JAMES POTTER AND THE VAULT OF DESTINIES jp-1

by G. Norman Lippert

  “He’ll get in,” Lucy said confidently. “Albus is tenacious when he wants to be.”

  “Tenacious is one way to put it,” James commented, shaking his head.

  At the Administration Hall stairs, Lucy bid the boys goodbye and headed off to the Tower of Art for her Wizlit class. As the three boys made their way across campus to the Applied Magical Sciences Building, a figure trotted up to them over a nearby lawn. James glanced aside and saw that it was Warrington.

  “Hey Walker,” he called. “Pledges. Hold up a minute.”

  James and Ralph stopped and began to mumble, “Yes, oh High Sultan Warrington, Leader of the—”

  “Can it,” Warrington interrupted. “Listen up. Your pledge dare is all set, and tonight’s the night. You’ll find everything you need in a trash can behind the common dorm. Look for the one with the big yellow ‘Z’ hexed onto its side. Walker, you get them started, all right? You’ll know what to do. But don’t help them!”

  “Aye aye, captain,” Zane said, smacking the back of his hand to his forehead.

  “But tonight’s Professor Longbottom’s assembly,” James said, turning to Zane as Warrington trotted away again. “We can’t miss that!”

  “That’s this evening,” Zane said, shaking his head. “When a Zombie says ‘tonight’, what he really means is, oh, sometime in the wee hours of the next morning. Get the picture?”

  “Ah,” James replied, frowning a little.

  Ralph looked worried. “So what’s the dare, then?”

  “We’ll know when we peek into the garbage can behind the common dorm,” Zane answered simply. “No time now, though. We’ve got Mageography next, and Professor Wimrinkle is known to dock grades for tardiness. He’s wound so tight he squeaks when he walks. Come on.”

  Mageography was held in a huge round room in the base of the Applied Magical Sciences Building’s dome. The floor was terraced like an amphitheater, lined with tables and chairs. Enormous maps surrounded the upper reaches of the room, floating in bulky gilded frames. James was not surprised to see that the map images, most of which were ancient, hand-drawn in faded browns, reds, and greens, moved very slightly. They were enchanted, of course, showing the movements of the rivers and oceans, and even the ant-like crawl of tiny boats and magical vehicles.

  “I hear that if you use a special magnifying glass,” Zane whispered, heading toward a seat in the middle terrace, “that you can see tiny people moving in the cities and stuff. You could probably even find yourself if you looked hard enough.”

  “That must be what my dad meant,” Ralph replied thoughtfully. “He told me that one of the purposes of school was to find yourself.”

  James groaned and Zane rolled his eyes. Ralph looked affronted.

  As the three settled into their seats and produced their parchments and quills, James saw Albus saunter into an entrance on the other side of the room. He spotted James, Ralph, and Zane and waved, grinning. Behind him, a tall boy in a slate grey uniform gave him a little shove. Albus lurched forward amiably and moved to a seat in the front row followed by three severe-looking Werewolf House students. One of them was the dark girl that had met them outside of the Administration Hall the previous day.

  “Looks like Al’s doing all right,” Zane muttered.

  James peered down at his brother. “How can you tell?”

  Zane shrugged simply. “No bruises that I can see. Always a good sign with Werewolf House.”

  Professor Wimrinkle entered the room from a door near his desk. He was very old, stooped, and wore very thick black spectacles which magnified his eyes so much that he looked rather perpetually surprised. He placed his leather portfolio neatly onto the desk and, without preamble, announced in a loud voice, “Number four nib quills, please, and a single sheet of forty weight parchment. Today: the Nile Delta and surrounding lowlands.”

  The professor adjusted his glasses studiously as one of the maps drifted down from the upper reaches of the room, moving into place behind his desk.

