“Cool!” Zane grinned enthusiastically. “You got your wings and halo all picked out yet?”

“We have plenty of time for that,” Petra said, beaming down at her sister. “She’s just getting used to her wand, for now.”

“Her wand?” James blinked. “But… Izzy’s not… er.”

“How are things in Bigfoot House?” Petra asked, glancing aside at James and smiling.

264

“James is teaching magic to the Bigfoot Clutch team,” Ralph interjected proudly. “Looks like the Bigfoots might win a match for the first time in… I don’t know. Ever, maybe.” James meant to downplay this detail, but then he noticed the way Petra looked at him, obviously impressed.

“That’s excellent, James,” she said, nudging him. “I’ve noticed how Team Bigfoot’s been playing lately. Much more confident than when the season first started. Are you really responsible for that?”

James shrugged and looked away, his face reddening. “Well… you know. I… yeah. It’s nothing, really.”

“‘Nothing,’ he says,” Zane grinned. “James took that team from zero to hero in no time flat.”

“We haven’t even won a match yet,” James said, trying to suppress a smile of pride. “But we did have one tie game.”

“You watch,” Zane insisted, ignoring James’ protests. “My boy’s going places. Maybe even pro! There was a guy last year, a Werewolf named Stubb, who got drafted by the Hoboken Hobgoblins. I bet James is even better than he was!”

“Stop!” James exclaimed, his cheeks burning. “Look, it’s nothing, all right? I just taught them a few basic spells, that’s all. For some reason, Wood wasn’t coaching anything by way of a magic game. We’re just catching up to everyone else now.”

“He’s so humble, isn’t he?” Zane said mistily, nodding toward Petra. “Why, it breaks my heart. It really does.”

James rolled his eyes.

Fifteen minutes later, the five of them made their way toward the cafeteria doors, talking excitedly about the upcoming Halloween Ball, and James was gearing himself up for something. He felt wound so tight that he thought everyone else must see it, as if he was physically vibrating. There was a knot of people near the door, milling around some unseen curiosity, and James touched Petra’s elbow as they stopped to watch.

“Petra,” he said, trying not to blush, “I was wondering…”

She turned back to him and brushed her hair out of her face with her hand. “Yes?”

“Er,” he began, furious at himself for how awkward he sounded. He took a deep breath.

“You know the costume ball that’s coming up?”

She smiled at him wryly. “The one we were talking about just now? Sure. What about it?” James ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Well, I know you’re not really a student, like, but we’ve known each other for some time now, and… I thought maybe we could—” The crowd near the doorway parted at that moment and somebody backed into Petra, bumping her.

265

“Make room, everyone,” a voice announced. It was Professor Cloverhoof, his hands raised in the air.

James took another step toward Petra, trying to catch her attention again. “Anyway, I was just thinking, maybe you and me could—”

“Stand aside, Mr. Potter,” Cloverhoof said, touching James on the shoulder. James glanced up, annoyed, and then sidled up next to Petra once more.

“Go on, James,” Petra said, smiling slightly, her eyes twinkling. “I’m listening.” James smiled back at her, feeling harried but encouraged. He opened his mouth to speak, but another voice cut him off, piercing the air like fingernails on a chalkboard.

“You!” the voice cried, so high and shocked that it silenced the entire room at once. James startled and spun toward the owner of the screeching voice. A thin old man with very white skin and balding black hair stood in the center of the cafeteria doorway, supported between two witches in pale green robes. James recognized him vaguely, but couldn’t remember where he might have seen him before.

“Yooouu!” the man screeched again, drawing the word out like a howl, his voice ebbing away as his breath ran out. James felt a thrill of panic as the man raised a trembling hand, the index finger extended. He was pointing at Petra.

“Mr. Henredon,” one of the green-robed witches said, firming her grip on the man’s arm.

“Try not to get too excited. You’re still very weak. You’ve only been thawed enough to walk for a few hours.”

“It

was

her!” Henredon shrieked, tottering on his legs. “She was the one!” James took Petra’s hand, tried to pull her away, but she was rooted in place, her eyes frowning, narrowing.

“I dreamed of you,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. Every eye in the crowded room had turned to stare at her.

“You’re confused, Mr. Henredon,” the second green-robed witch soothed, obviously shaken.

“You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. Perhaps we should get you back to the medical center.”

“SHE…

FROZE ME!” Henredon shouted, his voice cracking, his eyes bulging in his pale face. “It was her in the Vault of Destinies! Her and some other horrible woman, but she’s the one that did it! Her!” He crumpled then, and the green-robed nurses struggled to hold him up. Others rushed forward to assist as pandemonium broke out. Voices babbled as students backed away from Petra and James, forming a widening circle of staring, frightened faces.

“She froze me,” Henredon continued, weeping, his voice growing lost in the increasing rabble. “She came out of the Vault, smiling like a demon… and she froze me…” 266

Within an hour, Harry Potter had arrived on campus and a gathering had assembled in a faculty lounge on the main floor of Administration Hall. In attendance were Harry, Chancellor Franklyn, Professor Cloverhoof, Petra, James, and a man James had never seen before who had arrived on campus only minutes before Harry Potter. The stranger wore all black robes, gloves, and a black hat with a very wide, flat brim. He had a pleasant face, although James thought there was something vaguely unsettling about it. As the man sat down on the bench near the dark window, James noticed that he seemed to be almost completely hairless. His face was as pink and smooth as a baby’s, with his hat pressed down onto his bare scalp so firmly that it rested on his ears. He smiled at James as he smoothed out his robes, and James glanced away.

“It goes without saying,” Chancellor Franklyn began, still standing and stoking the fire with a long poker, “that this is a very serious and rather shocking accusation.” James glanced at his father, but Harry Potter’s face was as inscrutable as the poker in Franklyn’s hand. The man in the wide-brimmed hat, James noticed, was looking at Harry as well, smiling a small pleasant smile. Franklyn slotted the poker into its stand and turned around.

“Mr. Henredon is one of our oldest and most reliable trustees. His service to the school has been entirely spotless. Thus, his allegation cannot be downplayed. If the confrontation that just took place had not occurred in front of much of the entire school, this would be somewhat simpler to address. As it is, direct and decisive action must be taken.”

“But it couldn’t have been me that froze the poor man,” Petra said. “I wasn’t anywhere near the Archive when the attack took place. I was asleep in my rooms!”

“You were on campus,” the man in the flat-brimmed hat clarified evenly, “which places you in the vicinity of the crime, regardless of your specific location. And being asleep is not what one would tend to call an airtight alibi.”

“Excuse me,” Harry interjected, turning to the stranger. “I didn’t get your name, sir.”

“I haven’t given it,” the man replied, still smiling pleasantly. “I assumed that that was the Chancellor’s honor. I’d hate to overstep my bounds.”

“Pardon me,” Franklyn said with a note of impatience in his voice. “Mr. Potter, this is the honorable Albert Keynes, General Arbiter for the Wizarding Court of the United States. Mr.

Keynes, Harry Potter is a representative of the European Ministry of Magic, visiting us in pursuit of his duties as that entity’s head Auror.”

267

“A pleasure,” Keynes nodded smugly, obscuring his face for a moment behind the black brim of his hat.

“I’m impressed that you were able to be here on such short notice,” Harry replied, unsmiling.

“General Arbiter sounds like a rather demanding and important post.” The man laughed lightly. “The title sounds more grand than it is, I’m afraid. There are, in fact, many of us, stationed all around the country, performing our given duties to the best of our ability. My station covers only Pennsylvania, but I admit that the metropolitan Pittsburgh and Philadelphia areas do take up most of my time. I was in the vicinity when I received the message from Chancellor Franklyn.”

Harry asked, “You represent the American Wizarding Court then?” Before the man could answer, however, Chancellor Franklyn spoke up.

“We have a rather more hands-on approach to legal matters in the American magical world, Mr. Potter. A holdover from a time when magical individuals were scattered finely all across the country, making it necessary for the law to go to them, rather than the other way around. Mr.

Keynes, in effect, is the American Wizarding Court.”

“Judge, jury, and executioner,” Professor Cloverhoof quipped darkly, buffing his nails on his lapel.

Keynes nodded. “Crude, but accurate enough, Professor,” he said, and then turned to Harry.

“I am an arbiter, Mr. Potter. My job is to make impartial judgments based on examination of the evidence and interviews of everyone involved in any given case. This is why I have requested that your son join us. I understand that he has observed much of what has taken place in connection with the attack on the Hall of Archives. You need not fear for his involvement. I am trained to be utterly fair and objective.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Harry replied. “Can we expect a quick end to this matter, then?” Keynes clucked his tongue. “The role of the arbiter is simple, Mr. Potter, but we are trained to be exceedingly thorough. This is a particularly difficult case, as it is a matter of Ms. Morganstern’s word against that of Mr. Henredon’s. Judgments in such cases have been known to take months or even years to reach.”

“But this is just stupid!” James interjected, his face reddening. “Petra was with Izzy when the Archive was attacked! That proves it wasn’t really her that froze Mr. Henredon.”

“Proof is a ticklish concept, my boy,” Keynes said, shaking his head sorrowfully. “The young lady in question is the defendant’s sister, rendering her testimony suspect, at the very least. Further complicating matters, I am given to understand that this is not your first encounter with the law, is it, Ms. Morganstern?”

Petra’s expression cooled slightly as she looked at the man in the black hat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It might have slipped your memory,” Keynes admitted with a nod. “It was the Muggle police, after all. I understand that such mundane authorities might not command the respect of 268

someone like yourself. As I mentioned, however; we arbiters are very thorough. On the way here, I perused the police report regarding what took place on the occasion of your last day at your grandfather’s farm. Granted, I had to read between the lines a bit, but there is no question that the events of that morning resulted in at least one death, and quite possibly two, although the second, I admit, is pure conjecture on my part. Do you remember now, Ms. Morganstern?” Petra stared at the man, her lips pressed into a thin line. After a moment, she nodded once, curtly.

“This is the first I have heard of these things,” Franklyn said, peering at Petra and then Harry.

“Might I inquire as to why a known criminal was allowed to be offered a position at this school?” Harry didn’t remove his gaze from the man in the black hat. “Petra is not a known criminal,” he answered evenly. “The Auror Department conducted an investigation into the events at Morganstern Farm, and there was no indication of foul play. Warren Morganstern took his own life, as even the Muggle police report must show. His wife, Phyllis Morganstern, formerly Blanchefleur, has indeed gone missing, but since she was wanted for questioning regarding the deaths of both her first and second husbands, this is no great surprise.”

Keynes smoothed his robes again as he said, “Your own investigation notwithstanding, Mr.

Potter, these factors must be considered when rendering judgment on this most delicate issue. I will be calling upon many resources and interviewing any number of individuals, both as witnesses and as character references. I may even need to call upon Mr. Morganstern’s widow, if, as you say, she is still among us. It may be months before I reach my verdict.”

James didn’t like Keynes one bit and felt quite confident that regardless of how long the verdict took to reach, the man would find Petra guilty in the end. “What will happen to Petra if you decide she’s done what Mr. Henredon says?”

Keynes leaned back and laced his fingers over his chest. “The law is very clear in such cases, unfortunately,” he said with undisguised relish. “Attempted murder can mean anywhere from twenty years to life in prison. Add to that the use of dark magic, the attack on the Vault of Destinies, and the thievery of a priceless relic in the form of the missing crimson thread—and yes, I do know of these things; as a member of the American Wizarding Court, not much escapes my notice—then it seems inevitable that Ms. Morganstern will spend the rest of her days in Fort Bedlam maximum security wizarding prison. Her sister, Izabella, will become a ward of the state. As a Muggle, it will be up to the Magical Integration Bureau to find her a new home in the non-magical community.

She is underage, fortunately, which means that the authorities at the Crystal Mountain will likely move to have her memory Obliviated. This would probably be best for all involved.”

“What kind of awful person are you?” James exclaimed angrily. “You act like there’s nothing you’d rather see!”

“James!” Harry Potter said sternly, placing a hand firmly onto his son’s shoulder.

Keynes smiled again at James and tilted his head sadly. “It is true, young man. There is nothing I prefer to see more than for justice to be done. It is a mistaken kindness to coddle the guilty. Someday I hope you will come to see the truth of that. Although I have my doubts.” 269

He glanced at Harry and sighed. James saw that Keynes’ upper lip was sweating lightly.

Petra spoke then, her voice strangely calm. “What will become of me and Izzy during your investigation?”

Keynes brightened a bit. “It is customary for the defendant to be handed over to the arbiter in charge of his or her case until such time as a judgment can be carried out. Therefore, from now until I reach my verdict, you shall be in my custody. Your sister, however, will be sent to the wizarding orphanage in Pittsburgh.”

