G. Lippert - JAMES POTTER AND THE VAULT OF DESTINIES

"We're going to the tournament!" Norrick cried out exuberantly, and the rest joined in, hooting and hollering, but James was less confident. Even as his fellow teammates cheered, he looked around and saw a table near the fireplace surrounded by the slate grey sweaters and scarves of Werewolf House. Clayton Altaire sat at the head of the table, staring at James with a small crooked smile. As James watched, the older boy raised a hand and pointed discreetly at James. He mimed shooting him and mouthed the word ' pow '. The rest of the Werewolves saw the gesture. They turned and grinned wickedly back at James, their eyes glittering narrowly.

James sighed, the celebration leaking out of his heart. Yo u may make it to the tournament, you little Squibs , the Werewolves' grins seemed to say, but then you'll have to face off against us , and we're a whole different cauldron of newts. We eat Squibs like you for breakfast.

James looked away, not liking those secretive, confident grins. Instead, he looked toward the Zombies on the other side of the room, gathered truculently around their own tables. Zane sat among them, looking equally morose, and yet when he saw James, he winked and shrugged a little. Like the Werewolves' grins, Zane's gesture seemed to speak volumes. Congratulations, pal , the little wink seemed to say, now comes the fun part.

James rolled his eyes, bemused. Even Zane's gestures managed to be sarcastic.

During the following days, James, Ralph, and Zane struggled to formulate a plan. Barring any unforeseen disasters, it seemed that the Bigfoots would—amazingly enough—play in the final tournament match. For most of the team, this accomplishment was success enough. James, of course, had a different goal in mind. It was essential that the Bigfoots not only meet Team Werewolf in the tournament, but that they defeat them. Only then would Apollo Mansion relocate onto Victory Hill, replacing Ares Mansion and thus completing the dimensional keyhole. But how could it be done?

It would have helped if the Werewolves' record had been even slightly imperfect. Where Team Bigfoot (to no one's greater surprise than their own) had managed to scrape together a record of four wins and three losses, barely clinging to a second-place standing, Team Werewolf was as yet undefeated. Worse yet, all but one of the Bigfoots' victories had been breathtakingly close, including two technical wins by tie. The Werewolves, however, had easily dominated every match, usually leading by double digits at halftime and proceeding to send in their second-string players for the last quarter while the starters actually left the platform, descending to their locker cellar and changing out of their pads and jerseys. The sheer arrogance of it all added insult to injury and formed the final sting of the Werewolves' game of psychological warfare—a game they alone played with nearly eerie ease.

" Every team has a weakness," Zane insisted, pounding the arm of one of the sofas in the Bigfoot game room. "Even the Wolves."

"Probably, but nobody's found it yet," Ralph said with a sigh. "They just seem to play a totally solid game. No chinks, no weak links."

James shook his head as he looked down at the floor between the sofas. The disarmadillo waddled idly past a nearby coffee table, sniffing the carpet, two empty licorice soda bottles balanced amusingly on its plated back. Zane sat up and added his own empty bottle to the collection.

"That doesn't mean they don't have a weakness," he said darkly. "It just means they're hiding it behind all that stupid arrogance. Their best offense is psyching everyone out so much that they win even before the match starts."

"Maybe," James admitted. "But then again, maybe that's their weakness. Maybe they really aren't as good a team as everyone believes they are. Maybe Altaire and his goons have just succeeded in convincing everyone that the Werewolves are so good that the other teams just get nervous and throw the game. Has that ever occurred to you?"

Zane considered it. "It's a theory, at least," he acknowledged. "So you're saying that if you can convince the Foots that Team Werewolf is more bark than bite, then maybe you'll take the Wolves' best weapon right out of their paws?"

"Couldn't hurt," Ralph nodded. "Either way, right? I mean, psyching-out can work both ways. If it's true that Team Werewolf can psyche other teams into playing worse, then it's also true that we can psyche ourselves into playing even better . Stands to reason."

Zane pressed his lips together thoughtfully. "But you'll need more than words to convince your guys that the Werewolves are just a bunch of sheep in wolves' clothing. You'll need something concrete, something they can rally around. Some secret weapon or something, even if it's just a symbol."

"Like that stupid bronze statue that Team Werewolf rubs on their way to every match," Ralph concurred, becoming excited. "But different. Something that will really make the team believe they have an ace up their sleeve."

James was thoughtful, his eyes narrowed as the disarmadillo lumbered under his outstretched legs, knocking the bottles from its back. Zane and Ralph looked at him.

"What are you thinking?" Zane asked, raising his eyebrows.

James mused, "I'm thinking that maybe the Werewolves do have a weakness after all. I mean, besides their overconfidence."

"What's that?" Ralph asked.

James smiled slowly and a little wickedly. "Do you think that there is anyone on campus, apart from their own housemates, who want Te am Werewolf to win the tournament?"

Zane blew a breath out through pursed lips. "After a decade of being undefeated? And after all the humiliations they've handed out for the last few seasons? Not likely. In fact, I'd bet that everyone in every other house would pay good money to see the Wolves get clobbered this year. Why?"

James was still smiling mischievously. "Do you think," he asked quietly, "that they'd be willing to help make it happen?"

It was a simple enough plan, and James admitted, somewhat grudgingly, that he was just the person to pull it off.

Two years earlier, during his first term at Hogwarts, James had learned something about himself. He was not like his father. This was not a bad thing, really (although for some time he had sorely believed it was). It did mean, however, that James had to find other methods to get things done. His father, as a young man, had succeeded by rushing pell-mell straight into the arms of danger, usually flanked only by his mates, Ron and Hermione. This had worked for him because he was, simply put, the child of destiny. He was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

James, on the other hand, was just a kid. His attempts to manage adventures entirely on his own had failed rather miserably. Like Team Bigfoot, James had only succeeded narrowly, often by the slightest of margins, and always with the help of the people around him. This had finally convinced him of the reality of the kind of person he was. Rather than attempting to manage things entirely on his own as his father had, James had learned (at least in a few instances) to ask for help.

He had first done this by asking the Gremlins to assist him, Ralph, and Zane in the great broomstick caper, when they had believed that Tabitha Corsica's broom had been the legendary Merlin staff in disguise. The caper had failed (in the fundamental sense that the broomstick had not, in fact, been the Merlin staff ), but it had worked excellently in actual practice; James had succeeded in pilfering the broom, at least for a few minutes. Later, of course, James had asked Merlin himself to help them in ridding Hogwarts of the pesky (but dangerous) Muggle reporter, Martin Prescott. That, incredibly, had worked exceptionally well. Grudgingly, over the next year, James had learned that this was his fate. He was not a hero so much as he was a manager. He asked for help. Not always, of course, and probably not even as often as he should, but when he did, things seemed to work out much better.