  “For new students, I will only say this once: I do not allow Quick-Quotes Quills or recording charms in this class. You will pay attention, and you will kindly take your own notes and draw your own maps. As the rest of you know, there is no point in my telling you that talking out of turn is forbidden in my class. If you intend to receive a passing grade, you will be so busy keeping up with me that there will be no time for you to open your mouths. Questions will be submitted to my secretary, where they will be answered during scheduled office hours. And now…”

  Wimrinkle lifted his wand, which telescoped into a long pointer. He clacked its tip to a point on the map without looking. “The Nile river is generally considered to be the longest river in the world,” he said in a loud monotone, “and the home to some of the magical world’s most exotic and interesting creatures and fishes, none of which we shall be discussing. The river’s flow rate is approximately thirty-seven thousand square feet per second, resulting in a geographical delta shift of fifteen degrees average every year, which in turn results in a hydromagical plottability meter of two point-oh-seven gigapokuses every eight years. As you might imagine, this leads to a terrain hexology rating of, can anyone tell me? Anyone?”

  No one in the room seemed eager to attempt an answer and the professor didn’t seem at all surprised. He answered his own question and plowed onward, his voice echoing in the high dome overhead. James scribbled notes furiously, trying to keep up.

  Sighing, he realized for the first time just how sorely he was going to miss Rose and her prodigious note taking during this school year.

  The rest of the day went by in a blur. James, Ralph, and Zane had lunch in the school’s cafeteria, which was located in the topmost basement level of Administration Hall. Its mint green brick walls, tiny windows set at ceiling height, long lines of students carrying metal trays, and overpowering smell of milk and goulash made James feel as if he had been transported to the mess hall in Azkaban. The noise of the chattering students was like a flock of magpies, ringing in the room’s low confines.

  “So the original builders of Administration Hall were dwarves,” Zane said, raising his voice over the noisome throng. “Excellent guys to have around for any construction project but with interesting views about use of space. I learned about them in Magi-American History. According to the dwarves, the Muggle building model is a weed, with most of the structure above the ground and very little root. The wizard building model is a turtle: low and secret, with a wide foundation. Dwarves, though, their building model is an iceberg.”

  “Ninety percent below the surface?” Ralph clarified around a mouthful of goulash.

  Zane nodded. “There’s more sub-basements, cellars, and dungeons in this place than anyone can count. I’ve heard stories about students going exploring into the lower stairwells and finding whole tribes of giant rats, entrances to huge underground rivers, even forbidden rooms with doors the size of dinosaurs and magical glowing locks that no one can open.”

  James was impressed. “Have you seen any of those things?”

  “No,” Zane sighed sorrowfully. “Everything below the upper dungeons is prohibited and guarded by some ancient old witch none of us has ever seen. They call her Crone Laosa. Apparently she’s the stuff nightmares are made of. Fairy tale evil, if you know what I mean.”

  Ralph looked sideways at Zane. “Like, she’ll catch you and turn you into a frog until some princess kisses you?”

  Zane narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Like, she’ll catch you and turn you into a cockroach until some lunch lady squashes you with her heel.”

  “I see,” Ralph nodded wisely. “So, stay out of the lower levels.”

  As James moved through the rest of the day in his plain black blazer and tie, he couldn’t help feeling noticeably colourless amidst all the other students’ uniforms. He hoped that tonight’s pledge dare would turn out all right so that by the next day, he could begin wearing Zombie yellow and finally fit in.

  When his aft
ernoon free period came, James found himself pleasantly distracted from his stroll to the library by the sight of his dad walking along in the sunlight, accompanied by Merlin and Denniston Dolohov. James shouldered his backpack and ran to catch up to the group as they paced along the mall, led by Chancellor Franklyn.

  “Of course, with the campus moving about in time as it does,” Franklyn was saying, “Alma Aleron functionally occupies a temporal fluxstream that would otherwise be used for storing our chronological history…

  James fell in step next to his father, who glanced down at him, blinked in surprise, and then smiled. Without a word, he rested his hand on his son’s shoulder as they walked together.

  “In summary,” Franklyn went on, not noticing James’ arrival, “with our history displaced by our curious use of time, we have been pressed to store our chronological timeline in another, more conventional space. The result is here before us, in the guise of the Official Alma Aleron Hall of Historical Archives.”

