. You can’t blame us for approaching our duties with a degree of healthy skepticism, can you? Look, if you’re innocent, then you have nothing to fear from our involvement. If you’re guilty, then of course we can’t just allow you to operate without our supervision. Either way, Harry, you’re stuck with us. Let’s try to make that fact as pleasant as possible, eh?”

  There was a long pause as Harry appeared to consider this. In the window reflection, James could see Price standing to the side, his face stony, waiting. Across from him, Espinosa looked vaguely bored. He stared up at the dark ceiling, eyebrows raised inscrutably.

  “So be it,” Harry finally said. “But if I suspect that your notions of mistrust are undermining our investigations, or worse, placing us all in danger, then be assured that I will abandon this mission, regardless of the consequences. Is that understood?”

  “Duly noted,” Price said with a smile. “I’m glad that we can all dispense with any pretenses. Everything all out in the open. That’s the way I like it. Right, Espinosa?”

  “Right you are, Price,” the other man agreed soberly.

  “I assume you can find the door on your own,” Harry replied. “Merry Christmas, gentlemen, and goodnight.”

  James heard shuffling footsteps and saw the door’s reflection as it opened again. A few moments later, the elevator doors dinged from down the hall. Price and Espinosa, apparently, were on their way back down to the parking garage.

  Without turning the chair around, James asked quietly, “You know I’m here, don’t you?”

  Harry, still leaning against the front of the desk, chuckled drily. “I never leave my chair facing the window. I figured it was either you or Albus. Frankly, I was betting on the latter.”

  “Nice counter-spell on the lockbox,” James said, swiveling the chair to face his father. “I wasn’t trying to nick the cloak and map, you know. I was just… checking on them.”

  Harry nodded, looking back at his son over his shoulder. With a sigh, he turned around and plopped onto one of the visitor’s chairs.

  “So, what do you think, James?” he asked. “Is this whole investigation a lost cause?”

  “Why would they think you were involved with the same bad guys that you’re trying to catch?” James exclaimed incredulously. “I mean, it doesn’t make any sense!”

  “It makes sense from their viewpoint,” Harry said sadly. “You were at Neville’s assembly, so you heard how a lot of people around here think. Many of them truly believe that the Ministry of Magic would indeed stoop to creating shadow villains, from Voldemort to the W.U.L.F., just to keep the magical world under their thumb. If that was true, then it would make perfect sense that I’d be in on it, and might even be one of the masterminds of the scheme.”

  “That’s what Ralph said, too,” James acknowledged reluctantly. “But none of it’s true! How can they believe such a bunch of drivel?”

  Harry frowned thoughtfully. “Once you abandon the concept of truth, James, everything becomes merely a matter of perspective. For the Progressive Element, there is no right or wrong; there are only sides. When one of those sides defeats another, they don’t see it as a triumph of good over evil or evil over good. They view it merely as one side exerting unfair power over the other. Without truth—without any belief in right and wrong—the best one can hope for in life is a sort of lukewarm concept of fairness, where both sides in any fight simply choose to live and let live. They think that what we call ‘good’ should just learn to tolerate what we call ‘evil’ since good and evil are really just equally valid philosophies of life.”

  “But,” James began, screwing up his face in an effort to understand. “But, that’s obviously crazy. This isn’t like disagreeing over whether flying carpets should be legal or not. Voldemort was a bloodthirsty villain who killed people just for the sake of his own power. Stopping him was the only way to save countless other lives, wasn’t it?”

  “Not according to the Progressive Element,” Harry replied, shaking his head. “They think that if only we’d stopped fighting him, laid down our weapons, and given him his right to live the way he wanted to, th
en we’d all have just lived in peace, somehow.”

  James considered this for a moment, his eyes narrowed, and then shrugged. “But then he’d just have killed every last one of you.”

  Harry nodded. “Probably. Voldemort wasn’t a ‘live and let live’ sort of wizard, especially considering the prophecy. One of us had to die for the other to survive. But really, prophecy or not, that’s how it is in every corner of the world, in every struggle between evil and good, between power and love. The two cannot compromise because they cancel each other out. There will always be a struggle between them until one prevails over the other. There is no alternative.”

