It is interesting to note, however, that in every recorded instance, a sorcerer only derives power from one type of extrinsic source. For instance, a sorcerer who draws his strength from growing things will find himself considerably weakened when placed within a desert environment. Theoretically, this is an example of the law of conservation of powers, which predicts that absolute power will always be prohibited within a balanced natural world.
Origins and Explanations:
While there are many theories regarding the origins of sorcerers, none have been conclusively proven. All such theories, however, can be broken up into two predominant categories: the Serendipitous and the Causational.
The Serendipitous theory states that a sorcerer is always created when a certain series of variable requirements are met. The most well-known Serendipitous theory is the “seventh son of a seventh son” premise, which merely states that any seventh male offspring of a wizard who is, himself, a seventh male offspring will, without exception, be a sorcerer. Other theories are far more complicated, suggesting deviations in times of the year, phases of the moon, ages and lineage of the parents, and even the number of windows in the room of the child’s birth.
Adherents to the Causational theory, however, postulate a much different origin, owing itself not at all to randomly determined variables but to the balance of the magical world in general. In short, the Causational theory states that when the scales of the cosmos require a sorcerer (either to maintain balance or to destroy it), then a sorcerer will, out of sheer necessity, appear.
Notably, one variation of the Causational theory adds that there can never be only one sorcerer. In order for the polarities of destiny to remain in check (the theory claims) there must always be a duality: either no sorcerers whatsoever or two. This theory, however, like all the rest, has never been proven or disproven.
Historical Examples:
While any number of legendary sorcerers have appeared in the annals of history, there are very few documented cases of the existence of such individuals. The most well-known and verified instance is Merlinus Ambrosius, whose powers, mysterious origins, and legendary disappearance describe the very archetype of the classical sorcerer.
During his lifetime, he was known to conjure feats of such devastating natural ferocity, including (but not limited to) earthquakes, floods, typhoons, walking forests, and tidal waves, that he was by turns revered and/or vilified by all who knew of him. Since his time (approximately 935-980 AD) there has been no uncontested evidence of another living sorcerer.
Variations—Elves, Goblins, Sorceresses
While both elvenkind and goblinkind also derive their powers from extrinsic magical sources, they are not technically considered sorcerers (despite long-standing arguments by goblin leaders and species rights advocates). Since both goblins and elves can only contain the equivalent of any average magical person’s power, they do not meet the ‘Limitless Magical Expression requirement’ (set forth by the Magical Defining Characteristics Census of 1177) for sorcerer status.
Contrariwise, there has existed a long-standing theory that claims that the existence of sorcerers implies, by logical necessity, the possibility of sorceresses—that is, a female whose source of power is extrinsic and who is capable of summoning limitless expressions of that extrinsic resource based upon its availability. Despite this, no irrefutable example of such a person has ever been verified.
James lowered the book and leaned slowly back, letting his head bump the bookshelf behind him. For several seconds, he merely stared up past the canyon of the leaning bookcases toward the books which flapped silently through the library’s upper levels, winging toward their shelves.
It made perfect sense. That was the most dreadful part. The passage in the encyclopedia was like the center piece of a puzzle, the one that brought all the separate bits together and formed the full picture. As incredible as it seemed—as completely gut-wrenchingly unbelievable as it would appear to any sane observer—Petra Morganstern… was a sorceress.
James shook his head slowly, barely able to grasp the concept.
He remembered the first time he had met Petra, back on his first night at Hogwarts. Ted had introduced her to him along with the rest of the Gremlins. She had seemed merely pretty and smart then, the perfect foil for the brash insolence of the rest of the Gremlins. James had had classes with her throughout that year. In all honesty, he had begun, even then, to feel the faintest stirrings of romantic magnetism toward her. Most assuredly, there was something unique about her— something rare and slightly dark, both inspiring and solemn. Even so, how could this slight, smart girl—the one with the tendency to suck thoughtfully on the ends of her raven-dark hair and doodle dancing elves in the margins of her textbooks—how could that girl possibly be something so powerful, so rare, and so potentially frightening as a sorceress?