“My sister,” Petra said coolly, “will be staying with me.”

“I’m afraid you are in no position to make such requests,” Keynes said, his smile widening.

“It is a Muggle American tradition to deem the defendant innocent until proven guilty. It is a quaint notion that has no place in the Wizarding Court. Until such time as I may find you innocent, you are a suspect in a capital crime, thus you are considered a potential danger and a flight risk. You will be happy to comply with the rule of the law.”

Franklyn cleared his throat. “Let’s not be too hasty,” he began, but Petra cut him off, her eyes still locked on Keynes’.

“Wherever I go, Izzy goes,” she said. “It’s not a request.” Her voice sounded so calm that it was almost surreal, and yet James sensed a sudden chill in the room, making him shiver. Waves of cold seemed to be coming from Petra herself, where she sat next to him.

“Such obstinacy will not do you well as I pursue your case, Ms. Morganstern,” Keynes said, his smile growing equally icy. “You may wish to alter your tone, lest I decide you are even more of a risk than I had heretofore envisioned.”

“I doubt that would be a mistake,” Petra said. James was almost certain that he saw her breath come out in puffs of fog as she spoke.

The tension in the air seemed to spike and James felt a sudden, inexplicable fear that something terrible was about to happen. Images flickered behind his eyes: a black castle, huge and dead, perched on the edge of a cliff; watching eyes hidden in shadow; a white hand holding a singularly ugly dagger with blood dripping from the blade. These were visions from Petra’s dreams.

They came to him now, flashing like lightning, cold as icicles. Somehow, she was broadcasting them to him, apparently unintentionally, on that invisible silver cord that still connected him to her. It was as if she was cycling up, like some kind of magical generator. He felt it, and it was awful, terrifying. What was she? How could she be so mysteriously powerful? James looked across the room, toward Albert Keynes, and suddenly he wanted to yell at the man to shut up, to stop antagonizing Petra. Not only because James loved her, but because he was afraid of her.

But then, surprisingly, James’ father spoke.

“I completely understand your predicament, Mr. Keynes,” he said, and his tone of voice seemed to sap the tension from the room. “After all, I am a man of the law myself. I am responsible for Ms. Morganstern’s presence here. How would it be if I took responsibility for her, and her sister Izabella, during the course of your investigation?”

270

James turned to look at his dad, wide-eyed, as did Petra.

“It’s a kind offer, Mr. Potter,” Keynes said stiffly, sitting up straight in his seat. “But one I am duty-bound to refuse. The law, as I have mentioned, is quite clear.”

“And

as

I have said, Mr. Keynes,” Harry said a bit more loudly, “I am also a man of the law.

And I’d like to remind you that international magical law provides allowance for foreign detainees to be given over to the custody of representative of their own nation during the course of any necessary legal proceedings.”

Keynes looked hard at Harry, his eyes narrowed. The sweat on his upper lip glistened. James noticed that his father’s expression, however, was perfectly neutral, as calm as a river stone.

“Are you quite certain, Mr. Potter,” Keynes said softly, “that this is the course of action you truly wish to take?”

“I see no other option,” Harry replied, “for a man of the law.”

Keynes smiled again, slowly. “So be it, then. As a representative of the American Wizarding Court, I release Petra and Izabella Morganstern into your custody. Do know, however, that this means that both the wizarding legal authority and the Magical Integration Bureau will be watching you very closely. There will be sentinels posted near your home around the clock.”

“Then they can join the ones that are already there,” Harry replied with a sigh. “My wife has been known to invite them in for tea, although they have not yet taken her up on the offer.”

“Mr. Potter,” Petra whispered, leaning close to him. “You don’t have to—”

“Is there any other business to attend to, then?” Harry interrupted, looking briskly from face to face. “No? Then I suggest that I escort Ms. Morganstern and her sister to their flat where they can gather whatever things they need.”

The meeting broke up and there was a scuffling of feet and a creak as the door was swung open. Professor Cloverhoof stood near the entry, allowing the others to leave before him. His face was inscrutable as he looked down at James and winked. James followed his father out into the main hallway that ran straight through the center of Administration Hall. Petra rejoined her sister, who was waiting near the lobby stairs with Zane and Ralph. When James and his father reached the main entry, Albert Keynes sidled close to Harry, his demeanor friendly, if a bit condescending.

“I am aware, Mr. Potter,” he said in a low voice, “that you provided sanctuary to Ms.

Morganstern and her sister once before. It was, in fact, immediately after the unfortunate events of their last day on Morganstern Farm. Could it be that you know a bit more about those events than you are letting on?”

“I assure you, Mr. Keynes,” Harry replied, “you know as much as I do about these things, and perhaps more. Your information seems to know no bounds whatsoever.” Keynes laughed, as if Harry and he were old friends. “Alas, if only that were the case. I only ask, though, because I will find out. If there are any secrets you might wish to divulge now, it could save us both some trouble later on. I fear that things could get a bit less… civil.” 271

Harry paused for a long moment, and James looked up at him, watching. For a moment, James thought that his father would tell Keynes what he knew—that Petra had, in fact, been seen coming from the Hall of Archives on the night it was attacked, and maybe even that Merlinus Ambrosius harbored worries about Petra’s mental state, and even her overall goodness. Finally, however, Harry merely shook his head.

“Feel free to interview me and my family, Mr. Keynes,” Harry said, glancing down at James.

“We are in the habit of telling the truth. Sometimes, however, you have to ask the right questions.” Keynes nodded, as if this was exactly the sort of answer he had expected. “Very good. I will begin my investigation this very night, and if it becomes necessary, I will indeed take you up on your offer. For now, I bid you good night. And, er, good luck. I suspect you will need it.” With that, Keynes pushed open one of the heavy front doors and vanished into the darkness beyond, humming happily to himself.

“Odious man,” Franklyn said with a sigh. “But such individuals are, arguably, the grease that oils the axle of civilization.”

Professor Cloverhoof nodded. “And in much the same way, one feels the need to scrub one’s hands after coming into contact with them.”

Murmuring agreement, the group made their way out into the chilly darkness.

Walking between James and his father, Petra asked, “Are you sure you really want to do this, Mr. Potter? It’ll only make things harder for you and your family. I can handle myself, if I need to.”

“It’s nothing,” Harry replied briskly, but then glanced down at her as they moved across the windy campus. In a lower voice, he said. “But pardon me for asking this, Petra, and know that I will only do so once: did you do what Mr. Henredon alleges? Were you involved, for some reason, in the attack on the Vault? Because Mr. Keynes, disagreeable as he is, is quite correct. The truth will be known. It is better to speak now than to be found out later. Are you guilty?” Petra looked at Harry, and then at James. “I’m not. I swear it. I know a lot of weird stuff has happened around me, but I’m as baffled by it as everyone else. I want to know the truth just as much as Mr. Keynes does. Please believe me.”

James spoke up. “I believe you, Petra,” he said, meeting her eyes. She smiled aside at him, a little sadly.

Harry Potter, however, didn’t say anything at all.

272

14. the Magnussen Riddles

“I thought you told me,” Zane said the next day, “that if there was any connection between this old Professor Magnussen story and the attack on the Vault, your dad and Merlin and everybody else were already all over it.”

James shook his head. “Come on,” he urged. “It’s already ten ’til two. Franklyn’s office hours are nearly over.”

“Yeah,” Ralph said, warming to the subject. “What ever happened to all that stuff about us just being a bunch of school students with too much to do to get all wrapped up in any big adventures?”

James grabbed Ralph’s sleeve and pulled the bigger boy around the corner into a high corridor lined with partially open doors. “That was then, this is now, all right? Dad’s got his hands full with his own problems, especially now that he’s got Petra and Izzy staying with them while that Keynes idiot does his investigating. We’re not taking over for him, we’re just helping. If there is anything to this whole thing about Professor Magnussen and the Nexus Curtain, we’ll send it his way.”

“I see how it is,” Zane said with a smile. “Now that Petra Morganstern’s fate is in the balance, you’re willing to break the old Prime Directive, eh?”

“I don’t even know what that means,” James sighed impatiently. “Hurry. Franklyn’s office door is still open.”

273

All three boys piled to a stop just outside of the tall wooden door and peered inside. The office was surprisingly small, dominated by a very large oak desk, a set of visitor’s chairs, and a bookshelf crammed with enormous books and the occasional clockwork gizmo. Franklyn sat at the desk facing the door, a large volume in his hands. He glanced up as the three students clambered to a halt.

“Boys,” he said welcomingly. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi Chancellor,” James said, entering the small room and looking around. “Er, this is your office?”

“One of them at least,” Franklyn smiled. “This is the one that serves me for meeting with students and faculty. Why do you ask?”

James shrugged as he moved to stand behind one of the visitor’s chairs. “No reason. I just expected something a bit… bigger.”

“We thought we’d get to see your Daylight Savings Device again,” Ralph added.

“Ah, yes, that,” Franklyn answered, closing his book with a thump. “I keep that in my personal study. It is far too large and complex to leave in the faculty offices. After all, we are still victim to the occasional school prank, although such things are somewhat rarer nowadays, thanks to Madam Laosa.”

“You

mean

Crone Laosa?” Zane asked, his eyes widening. “So she’s really for real? Some of the Zombies were saying that she was just made up to scare us all out of exploring the basements.”

“How may I help you boys?” Franklyn asked, smiling a little crookedly, obviously avoiding Zane’s question.

“Er,” James began, clutching the back of the chair in front of him, “we just have a quick question. It’s about the history of the school. We thought you’d be the best person to ask.” Franklyn nodded approvingly. “Always a pleasure to see students taking an interest in the university. And I do suppose I am uniquely qualified to discuss its history since I have been alive throughout much of it. What’s your question?”

James glanced back at Ralph and Zane, suddenly reluctant. “It’s… er… about one of the professors.”

“From a long time ago,” Ralph added.

Franklyn’s chair creaked as he leaned back in it. “We’ve had a rather impressive list of teachers throughout the years, continuing even to the present. Mr. Bunyan, the giant, is one of our most recent additions, and believe me, it was no small task to convince him to take the post. Prefers the wide open spaces, he does, along with his great blue ox, Babe.”

“It’s about Professor Magnussen,” Zane blurted, stepping forward.

Franklyn’s expression froze on his face. He paused, staring at all three boys.

274

“Do you remember him?” James prodded tentatively. “We looked him up in the library, but there was almost nothing. His full name was Ignatius Karloff Magnussen, and he was Head of Igor House like a hundred and fifty years ago or something.”

Franklyn continued to study the boys, his eyes suddenly cautious. He leaned forward slowly again, producing another long creak from his chair.

Ralph said, “There are legends about this Magnussen bloke. They say that he opened up something called the Nexus—”

“Boys,” Franklyn interrupted, “I am afraid that Professor Magnussen is a name from a period of time that this school would prefer to forget. It would behoove you not to inquire about him any further.”

“Well,” Zane replied slowly, glancing aside at his friends, “as much as I’d like to agree to that, I suspect that we’re just about ten times more curious now.”

Franklyn sighed hugely. “I suppose you learned of this in Professor Jackson’s Technomancy class, yes?” He nodded to himself, not awaiting an answer. “The professor and I have had words on the subject. We have rather differing views regarding the merits of security versus disclosure.

Perhaps I simply wish to make my job as Chancellor a bit easier. Surely the good professor would agree.”

James risked pressing the matter a bit further. “What can you tell us, Chancellor? Is it true that Magnussen opened the Nexus Curtain and made his way into the World Between the Worlds?” Franklyn stood up and straightened his waistcoat. He turned toward the window and leaned to peer out over the campus.

“He used to live in the most prominent faculty home of Alma Aleron, the one that originally belonged to John Roberts, one of the school’s founders. He was a brilliant man, Magnussen, and yes, I knew him. He was, in fact, that most rare of men: he was a scientist, and he was a lover of stories. His calculating mind was equal to the best technomancers who’ve ever lived, but his love of the tale allowed him to think in creative, ingenious ways that none of his colleagues could ever dream. The characteristics that made him great, however, also led him to… obsessions. It was these, unfortunately, that drove him to commit acts that were both heinous and ultimately senseless.” Franklyn paused, apparently determining how much he should say. Finally, he went on, still peering out the window. “It was a time of great interest in magical exploration and experimentation.

Schools such as Alma Aleron allowed a virtually unlimited amount of autonomy and resources to their teachers, all in the name of progress. Too late did we learn that sometimes progress means decay. Professor Ignatius Magnussen was allowed to conduct his experiments and pursue his goals, even though the costs were far higher than we knew at the time, and the dangers were… well, incalculable. By the time he was found out, it was too late to stop him. In the end, he fell victim to his own designs, and that, unfortunately, is the end of his story.”

