JAMES POTTER AND THE VAULT OF DESTINIES jp-1

by G. Norman Lippert

  Something thumped against his chest as he leaned over. He scrambled at it, worried that it was a Lanyard Charm, or worse. With some amazement, he realized that it was a small cloth pouch, both soft and dense to the touch. It hung around his neck on a length of rawhide string: the Vampires’ game curse! He had been so intent on getting the rest of the team to take the Vampires’ potion powders off before the match that he had completely forgotten to remove his own!

  Without thinking, he grabbed at the short fluttering ripcord. He pulled it, and felt the pouch pop open. Black powder exploded from it, streaming backwards instantly into his wake. It engulfed the trailing Werewolves, covering them in writhing black tendrils. James glanced back, struggling to stay on his own skrim while holding onto the last Clutch.

  The tendrils of black powder solidified around the Werewolves, forming a sort of loose net. Then, violently, it contracted. The black net pulled tight, sucking the entirety of Team Werewolf into a monstrous collision. If the game curse had been deployed on a single player, it would surely have forced them to momentarily lose control of their skrim, sending them off course. Deployed on the entire team, however, the effect was both sickly amusing and utterly devastating. The team crashed instantly in midair, pulled together by the force of the magical black net. A second later, the net vanished into smoke and the Werewolves fell out of it, scrambling to stay on their skrims, grabbing at one another, spiraling away in every direction.

  Breathlessly, James turned back to the course. Somehow, he had managed not to miss a single ring. He raised the final Clutch, held it over his shoulder, and tossed it easily through the goal ring. No one was guarding it. The Clutch sailed through so cleanly that James caught it himself, coming through on the other side.

  The crowd erupted into a single riotous cheer. The scoreboard flickered, reflecting the change in the score: ninety-seven to ninety-eight. Team Bigfoot, including the several reserve players, collapsed around James, laughing wildly and hoisting him up over them.

  The horn sounded, echoing deafeningly over the grandstands. The match was over.

  Team Bigfoot had won.

  23. THE BEGINNING OF THE END

  For the Bigfoots, most winning matches had ended in a victorious evening’s celebration at the Kite and Key, crowded around a few tables in their usual corner, quaffing Butterbeers and licorice sodas. The ending of the tournament match, however, launched a major event that nearly the entire campus turned out to watch.

  Thanks to the Werewolves’ recent string of championship victories (due in no small part to the now destroyed werewolf statue), the March of the Houses had not been witnessed at Alma Aleron for over a decade. Apart from the teachers, hardly anyone had ever seen it. Ares Mansion had become a fixture on Victory Hill, and many had begun to think that it would never move again. They might have been right if Albus had not discovered the secret of Stafford Havershift’s bewitched werewolf statue. Even now, already, rumors about the broken bronze statue were circulating among the student populace. James heard snippets of them, although he wouldn’t hear Albus’ complete story until later, during the journey home. Some students were whispering that the statue had been magical and had come alive, forcing Professor Jackson to destroy it. Others claimed that it had been a good luck charm that had been overwhelmed by the Werewolves’ tournament loss, resulting in its spontaneous destruction.

  Regardless of the reason, as Team Bigfoot gathered at the base of Victory Hill, James saw that the imposing statue was, indeed, destroyed. Its rear half lay several feet away from its base, and while James couldn’t be certain, it looked to him as if the pose of the remaining half was rather different than it had been when he’d seen it last.

  “People are saying that the statue just exploded as soon as the Werewolves lost,” Ralph said, crowding between James and Jazmine Jade. “Like it committed statuicide in shame or something.”

  “I don’t blame it,” Zane commented from James’ other side.

  Beside him, Warrington scoffed. “Who cares what happened to it? If it was me, I’d leave it there like a trophy even after Ares Mansion scampered off with its tail between its legs.” James noticed that Warrington was still wearing the Bigfoot jersey he’d donned earlier in order to play reserve.

