JAMES POTTER AND THE VAULT OF DESTINIES jp-1

by G. Norman Lippert

  The rest of the semester’s classes dragged on with varying degrees of boredom, challenge, and occasional strangeness. Muggle Occupation Studies, for instance, seemed to be the Alma Aleron version of Muggle Studies, but with a specific emphasis on learning about Muggle careers and working conditions. Most of the classtimes were spent on discussions of the difference between such concepts as ‘water cooler breaks’ and ‘coffee runs’, ‘cubicles’ versus ‘corner offices’, elevator etiquette, surreptitious use of magic in Muggle surroundings, and how to converse about the sorts of things most Muggles seemed to be interested in, such as Muggle sports, television, and the weather. James didn’t quite understand the point of the class since he himself planned to become an Auror like his father, but the teacher, a very fat woman by the name of Heather Wocziak (who, for some reason, nearly always wore a pink jogging outfit) insisted that Muggle occupational familiarity was “absolutely essential for all witches and wizards in the current social climate of magical-Muggle diversification”. James accepted this with a sigh, secretly vowing to forget everything he was learning once the final exams were over.

  PotionMaking class continued to be an intriguing challenge despite the noticeable lack of Petra as Professor Baruti’s assistant. Besides teaching traditional Native American forms of potionmaking via visits to the ancient city of Shackamaxon, Baruti spent much time demonstrating potion techniques from many of the world’s magical cultures, including Oriental enchanTeas, African steamcreatures, and Russian cold-soup tonics, most of which were made with a very potent clear liquor known as Stortch, known to melt cauldrons if they were not thoroughly pre-oiled with a thick coating of mucous eel slime.

  James had once approached Professor Baruti after class and asked how things were going with Petra.

  “Ms. Morganstern is coming along very well,” Baruti replied easily, displaying one of his stunningly bright smiles. “I see her once a week, most of the time. She misses her freedom, but her French is très magnifique.”

  James nodded. “Any word about the investigation with that Keynes bloke? I haven’t heard a word about it from my parents. I think they’re trying to keep me from worrying about it, but I can handle it.”

  Baruti clucked his tongue and shook his head dismissively. “Don’t you worry about that, young Master James. Ms. Morganstern is not worried! Why should you be? If tomorrow brings trouble, it will bring the solution as well.” He patted James on the shoulder with his large callused hand and James nodded disconsolately.

  The only class that James was performing particularly poorly in was Arithmatics. Taught by a young professor named Plumvole with far more enthusiasm for the subject than actual teaching ability, James simply couldn’t wrap his mind around the long, dense formulas and symbols scrawled onto the magical blackboard. As a result, he was pressed to attend occasional tutoring sessions with Professor Plumvole in his office on the fifth floor of Administration Hall. The professor was thoroughly patient with James, explaining the concepts over and over on parchment while James leaned on the desk, his forehead cradled helplessly in his hands. He still didn’t understand the equations, but Plumvole was so infatuated with his own explanations that he didn’t notice James’ complete lack of involvement.

  As a result, Plumvole completed all of James’ homework while James himself merely watched. At the end of the last session, Plumvole clapped James heartily on the shoulder, promising that they were making excellent progress. Sheepishly, James nodded, shrugged and bid the professor goodnight.

  It was growing dark outside the Administration Hall’s tall windows as James meandered his way to the ground floor. Passing a set of propped-open auditorium doors, however, he heard a familiar voice. It was Professor Wood giving a lecture to an audience of college-level students. James remembered that Wood taught a subject called Ethics of Magic, which Zane had promised was ‘dead boring’. Still, James was curious. He stopped to listen, hovering just inside the open doorway.

  “So,” Wood was saying, turning to a huge blackboard and pointing his wand at it, “the question of intervention revolves around these three primary questions: motive, benefit, and repercussion.