“What did he do, sir?” James persisted.

275

Franklyn was thoughtful. After a moment, he glanced back at the boys, his eyes narrowed.

“Why, pray tell, are you three so interested in this?”

“Er…” James began, but Zane overrode him.

“We’re just curious, sir. It’s in our natures. You know how we young people are.” Franklyn studied Zane for a long moment. “Indeed I do. Curiosity is a good thing, my young friends. It is the fuel for the engine of invention. But like any fuel, it can be dangerous. It can burn you, if you are not careful with it.”

James asked, “Is that what happened to Professor Magnussen?”

Franklyn’s face remained calm as he shifted his gaze to James. After a long moment, he said,

“Magnussen lived in the home that once belonged to one of this school’s three founders, as I said. It is the home that now stands in ruins at the opposite end of the mall.” He nodded toward the window. “Professor Magnussen is the reason that that building was reduced to rubble. His laboratory was there and it was the scene of terrible things. When these things became known, a riot erupted on the campus. Hundreds rushed to the mansion, intent on dragging Magnussen out and bringing him to justice. Of course, an arbiter had already been assigned to Magnussen—justice had already been set into motion—but because of Magnussen’s status, he was granted the privilege of maintaining his post and his home during the investigation. This infuriated the population of the school, including, I regret to say, much of the faculty. During the fracas that followed, Magnussen escaped from the mansion. In the aftermath, the mansion was burned nearly to the ground. To this day, no one knows if the fire was an accident or deliberate. Some say that Magnussen himself set it, meaning to distract everyone from his escape. Either way, it not only destroyed the mansion, it wiped out all the evidence of what Magnussen had done. And, frankly, perhaps that was for the best.”

Zane was impressed. “So what happened to him after that? Did he live out the rest of his days on some South American island somewhere?”

“Ignatius Magnussen was never seen or heard from again,” Franklyn answered brusquely, seating himself once more at his desk. “The most likely explanation is that he escaped via the rift that he created into some reality that none of us can even imagine.”

“So

he

did succeed in opening the Nexus Curtain!” Ralph exclaimed.

Franklyn pinned Ralph with a steely gaze. “He succeeded in opening something, Mr. Deedle.

Unfortunately, we had virtually no time to question him before his escape and the fire ruined what clues we might have gained in his absence. Therefore, no one knows for sure what he did or where he might have gone. All we know is that his ‘success’ came at great cost and ruined many lives. I suggest you leave it at that.”

James wanted to ask more, but Franklyn’s expression made it clear that he was done discussing the topic. The three boys thanked the Chancellor and excused themselves as quickly as possible.

“Well,” Ralph said once they had exited Administration Hall, “that was pretty much a bust.” 276

James pulled his cloak around him as the wind picked up. “At least we found out that Magnussen really did open up the Nexus Curtain,” he replied. “That means that there might be something to Zane’s theory. Maybe whoever really did steal the crimson thread used it to open the Curtain again, and is still hiding out there, in the World Between the Worlds. If we can figure out how Magnussen got through, then maybe we can do it as well.”

Zane feigned surprise as he said, “I thought we were just going to turn this all over to the great Harry Potter and his squad of Auror superdudes?”

“Shut up, already, why don’t you?” James grumbled crossly. “Dad’s got enough on his hands.

There’s no harm in us following a few leads, is there? It’ll save him some time. Besides, we’re already right here on campus. We can do all the footwork more easily than he can. I just wish Franklyn hadn’t been so tight-lipped about everything. He gave us almost nothing to go on.” Zane sighed expansively and stopped walking. A moment later, Ralph and James stopped as well and turned to look back at him.

“Maybe,” the blonde boy said with a crooked smile, “we can try it my way now?” James was quite curious as to what Zane’s way actually was, but as it turned out, the next few days were too busy for the boys to attempt anything at all.

On Friday evening, James joined Zane, Albus, Lucy, and Ralph at Pepperpock Down for the Vampires versus Werewolves Clutchcudgel match. Albus rooted ardently for his own team while Lucy led spirited cheers and waved a red and black banner in her gloved hands. James, Ralph, and Zane, however, liking neither team, cheered only when there were penalties or injuries, earning quite a few disapproving looks from those in the grandstands around them. In the end, Werewolf House defeated the Vampires by a score of eighty-eight to sixty-five, leaving Lucy in a grumpy mood that lasted well into her second licorice soda at the Kite and Key.

James spent most of Saturday afternoon in the attic of Hermes House, accompanied by Zane, in search of a costume for that evening’s Halloween Ball. Together, they settled on a mummy costume comprised mostly of shreds of old sheets, which had, for some forgotten reason, been tie-dyed into rainbow colours.

277

“We’ll call you the Saturday Night Fever,” Zane proclaimed happily, examining James in his costume. “The Disco Mummy! You’ll be a total hit. Frankly, I’m a little jealous.” Having failed disastrously in his attempt to make Petra his date to the Ball, James sought out and asked Lucy to go with him, figuring that they could have more fun together than apart. She agreed instantly and with rather more enthusiasm than James had expected. When he arrived at Erebus Mansion that evening to escort her to the ball, she came down the main staircase dressed as a vampire princess, resplendent in a rather striking black dress, boots, and a vial of blood worn on a black ribbon around her neck.

“It’s not real blood,” she smiled sheepishly, showing her canine teeth, which had been hexed into long points for the evening. “It’s just poisonberry juice, so I really can drink it if I want to. I borrowed the boots from Professor Remora. Can you believe her feet are nearly as small as mine?” James told her that he couldn’t and that he frankly preferred to think of Professor Remora’s feet as absolutely little as possible. Along the way to Administration Hall, they met Ralph, who was dressed as a ghost with a rather sadly moth-eaten sheet over his head. Together, the three made their way down to the cafeteria for drinks and then up to the main ballroom, where the band, Rig Mortis and the Stifftones, was already well into their first set.

It turned out to be a delightfully raucous evening. The music was very loud and after a few failed attempts, Lucy finally coaxed James into joining her on the dance floor. Zane was already there, gyrating and bouncing wildly, dressed, of course, as a zombie. He’d painted his face green, added some stitches with black magic marker, and donned a moldy, ill-fitting, powder blue tuxedo.

Across from him, Cheshire Chatterly looked rather fetching as his zombie prom date, complete with a blood-stained pink taffeta dress and every inch of exposed skin charmed a deathly, blotchy blue.

“Some party, eh?” Zane called as he shimmied past.

“It is!” James called back, grinning. In front of him, Lucy danced happily, looking surprisingly beautiful with her hair done up in a complicated beehive. He told her as much as the lights flashed and twirled all around. Even in the flickering dimness, he saw the blush rise to her pale cheeks and she smiled at him, obviously pleased.

It wasn’t until the following Wednesday afternoon that Zane finally gathered James and Ralph and told them to get ready for a little ‘fact-finding mission’ once classes were over for the day.

By five o’clock, all three boys met at Apollo Mansion for a quick dinner.

The meal was prepared by the house steward, a bald, hunched, painfully thin wizard whose demeanor usually hovered somewhere between veiled crankiness and outright hostility. Known only as Yeats, the steward had apparently been a fixture in Apollo Mansion for nearly seventy years and didn’t seem to have any intention of retiring, ever. He was so old that he appeared to be in need of a good dusting, but he moved with a sort of grim economy that implied that if ever the need arose, he could probably tackle any single member of Bigfoot House with one of his large knuckly hands while flipping crepes with the other.

278

“I hope this is to the young sir’s liking,” he said through gritted teeth as he pushed their plates in front of them. “Cheeseburgers and homemade potato chips. The cornerstone of any nutritious dinner.”

“Thanks, Yeats,” Ralph said, digging in.

“What is it about that guy?” Zane asked quietly as Yeats retreated slowly to the stove. “Every time we ask him for something, I get the impression that he’s barely restraining himself from hexing us into salt and pepper shakers.”

James shrugged and munched a potato chip. They were still hot and sprinkled with some kind of crumbly blue cheese. “Yeats is all right,” he said. “Reminds me of home. He’s like a grownup human version of Kreacher.”

“He is!” Ralph nodded, his mouth full. “I knew he seemed familiar. You’re right. He does remind me of good old number twelve Grimmauld Place.”

Twenty minutes later, the three boys made their way out into the darkening evening, Zane in the lead. James noticed that they were heading toward the Hall of Archives.

“Just doing a little research, fellas,” Zane said to the Werewolf students who were still serving as guards around the Archive steps. “Or do we need a permission slip signed in triplicate from the Chancellor himself?”

“Just make it quick, Walker,” one of the Werewolf boys sneered. “The Hall gets locked up at eight on the dot, whether you’re out of there or not.”

“Hey,” Zane grinned as he trotted up the steps toward the huge doors, “that rhymed! You’ve been practicing that one, haven’t you? You Werewolves are so stinkin’ clever.”

“Smile while you can, Walker,” another of the boys called. “We’ll see if you’re still grinning this Friday night after your team meets ours on the Clutch course.”

“Well, that didn’t rhyme at all,” Zane admonished. “Back to the doghouse with you.” The Werewolf boys bristled, but they were apparently too committed to their guard duties to abandon their posts. James and Ralph sidled up the steps behind Zane, avoiding eye contact with the older boys on either side.

“So what are we going to do here?” James asked as they entered the round, darkened room of the Disrecorder. “Even if there are any relics from Magnussen’s time, they’d be in the restricted section of the Archive. We can’t get in there, no matter how many Werewolves you insult.”

“Au contraire,” Zane announced, producing a slim golden key from his pocket. James recognized it.

“That’s an Archive skeleton key,” he said, impressed. “Just like the one Franklyn used when we went down to the Vault of Destinies. How’d you get that?”

279

Zane shrugged. “I’ve been planning things out for some time now. I figured that you’d eventually warm up to having a little extracurricular adventure. What do you think I agreed to go with Cheshire Chatterly to the costume ball for?”

Ralph suggested, “Because she looks excellent in a pink taffeta dress?”

“Well, yes, there is that,” Zane answered thoughtfully, “but that’s not all there is to it. She’s on the maintenance crew that works here in the Archive, and she’s always been on Henredon’s good side.”

“I can see why,” Ralph nodded.

James shook his head wonderingly. “You nicked the key from her?”

“No!” Zane exclaimed, offended. “I just asked her for it. What kind of cad do you think I am?”

“Sorry,” James replied, blinking.

“I told her I needed to look up some famous old dancer so I could practice my steps for the ball. She about split in two. Gave me the key that very second.” Ralph whistled, impressed. “You danced with a girl just to get your hands on that key?”

“Anything for the cause,” Zane sighed. “Come on.”

Using the key, the boys opened the door to the inner archive. After some nervous slinking around, they finally found a gated section locked off with a large chain and padlock. A quick wave of the skeleton key and a tap of Zane’s wand opened the padlock, however, and the three crept slowly into the dark chamber beyond.

“It’s so dark and dusty,” Ralph commented, keeping his voice unconsciously hushed. “How are we going to find what we’re looking for in all this?”

“Cheshire told me how they catalog things in here,” Zane answered, holding his lit wand overhead. “Date first, and then the name of the event or person. Look at the top of the aisles.

Magnussen taught between eighteen thirty and eighteen fifty-nine.”

“Over here,” James called, peering up at the shelves. The other two joined him and began skulking along the shelves, examining the myriad odd objects and blowing dust off their yellowed note cards.

A shuffling sound surprised the boys. They froze in place, eyes wide, staring at each other.

“Was that one of you?” James whispered.

Ralph gulped. “It wasn’t me. It came from the aisle behind us.”

“It was probably nothing,” Zane whispered, glancing around. Almost immediately, a faint thump sounded nearby. All three boys jumped. Slowly, James turned toward the sound, lifting his wand. He was barely breathing. As one, the three boys leaned around the end of the aisle, peering into the darkness beyond.

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Something pushed out of the shelf immediately next to James’ face, mashing up against his cheek and making a noise like a tiny motorboat. He cried out and leapt into the air, dropping his wand and scrabbling at his cheek.

“Patches!” Zane rasped, his eyes bulging.

James spun around, heart pounding, and looked. Patches the cat stood on the shelf, purring noisily, his bullet head bobbing. There were cobwebs caught in his whiskers.

“Patches, you rascal!” Zane declared, reaching to scratch the cat between the ears. “What are you doing down here? You about gave James a heart attack!” He laughed nervously.

