JAMES POTTER AND THE VAULT OF DESTINIES jp-1

by G. Norman Lippert

  “He’s ruthless about those railroads,” Ralph commented as James counted out the last of his brightly coloured play money. “If I had known how much money those could make, I wouldn’t have wasted all mine on these stupid utilities.”

  James had no idea what any of it meant, but he didn’t mind. It was an excellent time, no matter what. He grinned as he handed the play money to Zane, and reached for one of the last cookies on a nearby plate. One more bite couldn’t hurt. He decided he’d take chocolate-cherry cookies over fake money any day.

  Over the course of the holiday weekend, James and Ralph shared the Walkers’ guest bedroom, sleeping on a pair of narrow old beds. On Sunday afternoon, while Ralph, Zane and Greer played video games, James explored the small house alone. In the small corner office, he found Mr. Walker hunched over his desk, tapping furiously away at a laptop computer. His face was tense and scowling, as if he was wrestling with the tiny keys.

  “What’re you working on?” James asked, leaning in the doorway.

  Walker looked up, his eyes wide and surprised, and James realized that the man hadn’t noticed his approach.

  “Ah!” he said, and smiled. “Sorry. I get pretty wrapped up in this sometimes. Hi James.”

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt you or anything,” James said quickly. “I was just curious.”

  Walker sighed and leaned back in his chair, stretching. “It’s fine. I need people to remind me to take a break sometimes. Zane’s mother says that when I’m writing, it’s like I’m a hundred feet underwater. It takes a long time to get down there, and a long time to swim back to the surface, so when I am there, it’s easy to forget everything else.”

  “I thought you made movies?” James asked, frowning.

  Walker shrugged and bobbed his head. “I make stuff,” he said. “Sometimes I make things for movies, sometimes I draw pictures, sometimes I write stories.”

  James was curious. “Do people read what you write? Like, are your stories in bookstores and stuff?”

  Walker laughed and shook his head. “No, my books don’t end up on any store shelves. Fortunately, though, I do get paid for the other things I make. Well enough, in fact, that I have the freedom to do some things just for the fun of it. That’s what the writing is for.”

  James frowned quizzically. “You write for fun?”

  “No better reason,” Walker sighed, flexing his fingers.

  “So what are you writing now?”

  Walker pursed his lips and shook his head. “Just a little story.”

  James narrowed his eyes at the man. For some reason, he suspected that Mr. Walker was purposely avoiding any further explanation. James peered toward the screen of the laptop. Without his glasses, the image was merely a blur of lines, but he thought he could make out a group of words in boldface. The title, perhaps? For a moment, he thought he saw his own name there. He shook his head and blinked. That was ridiculous, of course.

  Mr. Walker turned the computer slightly, and clicked a button. The text on the screen disappeared.

  James noticed a small volume perched on the end of the desk. He gestured toward it. “Is that one of your books?”

  Walker scooped the book up. “This? No. This is a classic. I was using it for research. It’s called ‘Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde’. Ever hear of it?”

  James shook his head.

  “It’s an old story,” Walker said, letting the book fall open on his palm. “A horror story, but a psychological one. That’s what makes it so scary, really.”

  “What do you mean?” James asked, peering at the book.

  Walker flipped the pages until he came to an illustration. In it, a man in coat-tails and a top hat was standing before a floor-length mirror. He was staring with wideeyed terror at his own reflection, and it was no wonder: the reflection in the mirror was a different man entirely. The figure in the mirror was leering, grinning, with hands hooked into claws and boggling, mad eyes.

  “Because,” Walker replied thoughtfully, “this isn’t just a story about a madman wreaking havoc on the innocent. This is a story where the villain and the hero cannot physically fight one another, where there is no clear-cut moment of confrontation between them, where one can win out over the other.”

  James stared at the image on the page and felt a pall of uneasiness settle over him. “Why not?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Well, it’s very simple,” Walker said, glancing up at James seriously. “It’s because the villain and the hero… are the same person.”

  James nodded slowly, unable to take his eyes away from the illustration on the page. In it, two different personalities stared at each other from within the same body, divided only by the mirror glass.

  In the warmth of the small office room, James shivered.