  Franklyn stopped and beamed up at the imposing stone block building that loomed before them. It was shaped like a squat cylinder, with pillars running all around its circumference and a set of enormous, iron-framed doors set into the deep portico.

  “Ah, I see young Mr. Potter has joined us,” Franklyn said, noticing James and smiling indulgently. “You’ll come inside with us, of course, although you might find it a wee bit chilly. The Archive requires strict temperature control in order to preserve its more delicate artifacts. Shall we?” He gestured up the broad stairway, and followed as the group climbed into the building’s shadow.

  “How is school treating you so far, James?” Merlin asked as they ascended the stairs.

  “Good, mostly,” James replied.

  “I have something to give you before my departure tomorrow evening,” Merlin announced somewhat abruptly, keeping his voice low. “I suspect it will ease your adjustment to your new environs. Come and find me tomorrow before sunset.”

  James peered up at the big wizard curiously and nodded.

  Franklyn approached a smaller door set into the base of one of the enormous iron-barred doors and waved his wand at it. There was a click and the door swung slowly open of its own accord.

  “Of course, the main research area is always open to all students and faculty,” Franklyn announced, leading the others through the dark doorway. “One must only wave their wand before the door to identify themselves. Once inside, the entire history of the school, and, alas, the United States itself, can be illuminated and studied in great detail. If, that is, one is able to produce the proper artifact. The Archive can be rather daunting to the uninitiated.”

  After a short dark hallway, James found himself led into a round room with blank stone walls. The vaulted ceiling was studded with dozens of tiny windows, fogged with age, reducing the light of the room to a dull, milky glow, virtually shadowless. Franklyn’s voice echoed as he moved into the light, toward the room’s only dominant feature.

  “This is the brain of the Archive,” he said, touching the stone pedestal that stood in the center of the room. “The Disrecorder. With its help, we may revisit any of the events represented by the Archive’s prodigious collection of artifacts. Quite simple, really, and elegantly effective.”

  “The Disrecorder,” Denniston Dolohov said, as if tasting the word. “Something that unravels a recording of some kind? Might I inquire how it works?”

  “You very well might,” Franklyn answered with a smile. “Many have. Interestingly enough, no one truly knows. The Disrecorder is one of the Archive’s two fantastical ancient relics that have come to us through the mists of the ages, with origins wholly unknown. Theodore Jackson, who most of you have already met, has studied the phenomenon at length and has developed his own theories, although I admit that my understanding of them is imperfect at best. To be honest, I was hoping that you might be able to provide some insight into the mystery, Headmaster Ambrosius.”

  James glanced at Franklyn, and then at Merlin, who stood off to the side, his arms folded over his chest. It made sense that Merlin might, in fact, know something about the ancient object when one remembered that Merlin himself was, technically, over a millennium old.

  “I remember talk of such things in the time from which I have come,” Merlin admitted. “Deruwid Magic, it was called, and I regret to say that it was practiced only by the most secret and bent of magical societies. Ugly and vile in their dark hearts, bloodthirsty to the core, and yet powerful. The Deruwid practitioners posited that everything—from sound waves, to exhaled breaths, to magical afterglow—made tiny infinitesimal marks on the surface of the earth, a sort of code, waiting to be deciphered. In my early days, I visited these dark ones, and observed them. At that time, they sought the means to observe and read these marks—these recordings, as they viewed them,” Merlin said, nodding toward Harry. “For they believed that if all of history could be read and distilled, then all futures could be perfectly predicted. These were wizards who desired power above all else, and they firmly believed in one thing: that he who controls the future controls all of the earth and those within it. I have learned, in fact, that this is an idea that has its adherents still today.”

  James realized that Merlin was staring rather pointedly at Franklyn. Franklyn noticed it as well.

  “Indeed,” he said a little weakly. “As with all wicked ideas, they crop up in every age, only by different names. Fortunately, the idea you speak of has fallen from favour and been disproven in this age just as effectively as it was in the age of your Deruwids.”