“Seems

to

me

you were pretty wigged out too,” James grumped, reaching to pick up his dropped wand. “You try getting some great furry head and wet nose pushed into your face out of the dark and see how you feel about it.”

“What’s he doing down here?” Ralph asked, stepping forward to pet the cat himself. “I thought he always hung out around Administration Hall.”

Zane nodded. “He does. I’ve never seen him anywhere else.”

“Is it just me,” Ralph said, glancing sheepishly between Zane and James, “or does this feel like kind of a bad jinx? Maybe we should call the whole thing off, eh?” James expected Zane to scoff at the suggestion, but when he turned to the blonde boy, he saw him studying the cat critically.

“What’s up, Patches?” he asked the cat where it still stood purring on the shelf. “You here to grant us your blessing? Or are you going to rat us out to the big wigs back at Administration Hall?” The cat stopped purring almost immediately. He hunkered low and peered over the ledge of the shelf. A moment later, he thumped lightly to the floor and began to stalk off along the aisle, his tail sticking up.

“Well,” Zane blinked, “pardon me for living.”

Ralph said, “Maybe he was offended by the word ‘rat’.”

“Come on,” James suggested, turning back to the shelves. “Forget him. He’s just a cat. If you remember, he thought we were supposed to be in Igor House.”

Zane glanced at James. “Have you wondered if maybe he was right?” James met his friend’s gaze and frowned. “What do you mean? Bigfoot House fits us just fine. What’s some old cat know that we don’t?”

“I’m just saying,” Zane replied. “There’s a reason he’s here. Maybe it’s worth thinking about.”

James felt impatient. He stopped and stared up at the dark ceiling for a moment. “There,” he said, glancing back at Zane and Ralph. “I’ve thought about it. Can we get on with it now? This place creeps me out.”

281

Zane shrugged. Dismissing the cat, the three returned to their search of the shelves. A few minutes later, Zane called out. James and Ralph trotted down the aisle to join him.

“It’s…,” Ralph began, and then swallowed thickly. “It’s… a skull.” James held his wand closer. Two objects were pushed into a small cubby hole, and one of them was indeed a human skull, missing its jawbone. The other was a woman’s boot, very old and scuffed, made of black leather. The card affixed to the front of the shelf read: 1859, OCTOBER 5, I. K. MAGNUSSEN INTERROGATION 1.

“Maybe it’s not real,” James suggested, peering at the yellowed skull.

“It

sure

looks real,” Ralph said, shuddering.

“It’s just an old bone,” Zane said, rolling his eyes and reaching for the skull. “I’ll carry it.

Grab the boot and let’s get this over with.”

As quickly as they could, the three boys carried their acquisitions back up to the room of the Disrecorder. James breathed a sigh of relief as he walked beneath the thick, tiny windows embedded in the domed ceiling. It was dark outside now, but it was nice to see the faint blue glow of the night sky above.

“Who wants to do the honors?” Zane asked, holding up the skull and peering at it. “What do you think, Mr. Bones?” He moved the skull like a puppet and answered in a higher voice, “I think you should, Zane-brain, since you’re so cool and dashing. And this was your idea after all.” James sighed wearily. “Quit it. You’re freaking out Ralph.”

“I’m not freaked out,” Ralph objected, his face pale. “I mean, yeah, I am. But just a little.”

“Let’s get to it then,” Zane squeaked, puppeting the skull again. “Upsie-daisy.” With a small clunk, Zane set the skull onto the concave bowl of the Disrecorder.

Instantly, the room changed. It brightened and became much smaller. James, Ralph, and Zane turned on the spot and found themselves in a dim corner, peering into a sort of cramped study.

Fire crackled in the brick fireplace and darkness pressed against the tall windows. Three men were seated at a table, two on one side, facing the third. James was not entirely surprised to see that Chancellor Franklyn was one of the men seated at the table. He looked only slightly younger, with a rather less rotund middle. The man next to him wore the black robes and hat of an arbiter, although his skin was dark and he had a thin beard. In the center of the table, looking like a Halloween decoration, was the yellowed, jawless skull. The dark man had just finished tapping it with his wand.

“Douglas Treete, General Arbiter of the Wizarding Court of the United States of America, Philadelphia Station,” he said blandly. “Overseeing the preliminary interrogation of one Ignatius Karloff Magnussen, detained for various charges, including theft and misuse of corpses, torture, and suspicion of murder. I have chosen to use this skull as the relic for this interrogation since it serves as Exhibit A for the case in question. I am accompanied by Benjamin Amadeus Franklyn, Head of the 282

Alma Aleron Technomancy Department, and immediate superior of the defendant. Professor Magnussen, if you would state your full name for the record.”

James turned his attention to the man seated across from Franklyn and the arbiter.

Magnussen was large with a barrel chest and a square head crowned with a fringe of short grey hair.

His expression was grim, his dark brow lowered over a sharp, finely sculpted nose.

“I am Professor Ignatius Karloff Magnussen the Third,” he said, and James was surprised by the man’s cultured, pleasant voice. Unlike most Americans, Magnussen spoke with a distinct British accent.

Zane leaned toward James and Ralph and whispered, “I heard that he never approved of America’s break from England. In protest, he always spoke in what he called ‘the King’s English’.” James frowned and listened as Treete, the arbiter, spoke again.

“You are aware of the allegations against you, Professor Magnussen?” Magnussen didn’t respond. He simply stared across the table, his eyes like steel marbles.

Treete cleared his throat.

“For the record, Professor, you are accused, at the very least, of dabbling in forbidden practices that threaten the stability of the dimensional hierarchy. Is it true that you have sought to control the future by exploitation of the Wizarding Grand Unification Theory?” Magnussen remained utterly impassive. James could tell that the man was listening, for he stared at the men across from him as if he intended to pin them to a corkboard like butterflies. He simply did not seem to feel the need to respond to their questions. Franklyn, for his own part, appeared completely miserable. His face was pale behind his square spectacles.

“So be it, then,” Treete said, adjusting his own glasses and peering down at a parchment in front of him. “You are further accused of opening a rift between dimensions, something legendarily referred to as the Nexus Curtain, with no regard to the consequences. How do you respond to this allegation?”

Magnussen did not stir. He might as well have been an extremely lifelike statue.

Treete had apparently resigned himself to Magnussen’s silence. “Additionally, sir, you are accused of stealing bodies from the campus graveyard and conducting unlawful dissections of them.

This skull, as I have mentioned, is Exhibit A in regard to that allegation. It was found in the basement of this very house, along with the sort of tools one might expect to use for such purposes.

Furthermore, you are suspected in the abduction and torture of as many as eight Muggle citizens of the city of Philadelphia. Evidence of hasty Obliviation has only succeeded in destroying these victims’ ability to identify their tormentor, but has left traces of memories of this school and the magical world at large.”

Treete took off his glasses and stared hard at Magnussen. “Such acts, if they are proven to be true, break any number of very serious laws, Professor, not to mention the law of common human decency to which we all profess to ascribe. None of these, however, are as serious as the final accusation. As you are certainly aware, the corpse of a young Muggle woman, an impoverished local 283

seamstress by the name of Fredericka Staples, was recently found in an alley near the entrance to this school. Her body was mutilated nearly beyond recognition and she was missing a single boot. That missing boot, sir, was discovered two nights past in the basement of this home. I must ask you again: how do you respond to these allegations?”

Magnussen stirred for the first time, but when he spoke, he addressed Franklyn. “Was it you who summoned the authorities?” he asked, his voice merely conversational.

“You gave me little choice,” Franklyn replied quietly. “Research is one thing, Ignatius.

This…” He shook his head.

Magnussen smiled tightly. “You always were too weak to appreciate the risks associated with any great endeavor. You, Benjamin, are an academician. You are not like me. You are not an explorer.”

“Yours is not a dream of exploration,” Franklyn replied, his face darkening. “It is an obsession with power. This is not one of your fanciful stories of the heroic outcast struggling against ignorant foes. Your actions have affected real people. I should have intervened months ago when I discovered that you were experimenting with the Wizarding Grand Unification Theory. The Octosphere was bad enough, but at least it turned out to be harmless. Attempting to observe and measure all things at once, in the name of domination, is a madman’s fantasy.”

“I was mistaken, I agree,” Magnussen replied, as if he and Franklyn were merely discussing the matter as friends. “I was preoccupied with the microscopic. I fell into the conviction that observing all things meant breaking the world down into smaller and smaller bits, recording the actions of even the most infinitesimal details—the motion of blood corpuscles through the pathways of arteries, the firing of neurons in individual human brains. I studied these things in great detail, learning what I could from the dead, gaining even more knowledge from my systematic studies of the living. You choose to call it torture, of course, and yes, even murder, because you fail to grasp the monumental nature of the end goal. What is mere infliction of pain in the face of perfect understanding? What is one paltry life in the name of the total unification of the cosmos?”

“Ignatius,” Franklyn interrupted. “Stop! You are only making matters worse for yourself.”

“Eventually,” Magnussen went on, now leaning slightly over the table, his eyes bright, “I determined that I was thinking too much like my fellows, failing where all those before me had failed. With that realization, I remembered my Heraldium; ‘He who fails to see the mountain stumbles headlong over the pebbles.’ Don’t you see? The secret was not in the microscopic at all, Benjamin. The secret, of course, was in the macro scopic! Not the tiny, but the monumental!

Totality of measurement could only be accomplished when one could view the totality of realities! I knew then what I had to do. I had to break out of the confines of this dimension and find a place where I could observe all dimensions at once. What you call a mere legend, I have walked upon with my own two feet. I have been through the Nexus Curtain. I have trod the World Between the Worlds and witnessed the pathways into every other dimension.”

Treete shook his head, his eyes narrowed. “Am I to understand then, Professor, that you are admitting to all of the allegations leveled against you?”

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“Please, Ignatius,” Franklyn said, nearly pleading with the big man across from him. “Your obsessions have driven you to madness. Whatever you have done, whatever you have seen, it has obviously affected you in some dreadful way. There is help for you here, if you choose to seek it.

Beware what you say, lest you forfeit that option.”

Magnussen chuckled drily. “You think that I should care what this little man can do to me?

Let him attempt to stop me. I am beyond the rim now, Benjamin. I am past the event horizon of destiny, incapable of returning even if I wished to. And I do not wish to. I embrace my mission. I will go to it with great relish.”

Treete pushed back his chair and stood up. “I am afraid that I have no choice then, sirs. Out of respect for your position, Professor Magnussen, and at your personal request, Professor Franklyn, I leave you now to formulate my verdict. You can expect my return within the week, along with a cadre of wizarding police, to escort the defendant to the Crystal Mountain for processing. Professor Franklyn, for the interim, will you state your willing assumption of full responsibility for the guarding of the defendant?”

Franklyn’s eyes remained locked on Magnussen. “I assume full responsibility for the defendant.”

“So be it,” Treete said briskly. He retrieved his wand from his sleeve, reached out, and tapped the yellowed skull that sat on the table before him. Instantly, the room vanished, leaving James, Zane, and Ralph blinking in the darkness of the hall of the Disrecorder.

“Whoa,” Zane breathed, looking down at the yellowed skull.

Ralph shook his head slowly. “Franklyn wasn’t kidding around when he said that that bloke was someone the school would like to forget.”

“Well,

now

we

know

why Magnussen went through the Nexus Curtain, at least,” James sighed. “He was convinced that he had to measure everything in every dimension in order to know the future and control it. Is that how it sounded to you?”

Zane nodded. “Magnussen was one crazy whack job. I see why he was Head of Igor House.

But where most of those guys just talk a big game about wanting to take over the world, he actually went out and did something about it.”

“But we still don’t know how he got through the Nexus Curtain,” Ralph commented. “And that’s the bit we really need to know, right? How else are we going to get through to the World Between the Worlds and see if the real bad guys are hiding out there?” Zane took the skull gingerly from the bowl of the Disrecorder. “According to Professor Jackson, the Nexus Curtain can only be opened with a key from some other dimension. Whoever attacked the Vault of Destinies has the crimson thread from the Loom, which would do the trick since it came from some neighboring reality. What could Magnussen have used as a key?” James shrugged and nodded toward Ralph, who was holding the second relic, the old boot.

“Let’s try that one. Maybe it’ll tell us what we need to know.”

285

Ralph looked down at the boot in his hands. “You think this is the boot that they talked about in the vision? The one that belonged to that Muggle woman that Magnussen, er…”

“Just put it on the thing, Ralph,” Zane said, shaking his head slowly.