  “So, all these Progressive Element types are complete nutters, then?” James said, throwing up his hands.

  “Not all of them,” Harry replied with a sigh. “They are right that a lot of awful things have been done throughout the ages in the name of good. Merlin himself tells of battles that occurred between the magical and nonmagical peoples of his day, not over right and wrong, as they pretended to be, but over mere prejudice and fear, intolerance and hatred. These are the things we must always be wary of at all costs. And yet, to deny that some struggles are, indeed, worthy of the fight—that evil and good are always alive and in enmity against one another, like fire and water—is to turn a pragmatic truth into a dangerous delusion. This, James, is what the Progressive Element is guilty of. Most of them are not bad, and most of them are very well-meaning. But that does not mean that their philosophy is not, in the end, thoroughly deadly.”

  James thought on this for a long moment. Finally, he asked, “So who do you think ratted you all out?”

  Harry shook his head again, his face growing dark. “I don’t know. Hardly anyone knew about the raid. But I suspect that Espinosa and Price are right. Whoever warned them about us also killed their leader, Tarrantus, and left his body for us to find. The W.U.L.F. has a new leader now, someone who may well know a lot more about us and how we plan to stop them than Tarrantus ever did. I suspect that the first order of business is to find out who that person is. Then, perhaps we will know how to proceed.”

  “But who could it have been, Dad?” James asked earnestly, leaning forward over the desk. “I mean, Mum knew, and maybe Lil…”

  “Even if they did tell someone else,” Harry replied, narrowing his eyes, “nobody sent any messages out of the flat, either via Floo or even through the Shard. I’ve set up hexes to alert me anytime there is any communication between the flat and the outside world, just to make sure that no one is spying on us. If any message had gone out, I’d have known about it.” Suddenly, Harry looked up at his son, his eyes sharp. “James, did any of you come or go over the last few hours? Besides Percy, I mean. After the time you arrived, did anyone go out? Even for a little stroll around the neighborhood?”

  “No, Dad,” James said, but then he paused. Unbidden, he found himself thinking of Petra’s empty bed upstairs when he had gone to look for her. He’d searched through all of the upstairs rooms, but hadn’t seen any sign of her. And yet, some time later, she had come downstairs, as if she’d been up in her bedroom all along. James was still shaking his head, but his thoughts spun onward, turning cold and fearful. Petra would have known about the raid. But surely she wouldn’t have warned the villains even if she could have somehow Disapparated from the flat without anyone noticing. Would she?

  “Well, I don’t know, then,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair again. “But I’ll find out. Whoever it was that leaked the information about the raid and killed Tarrantus, I’ll find them. And when I do, they’ll be sorry they ever took over for him. I’ll make very sure of that.”

  James nodded, but inside he felt numb and deeply frightened.

  I am the Princess of Chaos, he thought, remembering the dream-vision of Morgan, the shadowy figure that had spoken with Petra’s voice. I… am the Sorceress Queen…

  Christmas at the flat seemed to go by in a rather hectic rush, juggled between the much shorter Alma Aleron holiday break, Harry and Percy’s constant work demands, and James’ spinning thoughts about Petra, the W.U.L.F., Professor Ignatius Magnussen, and the Magical Integration Bureau.

  Christmas Day was the only somewhat relaxing day of the break, during which time the family opened their presents and visited with Grandma Weasley, Uncle Ron, Aunt Hermione, and the rest via Floo. From his mother, James did indeed get a box of new underpants as well as a new winter cloak. His father, however, had purchased James a brand new pair of Clutchcudgel gauntlets from a wizarding sporting goods store in New Amsterdam. The gloves were leather, coloured Bigfoot orange and blue, with a chamois-lined wand sleeve in the left wrist. Denniston Dolohov had gotten Ralph a new wizard chess set with enchanted pieces that could, if desired, play themselves. The pieces had been especially hexed by a famed wizard chess champion so that Ralph could practice the game alone whenever he couldn’t find a suitable opponent. Petra, to James’ surprise, had managed to procure Izzy a new dollhouse and china doll, which Izzy had immediately christened Victoria Penelope.