And yet, of course, James knew it was true. It had to be true. Everything pointed to it, from the mysteries surrounding her last day at Morganstern Farm to the amazing magic she seemed to perform without any wand to the strange silver thread that had appeared when she’d fallen from the back of the Gwyndemere—conjured by James, but drawn, apparently, from her own power.
Merlin, of course, was a sorcerer. Was that why he was so interested in Petra? Was that why he was worried about what she might do? Was she his equal? His opposite?
James shuddered, violently, and the encyclopedia nearly fell off his lap. Instinctively, he grabbed at it and then closed it with a soft thump.
For the first time, seriously, he wondered if Petra really had been involved in the attack on the Vault of Destinies. Thus far, James had been able to convince himself that it couldn’t really have been her that he’d seen on that night coming out of the Archive alongside the creepy woman in the black robes. He’d convinced himself that it had to have been a trick—someone using Polyjuice Potion, for instance, or perhaps even a Visum-ineptio charm. But what if none of that was true? What if Petra really was in league with the mysterious dark woman, and had been lying all along about her innocence? Worse, what if the Morgan part of Petra’s mind, the part influenced by the final shred of Lord Voldemort’s soul, had broken free of the mental prison that Petra had erected for it—the black castle in her dreams—and had taken over somehow?
What if James, Ralph, and Zane succeeded in breaking through to the World Between the Worlds only to find irrefutable proof that it had been Petra (Morgan) who had broken into the Hall of Archives, cursed Mr. Henredon, and then stolen the crimson thread from the foreign dimension’s Vault of Destinies? What then? Would the courts send Petra to wizarding prison?
Perhaps even worse, would they be unable to?
For one bright, horrible moment, James envisioned the dark-haired girl (Petra/Morgan) walking resolutely down the center of a broad road, peppered with green Killing Curses and yet unfazed, her brow lowered in cold fury, her eyes flashing black sparks and lightning crackling between her clawed fingertips.
She’s not evil, he told himself resolutely. It was almost a mantra, an incantation. In his deepest heart, he both believed it utterly and doubted it hopelessly. The friction between the two warring convictions was nearly overwhelming, almost like a breaking heart.
“Petra’s not evil,” he whispered, his eyes wide and bright in the darkness of the library aisle. “She’s just…” He cut himself off with a gasp, realizing what he was about to say. Suddenly, he felt very cold, chilled nearly to the bone. This time, when the encyclopedia tried to slide off of his crossed legs, James let it. He barely even noticed.
She’s not evil, he thought helplessly. She’s just… misinformed.
Like Eve. Just misinformed.
“What’s with you, James?” Zane asked the following Thursday as the three left Cursology class and made their way into a bright, warm afternoon.
James hefted his books and squinted into the sunlight. “Nothing. Why?”
“You’ve been all quiet lately,” Zane pressed. “Even Ra
lph’s noticed.”
Ralph nodded. “S’true. You didn’t even show up for Clutch magic practice the other day. I had to power the Gauntlet myself. Didn’t go so well either.”
Zane laughed and clapped Ralph on the shoulder. “That’s ‘cause you still haven’t learned to rein in that Godzilla wand of yours. I hear the Gauntlet was running so fast that parts of it were a blur. Is that true?”
“The team sure didn’t think it was funny,” Ralph admitted, raking his fingers through his hair. “But it definitely sharpened their reflexes. I swear, at one point, it looked like Fiorello was in two places at once trying to evade one of those clockwork battering arms.”
“I’m fine,” James sighed, approaching the sprawling ruin of Roberts’ burnt mansion. He plopped onto a broken wall and stared out along the sunlit mall. “I’m just annoyed that we haven’t figured this last bit out yet. I mean, we can’t keep the horseshoe hidden forever. Someone’s going to sniff it out and then we’ll be totally sunk.”