  “Before considering any intervention in the affairs of our Muggle fellows, we must honestly ask ourselves: one: why are we doing it? Is it truly for the Muggles’ good? Or for another, more selfish reason? Two: what is the real benefit that might be gained by such an intervention? Is it worth the risks involved? We cannot judge this on feelings alone; we must answer this impartially and honestly. Finally, what are all the possible repercussions of such an action? As in the example, if a fellow wizard is being attacked by Muggle robbers in an alley and we Stun the leader within sight of his cohorts, is the damage of that magical revelation worth the money that the attackers might have stolen? This is a safe example for it involves only money and is therefore easier to consider. But the equation might well involve lives rather than coin. It is ethically incumbent on us to consider: if we save a life but harm the integrity of the magical/Muggle worlds for thousands of others, is that a worthy intervention?

  “There are no obvious conclusions, but as we have seen in the examples, any interaction between the Muggle and magical world that fails in any one of these considerations threatens, at the very least, the integrity of those involved, and potentially, the very stability of our twin cultures. Easy answers are tempting, as we all know—answers that rely on emotion and goodwill and basic concepts of immediate justice—but easy answers can lead to horrific consequences. This is the weight of responsibility that we, unlike our Muggle brothers, bear. It is no easy burden, but that does not give us an excuse to shrug it off. We must consider the fact that, despite how we might feel, sometimes it is better—and more deeply responsible—to do nothing. Sometimes we cannot trust our feelings alone. Sometimes, the heart is a liar.”

  James didn’t quite understand everything that Wood was saying, but the last part stuck with him: sometimes the heart is a liar. Petra Morganstern had, in fact, said something almost exactly like that, James remembered. Months earlier, when they’d talked, strangely enough, about the Bible story of Adam and Eve. Eve had born the burden of the same sort of responsibility that Wood was talking about—the responsibility to consider that sometimes what felt right was, in fact, exactly the wrong thing to do. She wasn’t evil, Petra had said that day, as they’d walked toward the Warping Willow under Professor Baruti’s shimmering rainbow umbrella. She was just… misinformed. She was doing what she felt was best.

  Sometimes… the heart is a liar, Petra had told him that day, her eyes solemn. In James’ memory, though, Petra didn’t sound quite like she meant it. She sounded more as if she was trying on the concept, the way someone might try on a shoe or a hat just to see if it fit.

  For some reason, the thought made James shudder. Without waiting for Professor Wood to finish his lecture, he turned and followed the hall toward the stairs at the far end, shaking his head worriedly.

  It was fully dark outside by the time James crossed the campus, heading toward Apollo Mansion. The mall was virtually deserted, lit by the occasional lamppost and the glow of lights from the other houses. Light glinted off a large dark orb as James passed a pool. Stopping, he saw that it was the Octosphere. It turned slowly, shimmering in the moonglow and creating its soft, almost inaudible rumble. James frowned at it in the darkness, thinking.

  Professor Magnussen had created the Octosphere, his first attempt at reading all things in the universe at once and therefore predicting—and controlling—the future. Everyone believed that Magnussen had finally succeeded, in a way: they believed that he’d escaped into the World Between the Worlds, leaving this dimension forever. James knew the truth, however. Magnussen had been struck down in vengeance for the acts he’d committed in pursuit of his horrible plan. He may once have trod the World Between the Worlds, as he had claimed in the Disrecorder vision, but he certainly had not ended up there. As Kendrick Debellows had once said during last year’s classes, the wa
rrior who trusts only in the greatness of his magic will trip over the smallest stone. Magnussen had been extremely arrogant, and he had tripped over the smallest stone imaginable—one the size of a single Muggle bullet.

  Suddenly, James remembered that he, himself, had very nearly interfered with that reality. He had jumped out from his hiding place in the alley, wand in hand, prepared to duel Magnussen rather than watch him kill the Muggle man, William. If he had intervened only a second earlier, he probably would have interrupted Helen in the act of aiming her pistol. What would have happened? Would Magnussen have defeated them all? Might James, Ralph, and Zane have somehow prevailed over the professor and saved Helen from the act of shooting him? How would that have affected history and the lives of all those involved?

  James shook his head and shivered. Wood was right: it was scary to consider the repercussions of such things. James himself had very nearly changed history, and in a rather dramatic way. Somehow, he knew that it was best that he had not—that his intervention had been a split second too late. Maybe it wasn’t the best possible reality that Helen had shot and killed Magnussen, but James was secretly sure that if things had gone any other way, it could have been far worse in the end.