  A moment later he dismissed himself and went to find Zane and Ralph. All of a sudden, he wanted nothing more than to be around his friends, to hear their raucous laughter, and to forget that strange, old illustration.

  The return trip to Alma Aleron, like all post-holiday journeys, was melancholy and quiet. Zane spent the train ride with his nose buried in a thick book called The Varney Guide to Who’s Who in the Wizarding World. James tried to read over his shoulder at one point, but almost immediately found the book unforgivably boring. Instead, he challenged Ralph to a game of wizard chess, using a miniature box set of chess pieces that Ralph had taken to carrying with him wherever he went. James hated playing chess with Ralph since he nearly always lost to the bigger boy, but even losing was better than simply staring out the windows at the passing, dreary cities and rainy sky.

  The next day, Zane cornered Ralph and James in the hall outside of Mageography.

  “I know who Rowbitz is,” he said, his eyes bulging in his face.

  “What?” Ralph frowned. “I thought you said he wasn’t anywhere in that book?”

  “He wasn’t,” Zane agreed. “It was a complete waste of time. Now, my head’s all stuffed full of useless names and trivia, and all for nothing. Like, did you know that the wizard who invented the skrim was some crazy dude named Vimrich who was just looking for a way to nap while he was riding his broom? He never got it to work—the flattened broom just kept flipping over and dropping him on the floor—but after he died, some of his nephews found the homemade brooms in his workshop and tried standing up on them. The rest is history.”

  “Fascinating,” James said impatiently. “Get to the Rowbitz part.”

  “Hey, if I had to learn it, you have to put up with hearing about it,” Zane proclaimed, poking James in the chest. “But anyway, when I took the book back to the library this morning, I noticed something hanging on the wall. You know how the Vampire girls are always making those charcoal etchings of the gravestones in the school cemetery? Well, a bunch of them are hanging up by the librarian’s desk; must have been some kind of class art project or something. The point is, guess whose name showed up on the one right by the return cart?”

  Ralph surprised.

  Zane nodded eagerly. “Right there, plain as day! It was spelled a little different than I expected—R-O-E-bitz, but close enough to play Clutch, as we Zombies say. He was just some old guy from way back in the day, lived and worked here on campus, apparently. Probably he was like Magnussen’s servant or gardener or something!”

  “‘The Nexus Curtain lies within the eyes of Roebitz,’” James quoted, nodding. “Maybe the key to the Curtain is buried with the guy!”

  “Oh no,” Ralph raised his hands, palms out. “I’m not going and digging up any old graves.”

  Zane put an arm around Ralph’s shoulders, standing on tiptoes to reach. “Don’t worry, Ralph,” he said soothingly. “We won’t need to dig anybody up, all right?”

  “We won’t?” the bigger boy replied skeptically.

  Zane shook his head. “Nah. I could tell by the etching that it was from a mausoleum. We don’t need to dig at all. We just need to pry the door open with a crowbar.”

  “Oh,” Ralph sighed
sarcastically. “Well, that’s loads better.”

  Over the following days, James, Ralph, and Zane explored the campus cemetery, which was surprisingly large, huddled in the northwest corner of the campus and surrounded by a tall wroughtiron fence. Fortunately, the main gate was almost always left open, even at night, which meant that they wouldn’t have to climb the fence if they had to sneak in by moonlight. After a few attempts, the three finally found the mausoleum belonging to a wizard named Leopold Cromwel Roebitz, which sat embedded in a hill in the shadow of an ancient oak tree. The mausoleum door was made of copper, weathered to a pale green patina. Zane gripped the handle and gave it a tentative tug, but the door didn’t budge.

  “Well, so much for Plan A,” he said, nodding. “Door’s locked. Anyone want to try an Unlocking Spell? How about you, Ralphinator? You’re the spellmeister of the group.”

  Ralph grimaced, but produced his wand. He leveled its lime green tip at the door. “Alohomora,” he said tentatively.

  There was a golden flash, but the door remained firmly closed. Zane yanked the handle once more to no avail.

  “I guess that means Plan C, eh?” James said.

  Ralph asked hopefully, “Can’t we just try it now?”