Ralph stepped forward and placed the small boot onto the stone pedestal before him. In response, the hall of the Disrecorder dimmed, but remained relatively unchanged. For a moment, James thought that there was something wrong with the relic, but then he heard a voice, echoing quietly. He followed the sound of it, turning to look about the hall, and saw a single flame burning in a small table lamp. Next to it was Benjamin Franklyn, seated in a wooden chair with a desk attachment, writing. Unlike the previous vision, which had been bright and solid, the image of Franklyn looked almost like a projection on smoke. Franklyn’s ghostly quill scratched on the parchment as he spoke the words aloud, dictating to himself. His voice seemed to come from very far away.

“These are the notes of Professor Benjamin Amadeus Franklyn,” he said slowly, bent over the parchment, “detailing the final records of the events of this night, October the eighth, eighteen fifty-nine, the last night of Professor Ignatius Magnussen, formerly a valued teacher at this institution, and a friend…”

Franklyn stopped and looked up, almost as if he’d heard the boys’ scuffling footsteps. James froze in place, but then he realized that the vision of Franklyn was merely pausing to think. His eyes were bright behind his square spectacles. After a long moment, he drew a breath and leaned over the parchment again.

“The flames still burn in the foundation of the house Ignatius Magnussen once called home.

How the fire began, no one knows for sure. I myself suspect a deliberate causation, perhaps even set by the professor himself. The mob that preceded the fire was maddened beyond reason and did nothing to extinguish the flames once they appeared. I am dismayed to announce that there were many in tonight’s assembly who wished to see Magnussen’s corpse pulled from the dying flames, killed as surely as the fire destroyed his home. Preliminary observation of the ruins, however, has revealed no trace of the professor’s body. I have no doubt that further searches over the coming days will prove equally unsuccessful. Magnussen is not here. He has escaped, probably during the very height of the fire, while the vengeance-seeking riot was in full fever.” Franklyn stopped writing again. He put down the quill and pushed his hand up under his spectacles, rubbing his eyes wearily. He didn’t seem to want to go on, but after a moment, he retrieved the quill and began again, speaking the words aloud as he wrote them.

“Where Ignatius Magnussen has gone, I cannot begin to guess. Surely, he has by now accomplished what he swore was his destiny: he has retraced his steps through the Nexus Curtain, into whatever unknowable realm lies beyond. I believe it is likely that from that realm he will never return, thus I wish to record what I now know of his most recent endeavors. Unfortunately, my interviews with the professor over the previous two days revealed very little useful information.

There are only two details worth remembering. The first was his riddle regarding how he learned to open the Nexus Curtain. He told me, and I quote…”

286

Franklyn paused again and retrieved another parchment from the table next to him. He studied it closely, adjusting his spectacles. James noticed that the woman’s boot was sitting in the darkness beneath the table, leaning against one of the chair’s thin spindly legs.

“And I quote,” Franklyn went on, putting his quill to the parchment before him, “‘The truth walked the halls of Erebus Castle. It was there all along, for anyone to see.’ I myself have walked those halls for well over a century, and have not met anyone or anything that spoke of the paths of the Nexus Curtain. If there is any truth in Magnussen’s claim, then it is carefully hidden and will require further study.”

James turned to Zane, his eyes widening. “Erebus Castle is the home of Vampire House, right?” he whispered.

Zane nodded. “We can get in and explore around a bit, if Lucy lets us.”

“Shh,” Ralph hissed, leaning closer to the ghostly vision of Benjamin Franklyn.

“The second detail is, I fear, an even more obscure riddle. When asked where the Nexus Curtain was, Magnussen only smiled and said nothing. This, of course, is the detail which concerns me most since if what the professor claims is true, then he has succeeded in breaching the divide into the World Between the Worlds. I fear less the dimensional instabilities that might be created by such a rift. More, I fear what may come through into our own dimension from those beyond. My entreaties to Magnussen—that the boundaries between the worlds are there for good reason, to establish barriers between incompatible realities—fell entirely upon deaf ears. Finally, however, late last night, Professor Magnussen gave me an answer to my question, although I suspect that it is as useless as anything that might be provided by his damned Octosphere. When pressed about the location of the Nexus Curtain, he finally smiled and told me,” here, Franklyn made a weary but passable imitation of Magnussen’s accent, “‘It lies within the eyes of Rowbitz.’” He paused once more, rereading what he had written. With a sigh, he began to write again.

“The riddle is intentionally misleading and probably hopelessly obscure, and yet I know the professor well enough to know that he would not merely lie. He is too arrogant not to have offered up a valid clue, even if it would be impossible to solve. In time, I will study both of these quotes, in the hopes of finding the Nexus Curtain, and closing it forever. For now, however, I find that my duties must revolve around the more immediate concerns of calming the school and explaining myself to Arbiter Douglas Treete. I have failed in my duties… in more ways than one.” Franklyn sighed deeply, put down his quill, and carefully folded the parchment he had written upon. When he was done, he retrieved the small boot from the floor next to him, slipped the folded parchment into it, and then tapped the boot with his wand.

The vision evaporated in a puff of dry smoke, returning the Hall of the Disrecorder to its normal dimness.

Immediately, Zane tucked the skull under his arm, turned around, and reached for the old boot that sat atop the stone pedestal. He peered inside it.

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“It’s still there!” he said, smiling. “Franklyn’s old note! Parchment feels like it’ll crumble to bits if I pull it out, though. Cheshire and the catalog crew probably would have preserved it somehow if they’d known it was there.”

“The Nexus Curtain lies within the eyes of Rowbitz,” Ralph said thoughtfully. “Any ideas who Rowbitz is?”

Zane scrunched his face up with concentration. “It rings a bell, actually. I’ll see what I can find out.”

“And we can ask Lucy about letting us look around the halls of Erebus Castle,” James added.

“We have two clues to go on. Not bad.”

“Wait a minute,” Ralph said, shaking his head. “If these clues were solvable, don’t you think that Chancellor Franklyn would have figured them out by now?”

Zane glanced at Ralph, thinking. “How do we know he didn’t?”

“What do you mean?” James asked.

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time somebody had discovered some terrible secret and then just sat on it. You heard him in the vision. Even if he did find out the secrets of the Nexus Curtain, it wasn’t like he wanted to go out and share it with the world. He just wanted to shut it down or guard it, so nothing could get through from either side.”

“Including us, maybe?” Ralph said, raising his eyebrows.

James shook his head. “Maybe, but I doubt it. If Franklyn had figured out the truth of the Nexus Curtain, I think he’d have told us when we asked him about it. I mean, he obviously doesn’t want anyone snooping around about it, right? If he’d found it and shut it down, he’d just say so.” Ralph frowned. “Why?”

“Because,” Zane answered, “we’re just a bunch of curious kids, right? If he could have killed the mystery for us by telling us that he’d already found the Nexus Curtain and closed it for good, then there’d be nothing left for us to be curious about. Set and spike. Good one, James.” Ralph picked up the boot again. “Let’s take the relics back down to the restricted section and get out of here. I’ve had enough creepy mystery for now.”

Zane nodded. “Come on, then. We still have time to look up this Rowbitz dude tonight.”

“I’ll just wait up here, if you don’t mind,” James announced, shuffling his feet a little.

Zane glanced back, one eyebrow raised. “Sure, all right. What’s the matter? You still hinky about Patches hiding out in the shelves?”

James shook his head. “No. I just… there’s only the two relics. You guys don’t really need me. Hurry back, all right?”

Ralph nodded. “The sooner the better. Come on.”

288

A moment later, the door to the Archive’s lower levels eased shut, leaving James alone in the hall of the Disrecorder.

He waited for a moment, listening intently, and then, when he was sure that Ralph and Zane had begun their descent to the restricted area, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans.

He’d been carrying Petra’s dream story around in his pocket for days, folded into its seamless packet and encased in a plastic bag that he’d found in the kitchen of Apollo Mansion. He didn’t know for sure why he had started keeping it with him, except that it seemed safer, somehow. He held the plastic bag gingerly between his thumb and forefinger and turned toward the Disrecorder.

The idea had come to him while they’d been watching the vision of Franklyn. The Disrecorder was only supposed to work on objects that had been especially enchanted, of course, but James couldn’t help wondering. Ever since he had saved Petra’s life on the back the Gwyndemere, the dream story had become too magical for him to touch directly. Perhaps, however, it was just magical enough to trigger something in the Disrecorder, something James could make sense of. James couldn’t guess why Petra and her dream story seemed to possess such strange magical intensity, but he meant to find out. Even if it meant that he was, essentially, spying on her dreams. Gingerly, he tipped the plastic bag upside down over the stone bowl.

The parchment packet tumbled out and fell into the bowl with a tiny thump.

A gust of dry wind pushed past James suddenly, whipping his hair and forcing him to squint.

He turned around on the spot, and dull brightness filled his vision. He was in daylight, standing atop a grassy plateau. The hall of the Archive had completely vanished. Even the stone pedestal of the Disrecorder itself was gone. This, James realized, was no hazy vision; it felt utterly solid, and yet surreal, as if every blade of dead grass was watching him and every cloud in the low, heaving sky was glowering down at him, coldly angry. The featureless grass of the plateau stretched away in all directions and James realized that the plateau was actually an island, surrounded by craggy cliffs.

Slate grey waves slammed against the cliffs, sending spray up into the windy air.

And of course, there was the castle, jutting up in the near distance. It was made of black stone, small but so tall, so encrusted with towers and turrets, that it seemed to claw at the cloudy sky.

The structure loomed over the edge of the cliff, as if the rocks had eroded away beneath it, and yet the castle still stood, held up by sheer bloody-minded determination.

Someone was watching from the darkness of the castle. James sensed the weight of their gaze like hot stones on his skin. He peered up at the castle, shading his eyes against the grey light. A figure was standing on a high balcony, obscured in shadow.

I have come, a voice said. The words echoed over the grassy plateau like thunder. I watch and I wait. My time is very near. I am the Sorceress Queen. I am the Princess of Chaos.

James strained his eyes, trying to see past the shadowy dimness of the balcony. He could barely make out the figure except that it appeared to be a woman. Her hair streamed darkly in the wind. When she spoke again, a slow chill came over James, freezing him to the spot. His eyes widened, and the vision began to intensify, to bleed and pulse, to shred apart, but the words rang on, echoing louder and louder, pounding James’ ears to the point of pain.

289

I watch and I wait, the voice repeated. My name will be known throughout all of the destinies.

My name… is Morgan. She who strides between the worlds.

The vision shattered and flew apart. Darkness swirled, compressed, and vanished into a single dark point, which hovered over the pedestal of the Disrecorder like a hole in space. A moment later, even that winked from view.

James stood rooted to the floor of the hall, his hair sticking up and his heart pounding.

It’s just a dream, he told himself, repeating the words over and over. It’s just that part of Petra’s mind—the Morgan part—wanting to get out. Petra has it locked away, imprisoned, under control.

That’s all it is. That must be all it is…

James shuddered violently, remembering the hopeless toll of that dreaming voice.

Footsteps

approached,

accompanied

by

echoing voices; Zane and Ralph were returning.

Quickly, James stepped forward to retrieve the dream story, but then he stopped, his eyes widening.

The bowl of the Disrecorder was empty. Petra’s dream story had completely vanished.

290

15. the Star of Convergence

Now that the Alma Aleron Halloween Ball had officially come and gone, the campus got down to the serious business of unwinding toward the winter holidays.

No sooner had the floating pumpkins in the cafeteria been taken down than a collection of papier-mâché turkeys and strange buckled hats had gone up in their place. Thanksgiving, the holiday that, according to Professor Sanuye, celebrated the successful harvest of the first American pilgrims (with the help and cooperation of the Native Americans whom they’d met there) seemed to be a surprisingly big deal among the Alma Aleron students and faculty. Most of them were making plans to go home over the long weekend, where they would apparently eat lots of roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie and listen to or attend a lot of commemorative sporting events, including a blockbuster professional Clutchcudgel match known as the Superbrawl.

Curious about the details of such a quintessentially American holiday, James and Ralph shamelessly invited themselves to Zane’s family home near St. Louis, Missouri for the Walker’s Thanksgiving dinner. Zane’s father, communicating via James’ owl, Nobby, happily agreed to host the boys.

Thus, on the last weekend of November, the three boys traveled by train to a small old station in the quaint little city of Kirkwood, which Zane proudly proclaimed as ‘the first official suburb of St. Louis’. This fact was woefully lost on James and Ralph, however, who were both preoccupied with the narrow, snow-dusted streets and brightly lit Christmas decorations that 291

adorned the city’s lampposts. As the three boys waited in the purple dusk for Zane’s parents to pick them up, they peered across the street to where a gaggle of gaily dressed Muggles milled around an artificial forest of neatly cut and arranged pine trees. Occasionally, a minivan or car would motor out onto the street with one of the trees tied to the roof by a length of twine.