  “Out of favour it may be,” Merlin said slowly. “But disproven?”

  “I think I’ve heard of this,” Harry commented, frowning slightly. “It’s known as the Wizarding Grand Unification Theory, yes? Popular a century or so ago, if I am not mistaken.”

  “Yes, yes,” Franklyn agreed with a wave of his hand. “Along with phrenology, vivisection, and the Fountain of Pleasing Breath. And all equally debunked in the modern era. But I thank you for your, er, enlightenment, Headmaster.”

  “How, might I ask,” Denniston Dolohov said, putting on his spectacles, “was this theory debunked?”

  “Ah,” Franklyn answered more comfortably. “It’s quite obvious, really. The Disrecorder, if indeed it is a relic from the age of the Deruwids, fails quite soundly when presented with any average object. Observe.”

  With that, Franklyn dug in one of his vest pockets and produced two coins, which he held up for those watching.

  “This coin here,” he announced, regarding the first small golden shape in his fingers, “is a standard American Drummel, or half-note. Worth a little less than five Knuts by your measure. I will now place it into the bowl of the Disrecorder. Perhaps we will learn in whose pockets it rode before it found its way into mine, yes?”

  With a clink, Franklyn dropped the coin into the concave top of the stone pedestal. James watched with interest. There was silence for several seconds as everyone waited.

  “Hmm,” Franklyn frowned. “Nothing. And this is to be expected. You see, the Disrecorder only deciphers the imprints of an artifact that has been especially charmed to receive the input of its surroundings. Which bring us, as it were, to Exhibit B.”

  Franklyn pocketed the half-note and held up another, decidedly larger coin. It glittered faintly silver despite a layer of dark tarnish.

  “This coin, worth a standard note, or Jack, you may be interested to know, was carried in the pocket of Sir Percival Pepperpock, one of the original founders of this school, upon the date of its groundbreaking. The coin was especially charmed on that day, thus preserving the details of the event for us in perpetuity. Observe.”

  Franklyn dropped the coin onto the bowl of the Disrecorder.

  “Do you have the shovel?” a voice asked loudly in James’ ear. He spun around and found himself staring up into the face of a large, very fat man wearing a vest and a short cloak with a high collar. He was smiling and red-faced, his forehead beaded with sweat.
A man next to him handed him a small spade. James glanced around, wideeyed. The walls and ceiling of the Archive chamber were still visible, but only faintly. Harry, Denniston Dolohov, Merlin, and Franklyn appeared to be standing in a grassy field, glowing with sunshine and dotted with butterflies. Other figures stood in a haphazard line, beaming and squinting in the sunlight. Some of the figures, James was interested to see, were dwarves. With their knobby heads, sausage-like bodies, and vaguely porcine faces, James thought that each one looked a bit like a cross between a goblin and a pot-bellied pig. Wind blew, and James smelled the fresh scent of wild, wooded spring.

  A gritty, scooping sound came from behind James and he turned again, stepping aside as the fat wizard, Sir Pepperpock himself, tossed the first shovelful of earth aside, nearly onto James’ shoes.

  “Here, we shall erect our school,” Pepperpock proclaimed happily. “And here we shall teach the dual duties of magical mastery and human respect, thus to ensure that said mastery is never used for selfish aims, but always for the good of all. Here, we shall grow our school, and from it we shall grow generations of witches and wizards who will be the shining lights of the magical world. We shall call them our children, and we shall call our school… Alma Aleron, the Mother Eagle!”

  The line of observing witches and wizards applauded heartily. The dwarves applauded too, but with slightly less fervor.

  “They cannot see us, of course,” Franklyn called over the sound of the applause, “but it is rather hard to remember so with a recording as well-maintained as this. The artifact has held up remarkably well, being in the guise of a coin. Not all artifacts are quite as sturdy, unfortunately, but we do what we can to maintain them as well as possible.”

  James turned back to the Chancellor in time to see him scoop the coin from the bowl of the Disrecorder. The grassy hilltop and the happy centuries-old witches and wizards vanished instantly.