  But what about now? Was he, James, interfering again? His own mother and father had warned him not to get involved in any more grandiose adventures. Even Patches the cat seemed to have offered warnings, first suggesting they rush for Igor House and then appearing in the Archive, apparently cautioning them against viewing the Disrecorder visions of Professor Magnussen. Should James have heeded those warnings? He’d tried to in the beginning. And yet how could he allow Petra to go to prison for something she might not have done? Wasn’t it his responsibility to help her? Or, at the very least, to do what he could to reveal the truth of what had really happened that night, when the Vault of Destinies had been attacked?

  There are no easy answers, Wood had said. James shook his head slowly, knowing that the professor was right. He drew a deep breath and plopped down onto the low wall that bordered the pool of the Octosphere. The great black orb turned hypnotically, rumbling faintly.

  “Tell me, Octosphere,” James said in a low voice, staring at the huge stone shape, “am I doing the wrong thing? Should I just leave well enough alone?”

  The orb continued to turn, as if it didn’t intend to answer such a vague question. Then, however, it began to slow. Cloudy letters swam up from the orb’s murky depths. James leaned closer and squinted as the words formed, glowing dimly in the moonlight.

  BETTER NOT TELL YOU NOW.

  James frowned. He knew that the Octosphere was rumored never to give helpful answers, but it was always supposed to give a correct answer, no matter how indecipherable. He decided to try again, being more specific.

  “All right,” he said. “Will I make something awful happen by trying to help Petra?”

  Immediately, the white words faded from the surface of the orb. It began to turn again, first slowly, and then faster so that water crept up the sides of the sphere, running back in trickling rivulets. Finally, after nearly a minute, the orb slowed again. Dim shapes swam deep within it, resolving slowly. James leaned close, watching the letters float to the surface, as if from a very deep, dark well.

  YOU WILL NOT.

  James read the words over several times and then breathed a long sigh of relief. Perhaps the legends about the Octosphere were wrong. After all, this was a clear answer, both helpful and straightforward. As long as it was true, then there was nothing to worry about. And according to Zane, the Octosphere’s answers were always true, even if they weren’t obvious.

  James shuddered again, feeling a cool breeze ripple over the campus and shush in the nearby trees. He stood up again and continued on his way to Apollo Mansion, renewed in his mission even if he didn’t know exactly what he was supposed to do next. Neither he, Ralph, nor Zane knew the location of the Nexus Curtain or the meaning of Magnussen’s remaining riddle. Still, at least he could feel some confidence that they weren’t going to ruin everything even if they did figure it all out.

  In the darkness behind him, the glowing words began to drift slowly into the depths of the Octosphere and it began to turn again, slowly, resuming its low rumble. No one was there to see it, but the word ‘You’ remained visible for nearly a minute after the others had faded out, almost as if it had some special, secret emphasis.

  After all, the Octosphere always told the truth. But it was never helpful.

  On the third Saturday in April, James, Zane, and Ralph climbed their way to the library in the Tower of Art, ostensibly to do homework, but also in hopes of researching a new lead in the Roebitz riddle.

  The library occupied the space immediately below the penthouse museum and took up the equivalent of three full floors with its dizzyingly tall bookshelves and rolling ladders, long polished tables decked with green Bankers Lamps, and overhanging balconies, stairways, and landings. High in the very center of the space, visible from nearly every angle, hung a monstrous crystal chandelier, its thousands of pendants winking rainbow prisms in the glinting candlelight.

  Around this, somewhat unsettlingly, books of all sizes flew like bats, flapping their covers, their ribbon bookmarkers trailing behind them like kite tails. James had been to the library several times before he realized that the flying books were actually part of the library’s shelving system. Loose tomes would occasionally soar up from the carts next to the front desk and circle the chandelier, almost as if it were a sort of roundabout. One at a time, the books would eventually swoop back down toward the leaning monolithic bookshelves, furl their covers with a soft thunk, and slip into place with their fellows.