  “And risk getting hauled into the office as vandals?” Zane replied, batting Ralph on the shoulder. “Trust me, it’s one thing to get caught hexing your name onto a statue. Messing around with the dead means a whole different kind of trouble. You saw how serious they took it when Magnussen was stealing bodies to dissect them.”

  Ralph sighed. “Fine. But if we have to do this at night, I’m not going inside. I’ll be waiting right here next to this old tree while you two go bumping around with the skeletons. Got it?”

  James agreed. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, Ralph.”

  It was the following weekend before the three boys could summon the courage to make the nighttime trek to the cemetery. Even Zane, whose audacity normally seemed to be limitless, appeared jumpy about the endeavor. On Saturday night, James and Ralph stayed up late in the game room of Apollo Mansion, playing ping pong and enduring the constant critiques of Heckle and Jeckle. Finally, when the grandfather clock in the corner struck midnight, the boys crept up the stairs and eased open the front door. They looked at each other, standing between the coldness of the night and the warmth of the hall behind them.

  “You up for this, Ralph?” James asked in a whisper.

  “No,” Ralph admitted. “But we’re going to do it anyway, right?”

  James nodded and gulped. “Remember why we’re doing it. It’s for a good cause. We can’t let Petra take the blame for something she didn’t do. We have to find the people who really broke into the Hall of Archives and attacked the Vault of Destinies.”

  Ralph shook his head. “But… we saw her, James. What makes you so sure that it wasn’t really her?”

  In the past, James would have felt angry about such a question, but he knew Ralph better now. He knew that Ralph was a pragmatist. Besides, Ralph didn’t feel the same way about Petra that James did. He didn’t know what James knew.

  “Because she told me,” James said simply, meeting his friend’s gaze. After a moment, he added, “When we were on the ship, Dad told me that the best thing I could do for Petra was to be her friend. Friends trust one another, and that’s what I am doing for her. Do you trust me?”

  Ralph shrugged. “Sometimes,” he answered seriously. “But mostly I just back your plays. That’s the best way I know how to be a friend. That’s what tonight’s about. I hope that’s good enough.”

  James smiled despite the cold and stillness of the night. Slowly, he pulled the door of Apollo Mansion closed behind them. “That’s more than good enough, Ralph. Come on.”

  As James and Ralph stole into the darkness, they found the campus eerily quiet, covered in low, creeping tendrils of fog. The air was so cold that James immediately began to shiver. Overhead, the half moon shone brightly, covering the lawns and footpaths with its bony light.

  “Over there,” Ralph whispered, his breath making puffs of mist in the air. “Is that Zane hunkered down by the Octosphere?”

  In answer, a poor imitation of an owl echoed across the dark lawn. James rolled his eyes.

  “You didn’t do the countersign,” Zane rasped as James and Ralph ran to join him. “I hoot, you bray like wolves. We practiced it this afternoon.”

  “And I told you then,” James whispered, looking about at the empty campus, “we’re in a time bubble in the middle of major American city. There aren’t any wolves for miles and centuries in every direction!”

  “There would’ve been if you’d have done the countersign,” Zane groused.

  “Did you bring the Grint?” James asked, glancing at the blonde boy.

  Zane hugged himself, shivering. “You mean the standard Zombie tool for magically picking locks that any self-respecting Zombie carries with him every time he goes out on an evening sneak? That Grint? No, I left it in your grandma’s sock drawer. Silly me.”

  James nodded. “All right, then. Looks like the coast is clear. Let’s go.”

  Together, the three boys ran along a line of leafless elms, hunkering low and keeping as much in shadow as possible. They skirted the front of the theater, crossed the mall in front of Administration Hall, and ducked into the warren of footpaths that ran through a block of college student apartments. Finally, his lungs raw from the cold night air, James looked up and saw the gates of the campus cemetery gaping open before him. Tentacles of mist crept like lazy ghosts between the nearest gravestones, beyond which was impenetrable darkness.

  “Why’s there have to be so many big willow trees and shrubberies and stuff?” Ralph whispered as they tiptoed through the gates. “I mean, it’s a cemetery, not a hedge maze.”