  Behind the team, the crowd from Pepperpock Down was still milling around, congregating noisily in the quad between Administration Hall and Victory Hill, packing the lawns in excited anticipation. Team Werewolf was nowhere in sight and James assumed that they were simply waiting it out in their locker cellar, refusing to watch the moving of the houses. Viktor Krum, unfortunately, had left immediately after the match along with James’ mum and sister. Word had leaked back to James that they had received an urgent message via the Shard, which Ginny had been carrying in her purse in the hope of news from her husband.

  James’ dad, of course, was out on his reconnaissance mission to New Amsterdam, accompanied by Titus Hardcastle, in preparation for tomorrow’s raid. Viktor himself had wanted to go along, but Harry had been adamant in his refusal—taking more than two spies on the night’s mission would have been conspicuous, he’d said, and he had no intention of alerting the new W.U.L.F. leader to the impending raid. James was quite glad that his father had insisted that Viktor stay behind for the night. If he hadn’t, the game would have ended in forfeit before it was barely half over.

  Now, in the wake of the Bigfoot victory, cheers still rang out from the gathering throng and pops of fireworks sounded in the hot evening air, flashing their colours up onto the Hill and the stern facade of Ares Mansion.

  “So how’s this going to happen?” Ralph asked, glancing around at the throng. “Does Franklyn or somebody need to come out and, like, levitate the houses or something?”

  Gobbins shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think the March of the Houses is old magic, set up by Pepperpock and Roberts and the rest back when they first built the Aleron. I think it happens all by itself. We just wait and watch.”

  Even as Gobbins spoke, a low, ominous groan arose. James felt the rumble of it in his chest and the soles of his feet. It throbbed in the air, blotting out the other noises rather like a base note on a gigantic magical amplifier. Immediately, the crowd hushed into bright-eyed silence. James looked toward Ares Mansion, but it simply sat there, unmoving, its windows unlit and blank like stubborn, staring eyes.

  “Is this it?” James called, raising his voice over the thrumming rumble.

  Zane shook his head, glancing around. “Must be! Look!” He pointed—not at Ares Mansion, but backwards, over the heads of the throng behind them.

  James and the rest of Team Bigfoot turned around and gasped.

  Hovering over the crowd, casting its humongous blocky shadow onto the upturned faces was Apollo Mansion. It looked exactly the same as always except that you could see inside the dark footprint of its foundation: a square of heavy bricks, surrounding what was, unmistakably, the ceiling of the erstwhile basement game room. Clods of dirt and mortar pattered down over the crowd as the structure drifted overhead, moving like a giant parade balloon. A round white shape peered from one of the upper windows and James saw that it was Geoffrey Kleinschmidt, the Bigfoot reserve player who’d been too sick to make it to the match. He waved gamely, grinning, his hair poking up in an unruly strew.

  “We won!?” he hollered down, both as a question and a statement, and the crowd roared back, laughing and cheering.

  Slowly, ponderously, Apollo Mansion approached Victory Hill, passing over the crowd and emitting that deep, throbbing rumble. As it swept over James’ head, he almost thought he could reach up and touch the rafters of the basement ceiling. He laughed out loud as he saw the disarmadillo hunkered on top of one of those rafters, crouched in a sort of alert ball, eyes blinking down at the crowd below.

  As the house passed over the lawn of Victory Hill, casting its shadow over the broken werewolf statue, James was surprised to see that Ares Mansion was still there, sitting stubbornly on the Hill’s foundatio
n.

  “Go on!” Zane called, grinning. “Beat it, house!”

  “Yeah!” the members of Team Bigfoot joined in, raising their fists. Soon, the entire crowd rallied the cry, cheering and jeering raucously.

  Ares Mansion did not budge, however, even as the shadow of Apollo Mansion crept up its front, casting its reflection onto the tall staring windows. Finally, gently, Apollo Mansion nudged the front corner of its counterpart. The sound of it was a soft, rattling crunch. In response, Ares Mansion shuddered slightly and seemed almost to let out a resigned sigh. A moment later, it arose from the foundation of Victory Hill, producing a long, crumbling, ripping noise.