Zane shrugged and joined James on the broken end of the wall. Tall grass swished around the boys’ feet where they dangled over the side. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Hiding the unicorn’s shoe in the roots of the Warping Willow was totally genius. That horseshoe may have some powerful mojo in it, but if it’s stronger than the Willow, I’ll eat a Clutch. That’s a big score for the Ralphinator.”
“It was nothing,” Ralph said, trying not to grin with pride. “I was just thinking back to our first year when Delacroix hid the Merlin throne right on Hogwarts grounds since it was the only place in the country that was magical enough and protected enough to overshadow that kind of power. If it worked for her, I thought it might work for us.”
Zane nodded. “It’s an excellent idea no matter what. I bet if old Mags had thought of it, he might actually have made it to the World Between the Worlds and not gotten shot down in an alley like a cowboy at high noon.”
James shook his head, not at all sharing in his friends’ carefree attitudes. “It’s just that it’s taking too long,” he said, smacking his hand on the stone next to him. “That idiot Keynes, the arbiter, is nearly finished with his inspection. Dad sent me a note saying that he ran into him at the Crystal Mountain. Keynes told him that he wouldn’t need to interview any of us after all, said that he’d found all the information he needed elsewhere. That can only mean one thing, can’t it? He’s about ready to make his judgment and he’s found just what he needed to convict Petra and send her to prison!”
“But who could he have talked to?” Ralph asked, kicking at the weeds near a fallen chunk of stone wall. “We were the only witnesses to what happened. Who else would tell him that someone that looked an awful lot like Petra came walking out afterwards? I mean, the only people we told were Rose and Scorpius through the Shard. If Keynes had talked to them, they definitely would have told us.”
James frowned dourly. Ralph may be right about Rose, but James himself wasn’t so sure about Scorpius. “Either way, if we’re going to figure out this stupid riddle, we’d better do it right quick. Otherwise, there won’t be any point. They’ll have passed judgment on Petra and carted her off and Izzy will wind up in some Muggle foster home, probably with all her memories of us completely Obliviated.”
“But we’ve checked out everything we could think of,” Zane said, raising his eyebrows and hands at the same time. “We got bupkis! If the Nexus Curtain lies within the eyes of Roebitz, then Roebitz sure ain’t talking about it. I’m all out of ideas and I know from experience that that means you two are completely tapped out as well.” He sighed and shook his head.
“Hey, I’m the one what thought of hiding the horseshoe under the Warping Willow,” Ralph reminded the blonde boy, scowling in annoyance. Zane shrugged again and rolled his eyes.
“I just hate feeling stuck like this,” James groused darkly. “We’re so close and yet we’re completely stymied. I feel like that bloke Roberts who had to live on top of the sunken Aquapolis like a shipwreck survivor, so close to civilization, but cut off from it, all alone up on top with nothing but the waves and the seagulls to keep him company.” He leaned forward and crossed his forearms over his knees, exhaling dourly. A moment later, he realized that Zane was staring hard at him.
“What did you just say?” the blonde boy asked in a low, emphatic voice.
James shrugged it off. “It was just this bloke that we met on the journey here. He lived on the very top of the Aquapolis, the part that poked up out of the ocean like an island whenever the city was sunk beneath the surface…”
“No, no,” Zane said, his eyes growing sharp. “Before that! What did you say his name was?”
James glanced quizzically back at Zane, but it was Ralph who answered.
“Roberts?” he said. “What’s the big deal about that?”
Zane’s eyes bulged. He looked back and forth between James and Ralph in apparent amazement. “What’s the big deal?” he exclaimed. “You two just said it! Roebitz! You’re seriously telling me that this island dude’s name was Roebitz?”
James looked aside at Ralph. “We didn’t say Roebitz,” he replied in a puzzled voice. “We said Roberts. Can’t you hear?”