“People around here get started early with their Christmases, don’t they?” Ralph said with a happy smile. “I could get used to that, I bet.”

“That’s nothing,” Zane replied. “There’s a family in the block next to my house that leaves their Christmas tree up all year long. True story.”

James frowned. “Are they magical folk?”

“Nah,” Zane answered easily. “They’re just weird. Here comes my mom!” The boys waved and collected their duffle bags as a white car pulled into the circle drive that fronted the train station. It still gave James an odd sensation whenever he saw someone driving from the left side of the car, but Zane, of course, thought nothing of it. He climbed into the front seat with his mother, an attractive blonde woman wearing tortoise-shell glasses. She smiled back at Ralph and James as they clambered into the back.

“Hi boys,” she announced, offering each one a cookie from a paper bag. “Welcome to Kirkwood. Hope you’re hungry.”

“I am,” Ralph agreed eagerly. “Mmm! Chocolate chip cookies. And are those chunks of cherry?”

“Still hot too!” Zane nodded, his mouth full.

“Just came out of the oven ten minutes ago,” Zane’s mother concurred, steering the car back out onto the street. “Greer stayed home with her father, watching the last batch, but she’s just as excited as we are to have you all over for the holiday.”

James watched the small town unroll past the windows of the car until they reached a neighborhood of little houses and neat yards, not unlike the area surrounding the Alma Aleron gate.

Zane’s mother slowed and angled up a short drive toward a simple stone house perched on a hill.

“Home sweet home!” Zane announced eagerly, already opening his door. “Dad’s got the fire going, I bet!”

“That’s not very hard,” his mother commented. “It’s a gas fireplace. But I’m sure you’re right.”

As the four climbed out of the car, the back door of the house swept open and a head of curly blonde hair poked out, lit brightly by the overhead light.

“Dad’s carving the turkey,” the girl called, “but I can’t get him to stop eating it as he goes.

You better get in here right away.”

Zane’s mother sighed with weary affection.

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“Hi Greer!” Zane called to his younger sister, waving, and then turned to James and Ralph, shaking his head happily. “Some things never change. Come on inside, I’ll show you my room!” Thanksgiving at the Walker family home turned out to be not unlike any family gathering that James had known back at Marble Arch. The dining room was rather small, and by the time Zane’s aunt and uncle had arrived with their two younger children, the house rang with a cacophony of overlapping sounds: laughter and conversation, the clank of dishes, the burble of Christmas carols from the kitchen radio, the staccato of clambering footsteps as Zane’s cousins and sister ran about the small house. Zane and Ralph spent a goodly amount of time playing video games on the family television, although James could never quite get the hang of them. The food was excellent and apparently never-ending, so that by Thanksgiving evening, James felt utterly stuffed. The family gathered around the table to play board games and James joined in, even though he had never heard of any of the games, and had no idea how to play them.

“Sorry, James,” Zane announced happily as James marched his marker around the board.

“You owe me two hundred bucks. Enjoy your commute, and thank you for patronizing Reading Railroad.”

“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.

293

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 wide-eyed 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.

294

“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?”

“Rowbitz?”

Ralph

blinked,

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!”

295

“‘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 wrought-iron 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?”

296

“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?”

297

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 298

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 glanced 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.”

299

“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.

“I opened the front door,” Zane said in a low voice, eyes wide. “Now that we’re inside, you can do the honors.”

James gulped and stepped forward. The casket was cold to the touch. Slowly, he curled his fingers around the metal handle of the casket’s lid and began to lift it. It creaked loudly as it opened, and James wondered for a moment if Balpine Bludgeny had been in here as well, hexing the hinges of the casket so that they made the proper deep groan when opened in the dead of night. James leaned aside and peered into the narrow opening he’d created. A wash of relief flooded over him.

“It’s empty,” he breathed. “Just darkness. It must be a dummy grave, set up as a hiding place for the—”

James interrupted himself with a little shriek as Zane stepped forward, bringing his lit wand with him. The casket wasn’t empty after all; the interior had merely been obscured by shadow. A mouldering skeleton lay inside, dressed in an old-fashioned suit with a string tie and a desiccated carnation lying flat in the buttonhole. The skeletal hands were crossed neatly over the thin chest. A gold tooth glimmered in the skull’s leering grin.

“Ugh!” James said, nearly dropping the casket’s lid. “Urk!”

Zane shook his head impatiently. “It’s just a dead body, James. Sheesh. I thought you saw one of these come to life once in the cave of Merlin’s cache?”

James gulped again. “That was different, somehow. He was just out there in the open, like.

You don’t think this one’s going to… you know…?”

“Get lively on us?” Zane asked, grinning. “Nah. Not unless you make him really mad, anyway. Let’s get on with it. Like Magnussen said, the Nexus Curtain lies within the eyes of Roebitz. Let’s take a look, already.”

James pushed the casket lid the rest of the way open and Zane leaned over the top of it, bringing his wand low. The skull grinned up at the light. A shock of grey hair was still matted onto the skull, combed neatly back from the temples.

“Nothing in the eye sockets,” Zane said, leaning close. “Just dust and a few cobwebs. Maybe somebody did beat us to it.”

300

“The riddle said that the Nexus Curtain was within the eyes of Rowbitz,” James mused.

“Maybe it means that it’s somewhere where the skeleton could see it?” Zane shrugged. “Skeletons can’t see anything, technically.”

James ignored Zane and peered at the padded silk of the inside of the casket’s lid. He touched it tentatively, feeling around for any hidden shapes.

“Hey!” Zane announced suddenly, leaning low over the casket again. James gasped and bent over the skeleton, following his friend’s intent gaze. Zane pointed at the skeleton’s left hand.

“He graduated in eighteen ten! Look! It’s right there on his class ring. He was in Aphrodite Heights. Wow, I wouldn’t have guessed him for a Pixie.”

James sighed and straightened again. “Great. Well, this looks like another dead end.”

“Hah hah,” Zane grinned, nudging James with his elbow.

“Let’s go. I’m freezing,” James said, lowering the casket’s lid with another long creak.

“Maybe there isn’t anything to all of this after all. Maybe Magnussen was just playing with Franklyn, giving him meaningless hints.”

Zane shrugged and extinguished his wand. Both boys turned and crept back out into the night.

“Ralph?” Zane rasped loudly, glancing around.

“Where is he?” James asked, peering around as well. “I thought he was going to be sitting here under this—” He stopped, noticing a dark shape lying flattened on the frosty ground beneath the elm tree. It was Ralph’s cloak. Zane saw it too and glanced up at James, his eyes widening.

“Ralph?” James whispered, peering around at the shadowy gravestones. Suddenly, the graveyard seemed to be packed full of hiding places and dark recesses, where any number of awful things might be watching, preparing to pounce. Nervously, James rasped, “This isn’t funny, Ralph!” A noise came from behind the nearby elm tree: a heavy thump. Both boys jumped and grabbed at one another.

“Ralph?” Zane asked, his voice quavering.

Another thump sounded, closer this time. James and Zane began to back away, peering around for the source of the strange noises. The graveyard sat perfectly still, as if watching them. An owl hooted suddenly, sounding very loud and horribly mournful. James looked about wildly, his hair prickling.

“Ralph?” Zane whispered once more, still gripping James’ elbow. “Is that you?” Suddenly, both boys backed into a large, solid object. They stopped, eyes bulging. Slowly, terrified, they turned around, and looked up.

A very tall, vaguely human shape loomed over them. The skin of its face was papery, partly rotted away, revealing the mottled skull beneath. Two large bony hands raised slowly into the air, hooked into claws, and a deep rattling voice emanated from the thing’s throat.

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“Get… out… of… my… yaaard!” it said menacingly.

James and Zane nearly collapsed in terror, scrambling away from the awful figure. Just then, however, another voice spoke up some distance away.

“That’s what he told me at first too,” the voice said, speaking as if through a mouthful of biscuit. James tore his gaze from the figure that loomed over him, seeking the source of the second voice. Ralph stood in the open doorway of another mausoleum, happily munching a large pink sugar cookie. He shrugged. “He’s really just a big softie. Name’s Straidthwait. Says he used to be president of your house, Zane.”

“Charles Straidthwait,” the zombie introduced himself once the three boys were seated inside his mausoleum. Despite his morbid appearance, the figure’s speech had a disarming Southern lilt that Zane later claimed was a Charleston, South Carolina accent. “Former President of Hermes House, Arithmatics professor, retired, at your service. You’ll have to excuse me for all that creeping and thumping and grumpiness. Comes with the territory, I’m afraid.”

“He’s the one I told you guys about,” Zane enthused happily, accepting a cup of hot coffee from the shambling figure. “He’s the Zombie House President that traveled to the darkest jungles and got himself turned into the real thing!”

“A word of advice,” Straidthwait nodded, easing himself into a chair, “never accept any smoking ‘peace potions’ from a witch doctor whose hut you’ve accidentally burned to the ground.

Long story. Suffice it to say, here I am, dead and loving it.”

“I’ve seen your mausoleum loads of times,” Zane said, grinning, “but the door was always closed and everything was quiet. We all just assumed that you spent all your time sort of sleeping or something. Like being a real-life zombie was just a big long Rip Van Winkle nap, like!”

“If only that were so,” the undead teacher lamented. “I’ve had trouble sleeping for the last decade or so. I don’t have any trouble getting to sleep, mind, but I wake up early, usually after only three or four months. Age takes its toll. Er, I do apologize,” Straidthwait said, leaning forward and plucking something from the edge of Zane’s saucer. “Pinky finger,” he said apologetically, holding the digit up. “Keeps coming off lately. Maybe you boys would be kind enough to bring me some plumber’s putty and tape if you decided to come by again?”

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Ralph nodded. “Nice place you have here, I gotta say. I’m surprised.”

“No reason you should be,” Straidthwait replied, looking around at the cramped space. It was, indeed, rather nicely laid out, with four upholstered (if slightly moldy) chairs, a small ornate coffee table, and two kerosene lamps, all arranged upon a threadbare oriental rug. Straidthwait’s coffin lay open on its shelf, neatly made like a bed. In the corner nearest the door sat a tiny potbelly stove, supporting a kettle and a small tin percolator. It was almost unbearably hot inside the stone mausoleum, but none of the boys minded.

“I dictated exactly how I wished to be interred,” Straidthwait went on proudly. “Including an afterlifetime supply of iced cookies, coffee, tea, and condensed milk. Stuff goes straight through me these days, but I don’t mind. Hard to experience indigestion if one no longer sports a stomach.

Good riddance, I say. So who, may I ask, are the three of you, and what brings you out to my neck of the woods at such an hour?”

Over the next few minutes, the boys introduced themselves and explained their mission to the patiently decrepit corpse of Professor Straidthwait, describing the attack on the Hall of Archives, Petra’s alleged involvement, and their attempts to find the real culprits. Once James had finished relating the Disrecorded visions of Professor Magnussen and his two riddles, Straidthwait nodded to himself meaningfully.

“I remember it well, actually,” he said, peering up at the ceiling with his one remaining eye.

“I was still a student when the Magnussen ruckus occurred. My friends and I, as well as most of the school, were completely maddened by it. It was one thing to break the code of secrecy and torture people. But to kill a defenseless Muggle woman, and one as young as Fredericka Staples…” Straidthwait shook his head slowly. “Abominable. Unforgivable.” James asked, “Did you know her?”

“No, no,” Straidthwait admitted. “Not until after it was over, when her name appeared in all of the newspapers of both the magical and Muggle varieties. After Magnussen’s escape, there was a lengthy investigation by the Magical Integration Bureau, months and months of very ticklish interactions between the Muggle and wizarding powers that be. By the end of it, none of us would ever forget the poor woman’s name or that of her murderer, that horrible psychopath, Ignatius Magnussen.”

Zane sat forward in his chair. “So what about this whole Roebitz riddle business? Do you think there’s anything to it?”

Straidthwait let out a rattly sigh and tapped his coffee cup with one bony index finger. “I barely knew Professor Magnussen as anything more than a rather feared professor, and then as a famous escaped murderer, but I don’t think he’d leave meaningless clues. He was too arrogant for that. Still, I’d have a difficult time believing that poor old Leo Roebitz had anything to do with it.

He hadn’t even died yet when Magnussen disappeared. No, I’m afraid you boys are chasing the proverbial feral waterfowl.”

James released a disappointed sigh. “Now we’ll never find out where the Nexus Curtain is,” he muttered.