  The crowd erupted into cheers again as the houses traded places, moving like elephantine dancers. Slowly, almost sheepishly, Ares Mansion began its long march down Victory Hill and toward the empty foundation on the opposite end of the mall. In its place, Apollo Mansion settled slowly atop Victory Hill, its footprint meeting perfectly with the gaping foundation beneath it. The ground shook as the weight of the house settled and a puff of masonry dust arose all around it, pale in the moonlight.

  The crowd redoubled its cheers, and the members of Team Bigfoot looked around at each other in amazement. Wentworth was there by then, his fingers wrapped in white bandages. Next to him, also wearing various bandages and braces, were Norrick, Mukthatch, Troy Covington, and the rest of the disabled players. Geoffrey Kleinschmidt burst through the front door in his pajamas, his hands raised as if the crowd was cheering solely for him. He made his way down the walkway and joined the team where they stood beaming at one another, happy for the moment beyond words.

  “Go on in!” Ophelia Wright cried out, nudging James forward. “Check out your new digs! See what the view looks like from Victory Hill!”

  “You too,” Jazmine called, turning to the reserve players from the other houses. “All of you! Tonight, you’re all Bigfoots!”

  “Watch your mouth!” Warrington replied, frowning, but he didn’t argue when the gathering pushed him up the footpath toward Apollo Mansion.

  James thought that the building had been transformed, somehow. It looked exactly the same as it always had—just a big blocky mansion, perhaps a little too symmetrical and rather lacking in embellishment—but now, seated atop Victory Hill, the things that had once made it boring now made it regal. It’s the angle, he thought, looking up at it as he approached, smiling with pride and triumph. This is where it was originally built, I’d bet my skrim on it. This is how it was meant to be seen…

  This thought was interrupted, however, even as James put his foot on the first step of the main entrance. A very loud, very strange noise fell over the entire campus, shocking the crowd into silence. James glanced back, alarmed.

  “What’s tha—” Zane began, but was drowned out by the noise as it sounded again. It was a sort of metallic creak, long and ragged, followed by a rumble and a distant tinkle of breaking glass.

  “Is that still the March of the Houses?” Ralph frowned, his eyes wide and nervous.

  Next to him, Warrington shook his head. “No. That’s coming from over there, just past Admin Hall.”

  “It’s the Medical College,” a voice cried from the crowd. “Something’s wrong with it. Look out!”

  The crowd began to move then in that alarming, sluggish way that only large groups of suddenly frightened people can move. They pushed and clambered, backing away from the corner nearest the beige bricks of the Medical College.

  James looked, remembering what he had seen earlier, the small gathering in front of the Medical College’s main entrance—Uncle Percy, Lucy, Izzy, and the group of Wizarding Court agents. The arbiter, Albert Keynes, had not been in sight, but he had to have been there somewhere.

  “What have you done?” James asked under his breath, his eyes widening. He realized, with no real surprise, that the question wasn’t addressed to Keynes.

  As he watched, the lights of the beige building flickered, flashed, and then fell dark. Inside, monstrously, that awful noise sounded again, creaking and groaning rather like a beast in pain. And then, with no warning, most of the windows on the nearest side of the building exploded outwards.

  Glass tinkled and flashed like confetti, spreading out and down into the nearby trees. Another noise followed—a sort of massive crumpling crash, and the face of the building changed. It sucked inward, distorting the shape of the structure as if it had been punched by a gigantic invisible fist. Bricks and broken masonry showered down into the bushes.

  “It’s imploding!” Zane announced, both frightened and amazed. “What could make it do that?”

  Not a what, James thought, but didn’t say, a who.

  Debris rained down from the face of the Medical College, but the noise fell away. The event seemed to have spent itself. A moment later, James sensed movement at the far edge of the crowd, closest to the distorted building. The gathering was parting, spreading away from some moving nucleus. James stood on tiptoes, trying to see who or what it was. From his vantage point atop Victory Hill, he could finally see.

  It was, of course, Petra.

  She was walking away from the Medical College, her face pale and calm. Accompanying her, one on each side, were Izzy and Lucy. Both younger girls looked around at the parting throng, their eyes bright in the darkness.

  James broke away from his friends and moved down the footpath of Victory Hill, meeting Petra as she emerged from the crowd. No one had tried to stop her or even to question her. Perfect silence hung over the scene as everyone watched, inexplicably breathless.