  “Blame it on the old groundskeeper, Balpine Bludgeny,” James replied, his teeth chattering. “He’s what you call a traditionalist. Makes sure all the gates creak, all the trees are covered with Spanish moss, and the headstones lean just so. Gotta love a guy who takes that kind of pride in his work.”

  The three boys huddled unconsciously together as they followed the winding path through the hills of the cemetery. Shortly, they rounded a curve and found themselves out of sight of the main entrance. Moss-covered statues and obelisks loomed in silhouette out of the misty shadows. Not so much as a breath of wind moved the trees or the ever-present ground mist.

  “I think it’s over there,” Ralph whispered, pointing up a nearby hill. “Can’t we light our wands?”

  Zane shook his head. “Somebody will see us. Your eyes will get used to the dark soon enough.”

  James led the way up the hill, skirting the leaning headstones. Suddenly, unbidden, he remembered his father’s infrequent stories about the last days before the Battle of Hogwarts, when he and Headmaster Dumbledore had broken into a cave where Voldemort had hidden one of his many Horcruxes. Specifically, James found himself thinking of the cursed dead that occupied that cave’s deep lake, flailing to the surface like beastly, gaping fish: Inferi. James shuddered and tried not to envision dead white hands scrabbling up out of the ground, clutching at his ankles. He actually found himself hoping for a good old-fashioned ghost, just to break the tension. Unfortunately, for whatever reason, Alma Aleron apparently didn’t have any ghosts. He drew a deep breath and shuddered as he let it out.

  “There it is,” Zane nodded, angling toward the crest of the hill. “Roebitz. I can just read it by the light of the moon. Come on.”

  James watched as Zane retrieved a small complicated tool from a pocket in the recesses of his cloak. The blonde boy examined the keyhole beneath the mausoleum’s door handle and then peered down to fiddle with the Grint.

  “How’s it work?” Ralph asked, leaning close.

  “It’s got a little imp locksmith in it,” Zane replied. “He sniffs out what sort of lock he’s dealing with and pops out whatever tool is best to get it open.”

  Ralph frowned and g
lanced at James. “Is he making that up?”

  “You never can tell, can you?” James answered, shaking his head.

  Zane leaned close to the door, squinted into the keyhole, and then pressed an ear to the cold metal, listening. “Nobody moving around inside,” he said, peering back at James and Ralph. “Always a good sign.”

  James was impatient. “Can you get it open?”

  “No problem,” Zane nodded. “Nothing special here. Looks like a standard Mourning Rose double-tongued turnbolt. I looked them up this afternoon at the library. It’s a basic mortuary homunculus lock. The key is tears.”

  “Like, one of us has to cry?” James asked, blinking.

  Ralph frowned. “How do you cry on command? Maybe you should try it, James. You’re the actor, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve only ever been in one play,” James protested. “And it didn’t require any waterworks. I don’t know how to make myself cry.”

  Ralph’s eyes widened with inspiration. “You just think about the saddest thing that’s ever happened to you! Like, when your first pet died or something! It’s easy!”

  “I’ve never had any pets die yet,” James replied. “If it’s so easy, you do it then.”

  “You guys coming in or what?” Zane asked, pushing the copper door open. It creaked ponderously, revealing darkness beyond.

  James boggled. “How’d you do that?”

  “I just picked it,” Zane shrugged, pocketing the Grint. “I figured that’d be faster than waiting for you to get all misty-eyed. I think I broke the lock a little, but we can fix it on the way out, eh? Let’s go.”

  “I’ll, er, keep watch,” Ralph whispered nervously, backing away. James nodded, sighed, and then followed Zane into the musty darkness of the mausoleum.

  It was very cold inside with a low ceiling and a gritty floor that scraped loudly under the boys’ feet. Zane raised his wand slowly.

  “Lumos,” he whispered harshly. The wand sprang alight, filling the tiny space with its harsh glow. The interior of the mausoleum was completely unmarked. Cobwebs filled the corners, wafting with the boys’ movements. The only objects in the cramped space were an old floor brazier with one remaining candle and a low stone shelf, upon which sat the unmistakable shape of a wooden casket.