303

Straidthwait perked up a little at that. “Did you actually think,” he said, peering at James,

“that the Nexus Curtain would be found inside the casket of a dead wizard literature teacher?” James bristled a little. “Well, it’s magic, isn’t it? It could be anywhere. We were just following the clues.”

“Yes,” Straidthwait chuckled drily. “I suppose that is one way to go about it. Following clues. Of course, if it were me, I’d follow Magnussen himself, instead.”

“How are we going to do that?” Zane asked, tilting his head. “He’s only been vanished for a hundred and fifty years or so.”

“Yeah,” Ralph added. “And nobody saw where he went anyway. They were all too busy watching his house burn down.”

“It wasn’t his house,” Straidthwait replied pedantically, raising a skeletal finger. “It was the house of John Danforth Roberts, one of the three founders of this school, God rest his soul. And I wouldn’t be quite so hasty about who saw what on that particular night.” James narrowed his eyes at the mouldering professor. “What do you mean?”

“I’d imagine it was quite obvious at this point,” Straidthwait said, making a rather ghastly smile. “I witnessed Magnussen’s escape.”

“But,” Ralph began, squinting thoughtfully. “But, Franklyn said, in the Disrecorder vision, that nobody saw Magnussen escape. He said they were all too distracted by the fire.”

“Alas, I had my own reasons for keeping my observations a secret,” Straidthwait admitted, leaning back in his chair. “Not that they’d have done anyone any good, I suspect.” Zane asked, “Is there a story that goes with that?”

“Not much of a one, I’m afraid,” Straidthwait sighed. “You see, I had recently become enamored with a fetching young lady by the name of Charlotte. She lived in Erebus Mansion and had a delightfully wicked mind. She occupied me for many hours during that autumn—hours that would have been far more responsibly spent on my studies. As a result, I was failing Mageography quite disastrously. My teacher, Professor Howard Styrnwether, had confronted me about my failing grades, demanding that I not throw my future away for some ‘made-up strumpet’, as he called her.

“He was right, of course, but I was livid. In fury, I abandoned the Mageography essay I had barely begun and instead wrote an entirely new essay consisting of precisely five words, which glowed green on the parchment and read as follows: ‘Dearest Professor Styrnwether—Get Stuffed’.” Zane hooted with laughter. “That’s excellent! I see why you were President of Zombie House.”

Straidthwait nodded, smiling despite himself. “Yes, well, I might never have achieved such a position if it had not been for the events that followed. You see, I handed the essay in after a night of affronted anger, emboldened by Charlotte herself and not a few Dragonmeades in the Kite and Key.

Almost instantly, however, I regretted the act. If Styrnwether failed me in Mageography, the chances were that I would never get accepted to the graduate school, and if I didn’t get accepted to the 304

graduate school, I’d never receive my doctorate in Advanced Arithmatics, which meant I could never become a teacher and grow to be the distinguished and revered undead professor you see before you now.

“Thus, I pined for a means to retrieve the essay before it was too late. Unfortunately, Professor Styrnwether had already begun grading the essays. I hovered near his office door, peeking in, looking for any opportunity to sneak in and steal back the insulting essay. Styrnwether, unfortunately, did not pause for so much as a bathroom break, and I began to fear the worst.

“Shortly, however, I overheard the brouhaha stewing in the lawn outside. I looked out a nearby window and saw the crowd gathering, saw the flames beginning to lick from the lower windows of Magnussen’s residence. I had heard about the travesty of Magnussen’s crimes, of course, and knew that tensions had been mounting, ever since the decision had been made to allow him to maintain his post during the investigation.

“I immediately ran out to join the mob, as much out of curiosity as malice, although, I admit, there was some malice in my own thoughts as well. As the night drew in and the flames grew brighter and hotter, enveloping the unfortunate home of the former John Roberts, I spied, in the milling crowd, the humorless features of Professor Styrnwether. He was watching from a distance, his arms folded disapprovingly.

“Perhaps it is a testament to my own sense of self-preservation, but I found myself immediately inspired. At once, I darted away from the flames, into the nearby faculty offices. The halls were completely deserted, of course, and I breathed a great sigh of relief as I retrieved my essay, ungraded, from the stack on Professor Styrnwether’s desk.

“I immediately produced my wand and obliterated the damning parchment. Finding a new parchment in the professor’s desk, I quickly scribbled an apology for the fact that my essay would be a day late and promised to accept with good grace whatever penalty he deemed such tardiness deserved. I slipped this back into the stack of essays and, feeling a hundred pounds lighter, made my way back out into the darkening evening.

“It was then, as I was skirting the buildings, some distance from the conflagration, that I saw him. Professor Magnussen was an unmistakable figure, tall and solid, with stony features and a crown of very short grey hair. I feared for a moment that he had seen me and ducked into the bushes next to the guest house. The professor strode on, however, his gait full of purpose, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I feared him, you see, on that night more than any other. I considered bravery, but only for a moment. I was only a student, of course, and Magnussen was a much feared wizard, even before he was known to be a torturer and a murderer. Thus, I watched.” James was spellbound. “Where did he go? Did you see him open the Nexus Curtain?” Straidthwait shook his head. “I did not. The truth is, if indeed Magnussen did escape through the Nexus Curtain, then he did not do so immediately. He left the campus first. I watched him, even heard him, for my hiding place was quite near the Warping Willow. That is where he went. When he was under its branches, he spoke only one word. A moment later, he vanished. As far as I know, no witch or wizard ever saw him again.”

305

There was a moment of tense silence as the boys thought about this. Finally, James said,

“What was the one word?”

“The word was ‘ Abitus’,” Straidthwait answered somberly. “It is a simple spell which conjures an exit to the currently relevant date and time—the now. Magnussen left the campus that night and escaped into Muggle Philadelphia. I know not where he was going, but if all the suspicions about him are true, I have my ideas.”

“You think he was going to the Nexus Curtain?” James asked, wide-eyed. “You think maybe it wasn’t on campus at all?”

“Perhaps,” Straidthwait shrugged slowly, and then leaned forward. In a rasping whisper, he added, “Or perhaps… he was going to get the key.”

“The key…,” Ralph repeated slowly. “Like, maybe whatever it was, it was too dangerous for him to keep on campus?”

“Because whatever it was,” Zane went on, realization dawning on him, “it would be way too magical to leave in his offices! People would sense something that powerful, especially if it came from another dimension!”

Straidthwait leaned back again, using his index finger to tap the side of where his nose used to be. “My thoughts precisely,” he concurred. “Because there is one thing that is for certain: whatever this alleged pan-dimensional key may have been, Magnussen was not carrying it on his person that night. If so, he’d never have been able to escape unnoticed. He may well have been on his way to the Nexus Curtain, if such a thing truly exists, but if he was… then he was going to retrieve the key first.”

“So,” Ralph announced after a meaningful pause, “if we can somehow find a way to follow Magnussen… we can find the key.”

“Find the key,” Straidthwait mused, “and I expect the Nexus Curtain will reveal itself.” Zane shook his head. “But how do we follow someone whose been gone for a century and a half?”

“Mercy, young man, you say you’re a member of Zombie House,” Straidthwait said, nodding at Zane. “I am surprised you haven’t already divined the answer to that question.”

“Give me a second, already,” Zane replied, piqued. “I’ve only had a minute to think about it.”

“And therein lies the solution, my friend.”

“How’s that?” James asked, somewhat frustrated. “Time is exactly our problem. Like, a hundred and fifty years worth of it.”

Straidthwait sighed wearily. “No, boy. Time is your solution. Have you forgotten,” he said, leaning slightly forward, his remaining eye twinkling, “that this school is, in essence, one gigantic time machine?”

306

Shocked, the three boys looked at one another, their eyes widening slowly. In the dark heat of the mausoleum, Straidthwait chuckled hollowly.

In the wake of the interview with Charles Straidthwait, James had gotten a vague idea of what they needed to do next. Unfortunately, with the Christmas holiday approaching, bringing with it a wave of midterm examinations, there was very little freedom to plan any time-traveling adventures in pursuit of the long lost Ignatius Magnussen.

“Tell me again why, exactly, you are planning to do this,” Rose asked disapprovingly from the Shard as James and Ralph practiced Shield Charms for the next day’s Cursology exam. “Pardon me for saying that it all seems a tad complicated and ridiculous.”

“It’s simple,” Ralph said, his tone of voice implying that he didn’t quite understand the plan himself. “Whoever broke into the Vault of Destinies stole a crimson thread from some other dimension’s version of the Loom. Normally, something that massively magical would be easy to track down since it’d be sending out waves of power like some kind of siren. For some reason, though, nobody’s picked up the slightest trace of it, not even James’ dad and the local police. Zane thinks that that’s because the people that stole the thread used it as a key to open the Nexus Curtain and hide it in the World Between the Worlds, which is sort of like a hub that connects all the dimensions.”

“Right,” James agreed. “That’s the only way the thieves could escape without being traced.

We need to follow Magnussen into the past to nick his key to the Nexus Curtain. If we can figure out how to get through to the World Between the Worlds, then we can try to see who really did steal the thread and prove that Petra isn’t really involved.”

“And what will you do if this is all bilge and Morganstern really is the culprit?” Scorpius scowled from his side of the Shard. James had prepared himself for such a question.

“She’s not, but even if she is, this is what friends do. She says she’s innocent, and we’re doing what we can to prove her case.”

Scorpius narrowed his eyes and smirked slightly. “So you’re doing this for friendship, are you?”

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“You can’t just rush into something like that anyway,” Rose interrupted. “Time traveling is extremely dangerous business. You could do far more harm than good.” James sighed and rolled his eyes. He hadn’t wanted to tell Rose and Scorpius about it at all, but Ralph, being his typical self, had been unable to resist telling them all about the midnight conversation with the undead Professor Straidthwait.

“We know, Rose,” James proclaimed, trying to head her off. “It’s Technomancy one-oh-one, all right? Accidentally step on a bug in the past and you change the whole present. Blah, blah, blah.”

“But really, how bad can it be?” Ralph commented, sitting down on his bed. “I mean, James zapped himself a thousand years into the past and butted heads with Salazar Slytherin. He changed loads of things, but everything still seems just fine here in the present day.” Rose shook her head in annoyance. “One,” she said, stabbing a finger into the air, “we don’t know that James didn’t change the present since everything we know is based on the history he affected. It may be that there were changes, but they weren’t terribly important. Two,” she stuck a second finger into the air, “just because James got lucky once, doesn’t mean the three of you won’t bollix things up royally this time out.”

“We’ll be careful, Rose,” James insisted, lowering his wand and turning toward the Shard. “I know you’re jealous because you can’t come along with us and all, but that doesn’t mean you have to try to scare us out of doing it.”

“That’s not it at all,” Rose fumed, crossing her arms and flopping back against the sofa in the Gryffindor common room. Next to her, Scorpius grinned a little crookedly, apparently seeing the truth in James’ words. “I’m smarter than you,” Rose went on sulkily. “I know how much damage you lot can do, tinkering about with history. And I know that you’ll barely think any of this out before you do it.”

James shook his head. “We’re plenty smart. We’ve thought about it loads.”

“Oh?” Rose replied, her eyebrows shooting up. “Is that so? Well, then I assume you’ve already realized that there’s no point in your attempting anything at all without first knowing what, precisely, this pan-dimensional key thing actually is?”

James rolled his eyes dramatically and spread his hands, as if to say, well duh, of course we’ve already figured that much out, but the effect was ruined by Ralph’s querulous response.

“Er, no,” he said, frowning, and James slumped. “We just thought we’d travel back to the day when Magnussen escaped and try to follow him into Muggle Philadelphia. He’d just lead us to the key, wouldn’t he?”

“Nice to know you’ve given this some serious thought,” Rose said wearily. “Have you asked yourselves how you’ll even recognize the key?”

James looked at Ralph for a moment, and then glanced back at the Shard. “Well, I mean, it’s a key. It’ll be obvious, er, won’t it?”

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Scorpius spoke up now. “It could be anything, Potter. For instance, if your theory is accurate—and I’m not entirely sure that it is—then the ‘real thieves’, as you call them, have accessed this Nexus Curtain using a piece of red thread. Not exactly the most obvious pan-dimensional artifact in the world. Magnussen’s key could come in any shape or form. Were you perhaps planning on just walking up to him and saying, oi, Mr. Murderer sir, would you please be so kind as to give us this dimensional key thing, and never mind that we won’t know the difference if you just hand us a chunk of lint that you might happen to have in your pocket’?” Scorpius smiled smugly at his wit.

“Well,” James began, but couldn’t immediately think of anything else to say. He glanced back at Ralph for help.

“We have another clue,” Ralph said, perking up. “Something about Erebus Castle.