  Petra met James’ eyes. She looked tired and drawn but otherwise perfectly normal. She was holding Lucy’s right hand and Izzy’s left. Slowly, she glanced aside at the broken statue where it lay nearby, glinting in the moonlight.

  “Congratulations, James,” she said weakly, and offered him a small affectionate smile. “You won.”

  A ripple of commotion moved over the crowd as realization dawned on those closest to the front: this was Petra Morganstern, the one who had attacked the Hall of Archives and cursed Mr. Henredon, the one who had been escorted to the Medical College unconscious, in preparation for her imprisonment.

  “But they gave her the poison apple!” someone whispered harshly. “How’d she wake up?”

  “She’s a criminal,” another rasped. “She’s dangerous!”

  And another: “Look what she did to the Medical College!”

  A low clamor arose from the crowd, spreading to a rabble. Then, louder voices called out in commanding tones. James looked up and didn’t know whether to be relieved or dismayed to see Chancellor Franklyn approaching, shouldering through the throng. Professor Jackson and Mother Newt were close behind, their faces grim. Inexplicably, Albus seemed to be following along in Professor Jackson’s wake, his eyes shining with the excitement of it all.

  “Ms. Morganstern,” Franklyn announced as he broke through the crowd. “What are you doing? Return to the Medical College at once! Where are your guards?”

  “I’m sorry, Chancellor,” Petra said, and James heard in her voice that she truly was. “I’m sorry for everything that’s happened. But I won’t be going back. Perhaps I will be able to repair everything. But not now. There are more pressing matters.”

  “There are no more pressing matters, miss,” Jackson proclaimed grimly. James saw that the professor had his wand in his hand, at the ready. Albus peered avidly around Jackson’s elbow as he went on. “You are a convicted criminal. You understand that we cannot allow you to leave this campus.”

  “And you understand, I think, that there is no way you can stop me,” Petra replied, almost apologetically.

  Jackson raised his wand. Franklyn saw this and raised his as well, his face strained. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mother Newt interrupted him.

  “What is it you need to do, my dear?” she asked, moving ahead of the two men and smiling curiously at Petra.

  Petra looked aside, at James. “We have a journey to make,” she
answered. “Not far and yet, I think, very far indeed. Are you still with me, James?”

  James nodded. “But how do you know about that? I never got a chance to tell you…?”

  “I know because you know,” she said, and James understood: the silver thread. It ran both ways. She may not have understood the plan before her arrest, but she did now. James could see it in her eyes as she looked at him.

  “And what, if I may be so bold,” Mother Newt asked, still smiling faintly, “is the purpose of this journey?”

  James answered this time. “To find out the truth, ma’am.”

  Franklyn shook his head firmly. “No. I cannot allow this. Professor Newton, you do not understand what it is they intend to do. They mean to open the Nexus Curtain. You see that Apollo Mansion once again stands atop Victory Hill. Given the proper key, they may succeed in passing through into another dimension. The young lady means to escape into a realm where none will be able to follow her!”

  “That’s not true,” James called out, moving to get in front of Petra. “Petra doesn’t need to escape because she’s not guilty!” He stopped and then glanced back over his shoulder, his brow knitted. “Er… are you?”

  Petra met his gaze but didn’t respond. At least, not with words.

  “Chancellor,” Mother Newt said, “as a matter of fact, I am inclined to disagree with you. I do not believe that Ms. Morganstern means to escape. I believe that she is telling us the truth. About everything.”

  “All evidence to the contrary, Professor,” Jackson said, his wand still raised and pointed at Petra, “how could you possibly know this?”

  Mother Newt’s smile broadened as she continued to stare at Petra. “Call it woman’s intuition,” she said with low emphasis. “Besides, I suspect that she is right about one more thing: I don’t believe we can stop her even if we wished to. She is…,” Mother Newt paused and narrowed her eyes, “… unique.”

  “Professor Newton,” Franklyn said, shaking his head again, making his square spectacles flash in the moonlight, “we cannot simply allow this woman to leave. She is a convicted prisoner of the Wizarding Court of the United States.”