The Vault of Destinies (James Potter #3) (62 page)

This meant, James knew, that the second half of the test, which would occur sometime during the spring semester, would be a rigorous detailing of how the predictions did or did not come true. If this had been Professor Trelawney's class, James would have been less concerned about that second part—predictions for her class were always expected to be purposely vague and rather comically disastrous. The American Precog teacher, however, Professor Ham Thackery, was a fussy little man with a much different approach to the 'science of divination', as he called it. He frowned upon disastrous, major prophecies, preferring instead smaller, more measurable predictions regarding things like what colour bird might next fly past a specific window, or the number of candies in a box of Every Flavor Beans, or what dishes the cafeteria might choose to serve for dinner on any given evening.

As a result, students had taken to spending inordinate amounts of energy attempting to steal advance copies of the menu from the head cook's desk in Administration Hall. James had joined Jazmine, Gobbins, and Wentworth on one such escapade and had succeeded in nicking a full menu plan for the entire month of December, right down to dessert options. Unfortunately, they had neglected to realize how far ahead the cook planned. It wasn't until after they had made their remarkably detailed class-time predictions that Wentworth had noticed that the menu plan was for December of the
following
year.

"Easy enough," Gobbins had proclaimed, flush with inspiration. "We just tell Thackery that our predictions are super advanced and won't come true until next year at this time!"

Against all probability, the plan had actually worked. Thackery had placed the students' predictions into a wall safe that he'd had installed for just such a purpose, explaining that he would grade the assignments in precisely one year, when the predictions could be measured.

For now, however, James still had twenty minutes of examination time left. Feeling sleepy and vaguely hungry for lunch, he set the crystal ball aside and reached for the handful of octocards. It was very still in the Precog classroom, which was high and dusty, lit by a bank of tall windows that ranged along the left side of the room. The windows were nearly opaque with curls of frost, reducing them to bright blindness. The only noises in the room were the busy scritch of quills on parchment and the occasional frustrated sigh and clunk as students shuffled their divining objects about on their desks.

James glanced around. Two desks to his right, Zane leaned over his parchment, writing furiously. The feather end of his quill shook wildly over his shoulder, as if he was systematically choking it by the nib. James sighed quietly and turned over the first octocard on his desk. He looked down at it.

James blinked at the card. For a moment, the face of the dancing, smiling woman on the card had looked familiar. It had looked, in fact, like Petra Morganstern. James frowned and leaned over the card. It no longer looked like Petra, and yet it still looked familiar. Now, it looked like the strange woman that he had seen in the midnight halls of the Aquapolis and later aboard the
Zephyr
shooting hexes out of the windows without any visible wand. Who was she?

James' hair suddenly prickled.
It was her,
he thought.
She was the other woman that came out of the Hall of Archives right after it was attacked! How could I have forgotten? But who is she?
He peered down at the card, concentrating furiously. The woman on the card didn't move, and yet she almost seemed to be smirking up at him. For the first time, James felt a deep sense of dismay about what he had seen that night. Was it possible that this woman and Petra had really done it? Was the woman somehow controlling Petra? Where had she come from, and what was the source of her power? Was it the same as the mysterious power that Petra herself seemed to demonstrate? In the warmth of the classroom, James shuddered.

Slowly, he turned over another card.

James' eyes widened as he stared down at this card. He'd never seen it before—would have sworn, in fact, that there was no such card in a deck of octocards. Worse, however, he thought he recognized the face on this card as well: it was his own. The figure on the card was skinny, dressed in a quaint black suit with tails and an orange tie. Rather unsettlingly, however, the head had two faces, one looking right and smiling, the other looking left and frowning uncertainly. As James watched, the faces seemed to change places, to shift without moving. It made his eyes water and he blinked. With a shiver, he turned over another card, covering the first two.

James had seen this one before, of course—the four-point golden star. He had drawn it once last year, in Professor Trelawney's class. Back then, it hadn't seemed particularly meaningful. Now the sight of it atop the other two cards made his stomach drop slowly, as if he were standing on a high ledge, swaying perilously. The points of the star were like paths, merging together, forming something new and unknowable. He had a strange premonition that he was one of the four points. The strange lady, with her enigmatic smile and sourceless magic, was another. But who were the other two?

Petra,
he thought.
Of course, she's one of them.

But that didn't feel exactly right. James leaned low over the star, squinting at it, concentrating. The star almost seemed to pulse, and a dull ringing came with it, blocking out the other faint noises in the room.

Petra isn't one of the other two points,
he now realized, and the sinking sensation in his stomach grew worse, chilling him.
Petra isn't one of them. She's both of them. Petra… and Morgan.

He frowned to himself. That didn't make any sense at all, did it? Petra and Morgan were the same person, like two parts of the same mind, like the Jekyll and Hyde character in Mr. Walker's book. The Morgan side was the part that was influenced by the cursed shred of soul that once belonged to Lord Voldemort. The other part was the Petra that they had always known: smart, honest, inquisitive, and quirky. The good Petra had subdued the Morgan part of her personality— once in the Chamber of Secrets, and again at Morganstern Farm, when she had almost (but not quite) sacrificed her own sister to the lake.

