G. Lippert - JAMES POTTER AND THE VAULT OF DESTINIES

In the shadows, Newt raised her hands swiftly, and the sleeves of her robes fell back, revealing surprisingly lean, strong arms. "Home economics is more than a mere class. It is the lifetime pursuit of only the most rare and powerful woman. A fierce, cunning woman, a witch whose wiles are without depth, whose motives are infinitely unplottable, and whose boundless potential is kept in check only by her own willing discipline…"

Lightning crackled from Newt's upraised wand and her fingertips, licking along the faces of the cabinets. Her voice lowered, but grew louder, echoing. "The sort of witch whose minions exist only at her tolerance, only to serve her unknowable whims, moved either by fear of her or love for her, forever beguiled and bewitched, whether they know it… or not !"

Thunder boomed suddenly in the enclosed space of the dungeon and a cold gust of wind swirled around the room, clapping the cupboard doors and snuffing out candles in the wall sconces. At their desks, students held onto their parchments and quills as the wind rushed over them, streaming through the girls' hair and flapping the boys' ties. A skeleton on a metal stand in the corner rattled and swayed. Its jaw clacked as if it was laughing. A moment later, as quickly as it had begun, the wind ceased. The lighting in the room returned to normal. With a series of small pops, the extinguished candles relit themselves.

"Does that answer your question, my dear?" Newt said sweetly, smiling in front of her desk once again, as if she had not moved an inch.

"Y-yes ma'am," Ralph said quickly, sitting bolt upright in his seat. "Clear as crystal."

"Good," Mother Newt replied warmly, her eyes twinkling. "Now where were we? Oh yes, the basic essentials of any magical kitchen, beginning with ladles. Do pay attention, students. There may be a quiz."

Forty minutes later, as the class shuffled out into the low hallway, each bearing a miniature poisonberry muffin that Mother Newt had helped them prepare in the classroom's goblinfire oven, Zane explained, "Ma Newt is the President of Pixie House. Theirs is the big gingerbready mansion, Aphrodite Heights, up on the hill behind the theater. She's a good example of why you don't want to underestimate a Pixie even if they do look like a bunch of frosted lemon cookies."

"I've met a few Pixies," Lucy said falling in line next to the three boys. "I don't think most of them are like Mother Newt. She's got issues."

Zane laughed. "Oh, you've got no idea. Trust me."

James eyed the miniature muffin in his hand. "Are these safe to eat? I mean… poisonberry?"

"It's just a name," Zane shrugged, adjusting his backpack. "Like plaguepoppies or deathshrooms. They're delicious. On the other hand, if anyone tries to get you to eat a blisscake… watch out."

"Have any of you seen Albus?" Lucy asked, climbing the stone steps to the Administration Hall's long foyer.

Zane nodded. "I saw him this morning in the cafeteria, following around a gang of senior Werewolves. They had him carrying all their trays, balancing them like it was some kind of circus trick. I was pretty impressed, to tell you the truth. He was levitating the last one with his wand between his teeth."

"He'll get in," Lucy said confidently. "Albus is tenacious when he wants to be."

"Tenacious is one way to put it," James commented, shaking his head.

At the Administration Hall stairs, Lucy bid the boys goodbye and headed off to the Tower of Art for her Wizlit class. As the three boys made their way across campus to the Applied Magical Sciences Building, a figure trotted up to them over a nearby lawn. James glanced aside and saw that it was Warrington.

"Hey Walker," he called. "Pledges. Hold up a minute."

James and Ralph stopped and began to mumble, "Yes, oh High Sultan Warrington, Leader of the—"

"Can it," Warrington interrupted. "Listen up. Your pledge dare is all set, and tonight's the night. You'll find everything you need in a trash can behind the common dorm. Look for the one with the big yellow 'Z' hexed onto its side. Walker, you get them started, all right? You'll know what to do. But don't help them!"

"Aye aye, captain," Zane said, smacking the back of his hand to his forehead.

"But tonight's Professor Longbottom's assembly," James said, turning to Zane as Warrington trotted away again. "We can't miss that!"

"That's this evening," Zane said, shaking his head. "When a Zombie says 'tonight', what he really means is, oh, sometime in the wee hours of the next morning. Get the picture?"

"Ah," James replied, frowning a little.

Ralph looked worried. "So what's the dare, then?"

"We'll know when we peek into the garbage can behind the common dorm," Zane answered simply. "No time now, though. We've got Mageography next, and Professor Wimrinkle is known to dock grades for tardiness. He's wound so tight he squeaks when he walks. Come on."

Mageography was held in a huge round room in the base of the Applied Magical Sciences Building's dome. The floor was terraced like an amphitheater, lined with tables and chairs. Enormous maps surrounded the upper reaches of the room, floating in bulky gilded frames. James was not surprised to see that the map images, most of which were ancient, hand-drawn in faded browns, reds, and greens, moved very slightly. They were enchanted, of course, showing the movements of the rivers and oceans, and even the ant-like crawl of tiny boats and magical vehicles.

"I hear that if you use a special magnifying glass," Zane whispered, heading toward a seat in the middle terrace, "that you can see tiny people moving in the cities and stuff. You could probably even find yourself if you looked hard enough."

"That must be what my dad meant," Ralph replied thoughtfully. "He told me that one of the purposes of school was to find yourself."

James groaned and Zane rolled his eyes. Ralph looked affronted.

As the three settled into their seats and produced their parchments and quills, James saw Albus saunter into an entrance on the other side of the room. He spotted James, Ralph, and Zane and waved, grinning. Behind him, a tall boy in a slate grey uniform gave him a little shove. Albus lurched forward amiably and moved to a seat in the front row followed by three severe-looking Werewolf House students. One of them was the dark girl that had met them outside of the Administration Hall the previous day.

"Looks like Al's doing all right," Zane muttered.

James peered down at his brother. "How can you tell?"

Zane shrugged simply. "No bruises that I can see. Always a good sign with Werewolf House."

Professor Wimrinkle entered the room from a door near his desk. He was very old, stooped, and wore very thick black spectacles which magnified his eyes so much that he looked rather perpetually surprised. He placed his leather portfolio neatly onto the desk and, without preamble, announced in a loud voice, "Number four nib quills, please, and a single sheet of forty weight parchment. Today: the Nile Delta and surrounding lowlands."

The professor adjusted his glasses studiously as one of the maps drifted down from the upper reaches of the room, moving into place behind his desk.

"For new students, I will only say this once: I do not allow Quick-Quotes Quills or recording charms in this class. You will pay attention, and you will kindly take your own notes and draw your own maps. As the rest of you know, there is no point in my telling you that talking out of turn is forbidden in my class. If you intend to receive a passing grade, you will be so busy keeping up with me that there will be no time for you to open your mouths. Questions will be submitted to my secretary, where they will be answered during scheduled office hours. And now…"

Wimrinkle lifted his wand, which telescoped into a long pointer. He clacked its tip to a point on the map without looking. "The Nile river is generally considered to be the longest river in the world," he said in a loud monotone, "and the home to some of the magical world's most exotic and interesting creatures and fishes, none of which we shall be discussing. The river's flow rate is approximately thirty-seven thousand square feet per second, resulting in a geographical delta shift of fifteen degrees average every year, which in turn results in a hydromagical plottability meter of two point-oh-seven gigapokuses every eight years. As you might imagine, this leads to a terrain hexology rating of, can anyone tell me? Anyone?"