  “But never Vicky Penny,” she warned, peering sternly at James, to which James nodded solemnly in agreement.

  Petra, of course, having no surviving parents or grandparents, received no gift whatsoever. Ginny had confided in James that the girl had insisted they not buy her anything either.

  “She says it’s more than enough that we’re letting her live with us during the investigation,” she said as they dried dishes near the kitchen sink. “I respected her wishes, but it seems so depressing not to have any gifts to open at Christmas. Especially since she lost that brooch of hers on the voyage. She downplays it, but I think that brooch had special significance to her. She says it was a gift from her father for her first Christmas. Did you know that?”

  James had not, and admitted that he’d never seen her wear it until earlier that summer. He assumed that the brooch had come in the box of Petra’s father’s things, sent to her by the Ministry of Magic upon her coming of age.

  Having made no such Christmas deal with Petra himself, however, James slipped outside late Christmas evening and found a bunch of dry weeds rooted behind some dumpsters. These he transfigured into a very satisfactory display of roses and tulips, which he encased in a simple Timeloop Charm, preventing them from wilting. He carried the flowers back up to the flat and bound them with a length of leftover Christmas ribbon. Finally, while everyone else was gathered around the fire downstairs, he sneaked into Petra’s room and left the bouquet on her dresser along with a small note which read, simply, ‘Happy Christmas Petra’.

  Content with his handiwork, James went to bed that night and fell almost immediately to sleep. He dreamed of Clutchcudgel with his new gauntlets, and zombie Professor Straidthwait’s hollow chuckle, and the mysterious riddle of the halls of Erebus Castle, complete with a ghostly figure of Professor Magnussen stalking warningly in the dimness, his eyes like chips of mica. Finally, in the deepest chasm of the night, James dreamed of the flat island surrounded by crashing surf and low, iron clouds. He dreamed of the black castle, both ancient and steadfast, and the figure watching from the balcony, her gaze heavy and hot, watching, waiting. Was it she that had alerted the members of the W.U.L.F. of the impending raid? Had Morgan somehow killed Tarrantus, leaving Petra, her alter ego, to take the blame? In the pit of the night, wrapped in the guileless lucidity of dreams, James thought it was entirely possible.

  He wouldn’t remember any of it the next morning, but his dreaming self tried to send out the message, tried to warn his subconscious of what was to come. My job isn’t to save Petra from Keynes the arbiter, he realized as he wafted through the dreaming vision of the island, gazing up at the shadowy balcony. My job is to save Petra from Morgan.

  My job, he thought from the depths of sleep, is to save Petra from herself.

  17. THE BALLAD OF THE RIDER

  Where the holiday break seemed to come and go like a flash of lightning, the spring semester unrolled before James like an interminable
carpet with no end in sight. Albus, in particular, seemed to return to school with a rather bitter disposition.

  “I thought we were going to be quit of this dump by now,” he grumped as they stalked across the campus toward their morning’s classes. A frigid wind scoured the mall beneath low, hulking clouds, making the boys’ cloaks flap like sails.

  “Hey,” Zane said, his own typically cheerful disposition dampened by the arctic weather, “that’s the Aleron you’re talking about. I get why you might hate all your Wolfy pals back at Ares Mansion, but that’s just them. Hate the player, don’t hate the game.”

  “I’ll hate whatever I bloody well want,” Albus muttered darkly.

  “I’m surprised,” Ralph commented. “I thought you’d be fitting in just fine with the Werewolves. They don’t seem that far removed from our mates back in Slytherin.”

  Albus scoffed humorlessly. “Hah. I’ll take Tabitha Corsica over Olivia Jones any day. Tabitha may have turned out to be a little off her broom in the end, but at least she hated people on principle. These gits just hate anyone whose great-great-great-great grandparents didn’t have the good fortune to have been on some stupid boat that landed at Plymouth bloody Rock.”

  James was surprised at his brother’s sudden openness. He knew it would probably evaporate once he’d had a chance to settle into the routine of school again, but for now he took advantage of it. “You mean,” he said as evenly as possible, “that they give you a hard time just because you aren’t an American?”