Magnussen said that the secret of the key walked around in the halls of Erebus Castle, or something like that. We just need to ask Lucy to take us on a tour. If we can figure out the riddle, then maybe we’ll know what the key is.”

“How hard can it be?” James nodded, grinning sheepishly.

Scorpius looked meaningfully at Rose as he asked James, “Why do you need Lucy’s permission to get into Erebus Castle?”

“That’s the House of the Vampires,” Ralph replied. “They’re totally wiggy about who they let inside to bump around. You have to get a member of Vampire House to chaperone you around the whole time.”

“Or you have to be a real-life vampire,” James added, rolling his eyes. “The President of their house, Professor Remora, says that Erebus Castle is a ‘sanctuary for any fellow wandering Children of the Night’. As if there are any of those in America.”

Rose looked vaguely disgusted. “Did she actually say that? Children of the Night?”

“She says loads of stuff like that,” James nodded. “She’s completely batty.”

“Hah hah!” Ralph added, nudging James with his elbow. James groaned.

309

As the final days of the autumn semester unwound, James spent most of his time cramming (as Zane called it) for his semifinals. His fellow Bigfoots were a great help in that endeavor, forming spontaneous study groups in the game room of Apollo Mansion. There, Jazmine Jade, Gobbins, Wentworth, Norrick, Mukthatch, and anyone else who happened to be in the same classes would produce all of their notes and quiz one another for hours on end, all while consuming vast quantities of licorice soda and snacks from the Apollo kitchen.

Occasionally, Yeats would drift through the room with a trash bag, collecting empty cans, cups, and candy wrappers, all the while muttering insincere apologies through his gritted teeth for interrupting the students’ studies. Heckle and Jeckle hung near the cellar refrigerator and called out wrong answers to any quiz questions they overheard. James learned that Heckle, the deer head, answered wrongly on purpose, in the hopes of starting arguments with passersby. Jeckle, the moose head, however, got the answers wrong because he was, essentially, a moose head.

It was thanks to these study sessions, which often lasted well into the night, that James finished his last week of school before the Christmas break with a somewhat giddy sense of confidence. His final test, a three-page practical in Precognitive Engineering, was possibly the hardest of all. For the two-hour examination period, James and the rest of the students were given three separate divining tools—a small crystal ball, a cup of tea leaves, and a random selection of octocards—and instructed to recount on parchment their predictions, being careful to assure that they were a) accurate, b) measurable, and c) essentially in agreement.

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!” 310

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.

the LADY of MYSTERY

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.

the MAN of MIXED DESTINIES

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, 311

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.

the STAR of CONVERGENCE

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 312

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.

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16. Christmas in Philadelphia

On 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.

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“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 bleep s. 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.

Then, because the two seemed vaguely connected, he’d described his last encounter with Professor Trelawney in the dawn corridors of Hogwarts, the day when they had begun their journey.

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Zane and Ralph had listened with wide eyes, obviously understanding the significance of such a haunting prophecy coming from the lips of the otherwise comical old professor.

Finally, James had reminded them of what had happened on the stern of the Gwyndemere, when he had miraculously conjured the shining silver thread that had saved Petra’s life. He explained that the thread was still there, still somehow connecting him to her, and that that was how he knew she could be trusted.

“I can see her dreams and feel her thoughts, sometimes,” he’d said, although he hadn’t told them about the written dream, the one that had conjured the frightening vision of the nightmare island and the black castle, before vanishing entirely. He had vowed to Petra not to tell anyone about the dream story and he meant to keep that promise. “I know that she’s telling the truth about not being involved with the attack on the Vault of Destinies, no matter what we saw on that night. It couldn’t have been her because when she says she wasn’t there, I can sense that she’s telling the truth.

I don’t think she could lie to me even if she wanted to.”

James didn’t really know if this was true or not, but he did know that she sincerely believed that she was innocent. This was what he had most wanted to impress upon Zane and Ralph, since their belief in that fact was going to be essential to the success of their attempts to clear her name.

“We’ll work it all out after Christmas break,” Zane had said eagerly. “You spend some time working on your cousin Lucy. After all, Rose is right: if we don’t know what the dimensional key is, we won’t recognize it when we follow Magnussen into the past. Lucy’s all googly-eyed for you, so it should be no problem to convince her to let us scour Erebus Castle for clues.” James’ cheeks had heated a bit at that. “She’s not googly-eyed for me. She’s my cousin, if you remember.”

“Have you taken a good look at her lately?” Zane had asked, cocking his head and pointing at his face. “Not much of a family resemblance. I’d guess the only blood you share is the blood pudding you all put away last Weasley family picnic.”

“Shut up,” James had protested. “You’re daft.”

Ralph had shrugged with one shoulder. “I think he’s right, James. Even Rose and Scorpius say so. Rose says Lucy’s been sweet on you ever since last year.” James hadn’t been able to argue it any further. He knew that it was true, as uncomfortable as it made him. He was, however, a little rankled about the fact that he’d been, apparently, the last person to find out about it. He couldn’t quite bring himself to manipulate Lucy’s feelings for him (whatever they were) to get a tour of Erebus Castle, but maybe if he just asked nicely, that would be enough. After all, she was his cousin. They’d always gotten on very well, which was more than he could say for some of his other cousins, particularly Louis. Why would Lucy say no?

Silently, James cursed himself for having asked Lucy to go to the Halloween Ball with him.

Why hadn’t Zane and Ralph warned him since they had all apparently known how Lucy felt about him?

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“We’re almost there,” Lucy said from the front seat of the car, turning to smile back at James.

“We’ll all be staying over at your parents’ flat for Christmas Eve. Won’t that be fun?” James nodded and forced a smile. “Sure, Lu.”

Next to him, Albus began making obnoxious kissing noises. James shoved him hard enough to knock his hat off.

Uncle Percy parked the car in an underground parking structure and led the troop to the silvery doors of a large elevator.

“Muggle condominiums,” he said disdainfully, pressing the up button. “Refitted for magical occupancy, thankfully, at least on the thirteenth floor.”

The doors swooped open and the group clambered inside. There was no thirteen on the bank of lit buttons, but Percy didn’t seem to mind. Producing his wand, he tapped the buttons for floor number one and floor number three. Immediately, the doors shuttled closed again, and the elevator lurched, rocketing upwards much faster than any elevator James had ever ridden before. His feet left the floor for a split second as the lift shuddered to a sudden stop.

“Here we are,” Percy said briskly, watching as the doors socked open once more. James had expected a hallway, but the lift apparently opened directly onto his parents’ flat. It was quite large and open, with high ceilings, heavy decorative woodwork, and a rather baroque chandelier hanging over the entryway. From the perspective of the open elevator, the living spaces all seemed to run together, forming an airy blend of kitchen, dining room, and parlor. James’ sister Lily was seated at the dining room table across from Izzy, a collection of half-decorated sugar cookies and coloured icings spread between them.

“They’re here!” Lily called, looking up and grinning.

Behind James, Percy sighed. “Being Head Auror,” he muttered, stepping into the high foyer,

“certainly has its perks.”

Shortly after their arrival, Uncle Percy left again, meaning to pick up Molly at the nearby magical elementary school and then collect Audrey at their flat. Ralph joined Lily and Izzy in icing duties, using his wand to recolour the icings with stripes, sparkles, and the occasional flashing Rudolph red. Izzy laughed out loud, which was not the sort of thing girls often did around Ralph.

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He appeared quite pleased with himself and James was glad. Lucy and Albus went upstairs to explore the bedrooms and stake out the best beds for themselves while James climbed onto a stool near the kitchen and pulled a plate of tiny mincemeat pies toward himself.

“Your father’s still at work,” Ginny, James’ mum, said with a hint of worry in her voice. She was in the kitchen, cooking madly, as she was wont to do whenever she was fretting. Back at Marble Arch, Albus had had a pet name for their mum whenever she got like this. “Look out,” he’d say, usually slamming the bedroom door behind him, “Hurricane Ginny’s on the rampage. Tie everything down before she blows in here and gives it a good cleaning.”

“That’s an awful lot of puddings,” James commented, peering over the countertop.

“Expecting the Harriers for dinner, are we?”

Ginny sighed and dusted her hands on her apron. She took a moment to look around at the crowded countertops. “You know,” she replied, “whenever Christmas comes around, I seem to forget that I’m not still a kid living at the Burrow, with Mum and me downstairs baking everything under the sun and my brothers eating it all up nearly as fast as we pull it out of the oven. Some habits are hard to break.”

James wished that they were having Christmas at the Burrow like they normally did. He asked, “Will we see Grandma and Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione and everybody?”

“We’ll probably talk to them by Floo,” Ginny answered, using her wand to stop a huge wooden spoon from stirring a bowl of dough. “But not until tomorrow after breakfast. It’s always so difficult to remember the time change and all. We’re lucky we’re connected to the international Floo Network at all. If it wasn’t necessary for your father’s work…” Her voice trailed away, distracted.

She pulled the refrigerator door open so quickly that the milk bottles rattled, and then stood staring into it, as if she’d forgotten what she was looking for.

“Where is Dad anyway?” James asked, frowning. “And Petra too?”

Ginny let the refrigerator door swing closed again and looked at James, her face tense. “He’s working,” she said, and then drew a brisk sigh. “I haven’t told your brother or sister this, James, so if you breathe a word about it to them, I swear I’ll blend cockroaches into your eggnog. If I don’t tell someone, though, I think I’ll burst. The fact is: your father’s on a raid.”

“Ah,” James said, nodding. “And you’re worried about him.”

“Nonsense,” she lied unconvincingly. “Your father can take care of himself. With any luck, he’ll be home within the hour. It’s a big night for him. If all goes well…”

“Who’s he raiding?” James asked in a low, eager voice. “Did he track down those W.U.L.F.

nutters?”

“Shh!” Ginny rasped sharply, and then visibly calmed herself. “Sorry. Yes.” She came over to meet James at the little breakfast bar. “I’m so nervous lately. Those Magical Integration Bureau men were bad enough, lurking in their black cars on the corner, watching our windows, following your father around when he so much as goes to the store for milk and bread. Now, there’re people from 318

the American legal administration as well, hovering about like bats in their black cloaks and hats.

They’re worse, since you never know where they are. If tonight goes well for your father, though…”

“What’d he find?” James prodded, eyes wide. “Did he track down the people who attacked us on the train?”

Ginny shook her head, more in wonderment than negation. “It’s huge,” she whispered, “this Wizard’s United Liberation movement. It wasn’t just the attack on the Zephyr. They were the ones who hired those pirates to waylay us during our voyage. They’ve been dead set against us being here at all, and for good reason. Titus Hardcastle and your father have been tracking them for months, even calling in some favors with Draco Malfoy at Gringotts. I’m amazed that Draco helped at all, considering how much trouble he could get into if his goblin bosses found out. There’s financial support going into the W.U.L.F. from all over the world, but the base is right here in the United States. Titus and your father followed the money and finally found the organization’s underground headquarters. A group of American wizarding police are helping your father right now. With any luck, they’ve already descended on the place and rounded up the ringleaders.”

“Wow,” James breathed, impressed. “I wish I could see it!”

Ginny shuddered. “Ugh, not me. I can barely stand to think of it. All of those awful people, and your father right in the middle of them.”

“Dad can take care of himself,” James grinned, mimicking his mother’s words. “Remember?

Nobody out-Aurors him. Those W.U.L.F. gits will be spending Christmas in Azkaban.” Ginny nodded. “I’m sure you’re right. But I doubt they’d send them back home for that.

They’ll do their time here in the States. I can only hope that they find that poor Muggle senator and rescue him. Who knows what they’ve filled his head with by now, assuming he’s, er…”

“Still alive?” James suggested.

“Don’t talk that way,” his mum shuddered again. “Go and say hello to Petra, why don’t you?

She’s up in her room. First door on the right.”

James nodded and dropped lightly from his stool. Tramping up the stairs, he heard Albus and Lucy talking nearby, their voices echoing into the hall. The second door on the right was cracked open, but the room beyond was dark. James knocked lightly on the door.

“Hey Petra,” he called softly, not wishing to wake her if she was napping. “Happy Christmas.

Come downstairs and help me eat some of these desserts, eh?”

The door creaked open a little at James’ knock. He peered inside with one eye. In the dimness, he could see two narrow beds and a dresser. One of the beds was rumpled, the pillows humped together haphazardly.

“Petra?” James called again, pushing the door further open. The room was empty, although the bed certainly appeared to have been recently occupied. He frowned into the room, and then turned and retreated back into the hall. He followed Albus and Lucy’s voices until he found them in a bedroom near the end, kneeling on the floor next to a pile of wrapped presents.