But what about Petra's mysterious dreams? What did it mean that Petra had been plagued by visions of her sister dying in that very lake? Was the Morgan side of Petra's mind growing more powerful? Was the balance of power tipping?
I watch and I wait,
the voice of Morgan had said, echoing from the dark tower in Petra's new dream of the strange, ocean-locked plateau.
My time is
very near. I am the Sorceress Queen. I am the Princess of Chaos…

James looked at the last octocard again, the Star; four points merging toward the center, like paths meeting, forging a new destiny.
The four of us are converging somehow,
he thought, and even though it seemed vaguely mad, he knew that it was true.
Petra and Morgan, the mysterious lady, and
me—all leading to something. But is it something good or bad? Is it something that should be stopped? Is
it a destiny? Or a choice?

James didn't know the answer to the first part of that question, but the second part was all too clear. Destiny, as Professor Jackson had once said, is merely the name we give to the sum total of all of our life's choices. Was James making the right choices? Were the octocards offering him confirmation of his recent decisions… or a warning?

"James," a voice said, startling him. He glanced up and saw Professor Thackery standing in front of him, his hand out. "The examination period is over, James. Your test, please."

James was shocked. How had the last twenty minutes gone by so quickly? He looked around and saw that the rest of the classroom was empty. Everyone else had finished and headed off to lunch.

"Uh, sure, Professor," James stammered, glancing guiltily down at his parchment. To his continued surprised, he saw that the last page was covered with his own handwriting. He had no recollection of writing anything at all. With no chance to read his own prediction, he handed the parchment to the professor.

"Very good," Thackery said, peering through his glasses at the parchment. "Very, er, thorough."

James nodded uncertainly. "Thanks, Professor."

Feeling shaky and a little spooked, he virtually fled the classroom, following his friends to lunch.

O
n the Friday before Christmas, James, Ralph, Albus, and Lucy made their way to the Warping Willow, duffle bags slung over their shoulders and breaths of mist puffing into the frigid air. The first snow of the season had fallen that morning, covering the campus with a blanket of sparkling white and effectively hiding all of the flagstone paths, so that the four left winding, crisscrossing trails of footprints across the mall.

Once they congregated under the Tree, Lucy spoke the incantation that James had first heard from the undead Professor Straidthwait's account of the night Ignatius Magnussen had escaped.

"
Abitus,"
she said, tapping the snow-crusted trunk with her wand. She turned to James as the Tree began to move subtly all around them. "Professor Remora taught me that."

James nodded, not explaining that he'd heard it himself from a different professor. Lucy sidled next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and her gloved hand laced fingers with his. James' face reddened a little and he looked away, watching as the campus became hidden behind the shifting whip-like branches of the Warping Willow.

The transition to the outside was swifter than that which occurred whenever Professor Baruti took his Potion-Making class to visit Madam Ayasha in the old Indian city of Shackamaxon. Within a few seconds, a push of wintry air shivered the Tree's branches and James saw the tiny walled courtyard beyond. Snow still frosted the ground, turning the trash-strewn yard into something nearly as magical as the university they had just left.

"Merry Christmas, friends," a deep grating voice said as the four stepped into the dull daylight. Flintlock stood near the gate, his rocky face sculpted into a crooked smile. His diamond eyes sparkled happily.

"Hey, Flintlock!" Albus cried, stepping to pat the rock troll on his huge rough elbow, which was as high as the boy could reach. "Aren't you cold? It feels like about fifty below out here!"

"Cold?" the troll repeated slowly. "I suppose the temperature has dropped a tiny bit, hasn't it? I'd barely noticed."

"Barely noticed!" Albus scoffed. "Last time we saw you, it was the end of summer. I could have fried a flobberworm on your forehead at noon."

The troll shrugged, making a sound like boulders rolling on gravel. "I have found that you humans are far more affected by tiny shifts in the weather than am I. You may not be aware that I was born in the crucible of the earth's furnace, where lakes of lava wash on beaches of pumice. I remember it only vaguely, but fondly. When the temperature reaches five thousand degrees,
then
I will comment on the weather, as do you."

Albus shook his head. "You won't be commenting on it to
me
, that's for sure."

The troll nodded and chuckled. With one languid movement, he reached for the gate. It squeaked noisily as he wrenched it open. A long brown car was waiting next to the curb beyond, a plume of exhaust dancing behind it. The passenger's window powered partly down and James spied his Uncle Percy in the driver's seat.

"Come on, you lot," he called. "Boot's open. Throw your bags back there and pile in. Hello Lucy dear! Happy Christmas, all of you!"

"Happy Christmas, Dad," Lucy called, finally unlacing her fingers from James' hand as she angled toward the boot of the car. James breathed a sigh of entirely mixed emotions.

It was very warm in the car as Uncle Percy navigated the narrow, slushy streets, muttering to himself in irritation at the slowness of the Muggle traffic and occasionally tapping the horn, making fussy little bleeps. James took off his stocking cap and stared out the windows, watching the city go by.

The drive took rather longer than James had expected, and James recognized vaguely that they were passing through the historical section of the city. He wished that Zane had come along with them for Christmas, if only so he could tell them about the buildings they were passing, his infectious enthusiasm brightening what was, otherwise, a fairly boring trek. As it was, the blonde boy had left school the day before, taking the train back to his parents' house in Kirkwood, Missouri. Before Zane had departed, however, James had finally decided to share with both he and Ralph some of the things that he had thus far kept a secret.

He'd begun by telling them about the strange prediction that had occurred during his Precognitive Engineering midterm, when he had envisioned the strange, impending convergence between the mysterious lady, himself, and the twin entities of Petra and Morgan, somehow separate even though they were both merely parts of the same person.