“Spell it!” Zane demanded, nearly vibrating with excitement.
Ralph sighed, and spelled out the name. Zane’s eyes bulged even further.
“It’s your accent!” he said, as if to himself. “The English accent! When you say Roberts… it sounds like Roebitz!”
“We don’t have any accent,” Ralph scowled. “You Americans do.”
“Don’t you see?” Zane said, pushing James hard enough to nearly knock him off the stone wall. “Magnussen spoke with the same accent you two do! He never approved of the country’s break from England and insisted on speaking the same way you Brits do! He called it ‘the King’s English’, remember?”
James’ own eyes began to widen slowly. “In the Disrecorder vision,” he said, “when Franklyn was explaining Magnussen’s riddles, he imitated Magnussen’s accent! We didn’t recognize it, though since Franklyn’s an American. We heard it wrong because we didn’t recognize that he was mimicking the way Magnussen spoke. He didn’t say ‘Roebitz’ at all!”
Ralph finished the thought for all of them. “He said Roberts,” the big boy breathed in a low voice, glancing at his friends. “The Nexus Curtain… lies within the eyes of Roberts!”
All three boys stared at one another, dumbstruck. Slowly, they all turned toward the ruin behind them, looking up over the broken bits of garden wall and the weed-choked stairs toward the remains of the grand façade. The lintel over the door still bore the engraved name of the original owner: ‘ROBERTS’.
In front of this, jutting crookedly up out of the tall grass, just as always, was the statue of the man himself, his stern face weathered with age, his wand held purposely at his side.
“The eyes of Roberts,” James said quietly, suddenly flush with adrenaline.
“It can’t be that easy,” Ralph muttered, shaking his head. “Can it?”
“Only one way to find out,” Zane said, jumping down from the stone wall and clapping his hands together. “Whaddaya say, Ralph? Feel like giving me a little boost?”
Three minutes later, James stood in the shadow of the statue of Roberts, peering up at Zane as he stood atop Ralph’s shoulders, struggling to reach the back of the statue’s head.
“It’s a good thing this thing’s pedestal is mostly buried in the dirt,” Ralph grunted. “Otherwise we’d never be able to reach the top of it.”
“There’re holes in the back of the head!” Zane called down. “Two of them, side by side, see? Push me up a little higher, Ralph.”
“I’m pushing as high as I can,” Ralph groaned, struggling to stand on tiptoes. “What do you see?”
“Nothing,” Zane said, his voice muffled as he pressed his eyes to the back of the statue’s head. “The holes go all the way through the statue, right out the eyes, as far as I can tell. But there isn’t
anything inside here at all.”
James frowned, and then a burst of inspiration struck him. “Can you see through the front?” he called up. “Like, what if the secret isn’t literally in his eyes. What if it’s what he’s looking at?”
Zane was silent for a moment as he struggled to line up his own eyes with the holes in the back of the statue’s head. Finally, he shook his head.
“No good,” he replied. “It’s all blurry. I can’t line up the holes, somehow. It’s like being totally near-sighted.”
“Hurry it up,” Ralph grunted. “Your heels are like anvils. How can a skinny little prat like you weigh so bloody much?”
“Wait a minute!” James said suddenly. “I’ve got an idea!”
Swiftly, he dropped his knapsack and unzipped it. He dug for several seconds and finally retrieved something from the bag’s recesses.
“Here,” he said, jumping up and turning to Ralph. “Hand these up to him.”
“Your glasses?” Ralph frowned, glancing at the object in his hands. “You’re serious?”
“It could work!” James insisted. “Just hand them up to him!”
“Let’s see ‘em, Ralph,” Zane called down, reaching. “You never know. James is due for a good idea one of these times.”
Ralph reached up and handed the glasses off to Zane. Carefully, Zane stretched up again, wrapping his arm around the statue’s neck and pushing the glasses onto the stony face.
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