G. Lippert - JAMES POTTER AND THE VAULT OF DESTINIES

He stepped back and stared at the statue. The amber eyes glowed faintly and Albus wondered if perhaps it wasn't the collected light of the full moon that he saw glinting in those yellow orbs. Perhaps they were glowing on their own, powered by the same secret magic that connected the statue to the match even as it played on less than a hundred yards away.

And if it was connected to the match, was the match somehow connected to it ? Albus knew very well that while game magic was allowed in Clutchcudgel, outside ma gic was strictly forbidden. Nothing outside the boundaries of the figure eight course was permitted to influence the match in any way.

And yet…

Albus shook his head slowly, still frowning at the bronze statue. 'VICTORY TO THE WEREWOLVES', the plaque on its base read. Albus couldn't help wondering.

Was that merely a slogan? Or, perhaps—just perhaps—was it an incantation?

He didn't know. But he meant to find out.

For now, he turned and ran the rest of the way to the nearby grandstands, his breath pluming behind him in the cold, dark air.

It took less than a week for Albus to work out the secret of the Werewolf statue.

No doubt James would have been amazed by this (and later was, when Albus told him about it), but his cousin Rose would not have been surprised at all. While Albus was mainly known among his family as a rather sharp-tongued rogue and a bit of a malcontent, he was also, deep down, a very sharp boy with excellent instincts. Rose recognized these qualities because she had them herself. In fact, the main difference between the two of them was that Rose, like her mother, loved to read and had therefore supplemented her innate brightness with a wealth of knowledge. Albus, unfortunately, hated to read, thus his natural intelligence had been rather starved of the fuel it needed to thrive. For this reason, it was easy for those who knew him (including Albus himself) to conclude that he was a bit thicker than his brother and sister, despite his verbal wit. The truth, however, was rather the reverse.

The first thing Albus did was research a certain Mr. Stafford Havershift, whose generosity was apparently responsible for the statue that stood in front of Ares Mansion.

This proved to be rather easier than Albus could have hoped. The hall outside of the Ares Mansion dining room was dominated by a large glass trophy case packed with plaques, photos, newspaper clippings, and assorted memorabilia. One entire section of the case had been dedicated to Mr. Havershift, whose face smirked crookedly from a large framed photo in the center.

He was an almost absurdly good-looking man, with a prominent cleft chin, thick salt-andpepper hair, a chiseled nose, and bright green eyes. A cursory glance around the nearby shelves told Albus quite a lot. The man had played Clipper for Team Werewolf throughout his school career some twenty years earlier and had lead the team to a series of championships. According to the newspaper clippings, Havershift had been both an excellent athlete and a dedicated student, excelling at Potion-Making and Precognitive Engineering.

Albus wondered for a moment if the man had gone on to play professional Clutchcudgel, but then his eyes fell upon another newspaper clipping near the top right of the case: 'A ccident Sidelines Star Werewolf '. The moving black-and-white photo that accompanied the article showed two Clutch players colliding hard in midair, spinning out of the center ring with their pads and goggles flying. Albus scanned the first few lines of the article, gleaning just enough to learn that Havershift's right wrist had been shattered in the collision, struck by the other player's skrim. Apparently, there had been conjecture that the other player, a boy named Benoit from Vampire House, had deliberately struck Havershift in an attempt to remove him from the match.

Deliberate or not, the result was the same: Havershift's wrist had been healed as well as possible, but he had sustained permanent damage to the tendons of his hand, dramatically reducing his ability to use a wand. In one fell swoop, his career as a Clutchcudgel athlete had been ruined.

Regardless, the team had apparently gone on to victory and had granted Havershift a Most Valuable Player award, despite the bandages that still wrapped his wrist.

As Albus scanned the rest of the case for more clues, a shadow fell over him. Glancing up, he saw Professor Jackson, President of Werewolf House, standing over him, his dark brow steely as always.

"It's good to see you taking an interest in house history, Mr. Potter," the tall man said stoically.

Albus nodded. "Yeah, er, I've been walking right past this case for almost a whole year and I never really stopped to look at it." He glanced back at the glass shelves and pointed at the large framed photo. "You know anything about this bloke?"

"Stafford Havershift?" Jackson said, smiling a little incredulously. He chuckled and shook his head. "Of course, being from England, you might not be quite as familiar with him as the rest of us are. Mr. Havershift is the founder of Pandora Potions, the country's largest elixir and potionfabricating facility. His products are shipped the world over, everything from hair-colouring tonics to magical acids used by the military. I daresay you've probably got some of his products in your own toilet."

Albus shrugged. "Perhaps. So he's kind of a big deal here at Werewolf House, eh? Him being a former Werewolf and all."

"Indeed he is," Jackson nodded, turning serious. "His perseverance in the face of adversity is an example to us all. As a Clipper for Team Werewolf, he led us to our first string of tournament victories in many years. I was President of Werewolf House in that time as well and I remember it quite vividly. After his unfortunate accident, he swore that he would devote himself to the support of the team for his entire life, regardless of his inability to play. He graduated, founded Pandora Potions with the help of his father, and became a global success. And yet, despite his wealth and his international business obligations, he still finds time to stay involved here at Alma Aleron. He was chairman of the Werewolf Booster Troop for many years. Just over a decade ago, he donated the bronze werewolf statue you've seen standing before this very house."

"Is that so?" Albus replied evenly.

"He came for the dedication of it," Jackson added, straightening his back and nodding proudly. "It was a glorious day, attended by alumnus from decades past. There had to have been three hundred people on the slope of Victory Hill, which we had just regained after a very impressive tournament victory over Team Pixie. Mr. Havershift asked the current Clutchcudgel team to come forward so that he could have his picture taken with them and the statue. 'Stroke its muzzle,' he told them as they gathered around the statue, and I can still remember the pride in his smile, the twinkle in his eyes. 'Stroke it and see if it brings you victory,' he told them. That was the beginning of the tradition you yourself have surely witnessed. Am I correct, Mr. Potter?"

Albus nodded slowly, turning back to the smiling man in the photograph. It was a moving photograph, of course. In it, Havershift's grin was smug, confident, even a little mean.

Albus' instincts were clicking neatly into place. He didn't know as much stuff as Rose, but he was quick.

Here was a man, Stafford Havershift, whose chance at a senior-year tournament victory had been stolen away from him, along with much of the use of his right hand—his wand hand. This did not stop him, however. It barely even slowed him down. In classic Werewolf House fashion, the man apparently forewent wand magic and immersed himself into his second love: potion-making. Driven and probably ruthless, he succeeded wildly, all the while simmering in anger about what had been taken from him, about that last tournament victory that he had been unable to taste. In response, he had vowed to support Team Werewolf until his dying day—to help them achieve as many more of those victories as possible—and as a token of that support, he had donated a large bronze statue with mysterious amber eyes.