  James had a strange suspicion that part of the reason that the books spent so much time circling the chandelier was because they were (being magical books) very slightly alive and liked the hustle and bustle of what the librarian referred to as ‘the sorting cloud’. The ripple of their pages and the gentle clap of their covers as the books circled the chandelier sounded vaguely like whispered speech and James couldn’t help wondering if the books spent their time in the cloud trading gossipy stories about the students and teachers below.

  Considering the way James sometimes treated his own library books, this was not a very comforting thought.

  “This really seems like a long shot,” Ralph whispered as they settled down to a table on the edge of one of the upper balconies. “I mean, fish eggs?”

  “Roe,” Zane replied, annoyed. “Fish eggs are called roe. Roebits? It’s worth checking out, at least. Maybe Magnussen was really into aquariums or something. Maybe he hid the secret of the Nexus Curtain in some fish food and fed it to his pet catfish, which then had baby fish… and… er.”

  James pressed his lips together tentatively. “It’s a long shot,” he said, agreeing with Ralph.

  “I don’t see you two coming up with any genius brainstorms,” Zane groused, pulling a huge picture book toward him. On the front of it was a moving photograph of the Loch Ness Monster snapping its prodigious jaws. The title was embossed in gold: ‘MAGICAL FISH and MARINE LIFE OF THE WORLD’.

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” James said, slipping out of his seat. “I need to find a book for my kettles and cauldrons Home Ec paper.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Ralph said, rolling his eyes. “I have to write a paragraph on the difference between cupcakes and muffins.”

  “You ought to be an expert on that,” Zane said without looking up from his book. “You ate three of each at breakfast just this morning.”

  Ralph frowned. “It was research,” he said a little defensively.

  James worked his way back down the stairs to the main floor and then meandered through several rows of tall, crooked bookshelves. The highest levels seemed to totter precariously over him, their books threatening to spill from their shelves at the slightest provocation.

  After several turns, James finally found the reference section. Huge dusty volumes lined the sh
elves, bowing the wood under their accumulated weight. Finally, near the end of the aisle, James found what he was looking for. An entire section was devoted to an anthology of huge encyclopedias, all arranged by letter and subject. There appeared to be thousands of volumes in the collection, each cloth-bound in frayed beige, their spines nearly two feet tall. James craned his neck to see into the upper levels of the bookcase and then pulled one of the wheeled ladders toward him. The rungs squeaked as he began to climb.

  He stopped halfway up the ladder and reached carefully for a particular volume. A huge embossed letter S decorated the top portion of the spine. Beneath this were the words ‘SNYXPORIUM through SORDHISIUS’. Clutching the heavy book against his chest, James inched back down the ladder. He sat down crosslegged on the floor at the base of the ladder and cradled the huge volume on his knees. After a brief pause, he opened it.

  The book smelled like mildew and dust, but its pages were thick and creamy-smooth, yellowed only slightly along the edges. Full-page illustrations filled the book alongside dense fields of small print.

  Normally, of course, this was the sort of thing Rose would be assigned to do. As Zane had said, she really was like their very own personal research department. Some things, however, James had been reluctant to share even with his closest companions. The topic he was looking up now was one of those things. He began to riffle through the encyclopedia’s pages as quietly as possible until he reached a particular heading, nearly halfway through. He stared down at the words, his lips pressed into a thin line.

  SORCERESS

  : see Sorcerer, female.

  Slowly, James turned back a page. Leaning slightly lower over the book, he began to read.

  SORCERER:

  Defined simplistically as a magical human male, a sorcerer should not be confused with a wizard. While both are primarily determined by their predisposition to spellwork, potionmaking, and the use of magical objects, there is a marked difference in the fundamental source of those powers. While witches and wizards draw upon magical resources within their own bodies (see: Intrinsic Magic), sorcerers collect their powers from external resources, such as growing things, kinetic energy reserves (oceans), or even the passage of time (see: Elemental Magic, types and uses). For this reason, sorcerers (or, in the Old Language, Sourcereurs) are potentially far more powerful than a typical witch or wizard depending on the residual magical resources of their surroundings. Similarly, where a typical magical individual’s power is a constant, a sorcerer’s power may be diminished to the point of abject weakness if he is cut off from those magical resources.