G. Lippert - JAMES POTTER AND THE VAULT OF DESTINIES

The bell tower of Administration Hall swayed before him and he aimed for it, slaloming back and forth on the air currents. The wind felt almost like a solid thing all around him. It was as if the faster he flew, the steadier the skrim was beneath his feet, allowing him to lean dramatically from side to side with no sense of vertigo. The bell tower grew large with amazing speed and James swooped past it so closely that he saw his shadow flicker over the conical roof.

Instantly, he tucked and leaned, drawing the skrim sideways into a tight corkscrew turn. James spiraled downwards and banked toward a cluster of huge pine trees. The air of his passage startled pigeons from the trees and dragged a wake of loose needles and twigs out behind him, forming a pine-scented trail into the sky.

He leaned over the skrim again and dipped low over the blur of the campus. Students glanced up as he flashed overhead, pulling a shaft of wind behind him like an aftershock. Still he lowered so that his reflection raced him in one of the long pools that lined the mall. The gargoyle birdbath loomed ahead and James pulled sharply up at the last moment so that he shot through the spray of the fountain itself, exploding it into mist.

Laughing, he angled back again, rising and slowing, breathing a deep sigh of elated excitement. The campus unrolled beneath him until the stadium heaved into view once again, waiting for him. The rest of the class had finished their laps. They stood dumbstruck on the platform, holding their brooms at their sides, watching as James swooped expertly over them, lowering. Ralph and Zane stood on the edge of the platform, grinning madly and shaking their heads in wonderment. The small crowd opened beneath James, giving him room to touch down. Before the skrim touched the platform, James jumped nimbly off it, landing easily and collecting the skrim as it bobbed up alongside. He panted giddily, shook fountain water from his hair, and looked around at the class.

"Mr. Potter," Professor Wood called out sternly. James glanced around, and the smile dropped suddenly from his face. Wood's face was taut with severity. "I have exactly two questions for you, young man. The first is what detention do you prefer? Writing lines or scrubbing bathroom floors?"

James' face fell. "Er. Um," he stammered. "Writing lines, I guess?"

Wood nodded slowly. "Writing lines it is. See me in my office this evening."

James sighed. "Yes sir. Sorry. What's your second question?"

Wood's face turned very slightly thoughtful. James had the sudden sense that the professor was trying very hard to suppress a smile. In a more conversational tone of voice, he asked, "What size jersey do you wear?"

11. JARDIN D'ÉDEN

Professor Wood's Bigfoot office consisted of a small space in the corner of Apollo Mansion's basement game room. A single rickety desk sat near the giant old refrigerator, overlooked by the stuffed heads of Heckle and Jeckle. Both heads were awake and listening intently as Wood gave James his line-writing assignment.

"It's the principle of the thing, really," Wood said apologetically. "I can't be seen to go easy on you, James, especially if you are going to play for the Bigfoot Clutch team. A hundred lines should suffice."

"This isn't really lines, Professor," James said tentatively, looking down at the small booklet in his hand. The cover was grey with tarnished silvery letters embossed onto it, reading, 'Official Rules and Regulatory Overview of the Sport of Clutchcudgel by Quincy Dirk Triplington, Commissioner, United States Parochial Clutchcudgel League' .

"Lines are lines, cadet," a voice bleated nearby. James glanced up to see Heckle, the deer head, studying him severely. "May as well make them useful, eh?"

"Who are you talking to?" Jeckle, the moose head, inquired, raising his chin and bobbing back and forth on his short neck. A bell jingled faintly from where it hung on his antlers. "I can't see. Somebody replaced my glass eyes with ping pong balls again."

James saw that the moose head's eyes had indeed been replaced with a pair of large white balls, each hand-decorated with a cartoonish bloodshot pupil. He grimaced uncomfortably.

"Jeckle's right," Wood replied, sighing briskly. "No sense copying down meaningless repetitions. One hundred lines from chapter one, 'An Introduction to the Game', should do quite nicely."

"I'm Heckle," the deer head corrected tartly. " He's Jeckle."

" I'm Jeckle," the moose head agreed blindly, its bulging eyes peering in two different directions. "Who are you talking to?"

"This new cadet whose unnatural flying skills are going to give us a fighting chance in this year's tourney, you big antler-brain. Pay attention, why don't ya?"

"You know, you've been a real grump ever since they turned your body into stew," Jeckle sniffed, turning away.

"I don't even re member having a body, you nappy-furred sawdust-head," Heckle groused. "But at least I wa s tasty enough to eat. I hear they used your body for a big doorstop, but threw it out because it kept farting every time the door hit it."

"Anyway," Wood interrupted, turning back to James.

"I keep telling you," Jeckle insisted loudly, "I still have my body. It's just stuck on the other side of this stupid wall! If only I could break through, you'd see!" The moose head thrashed and grunted weakly.

Heckle rolled his glass eyes. "Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Moosey."

" Anyway," Wood said again loudly, throwing a warning look at the stuffed heads on the wall. Jeckle, of course, missed the look, and continued to twist back and forth, kicking his nonexistent legs. Heckle peered back at Wood with his brows raised challengingly, as if to say what are you going to do to me? I'm already a stuffed head on the wall.

"Moving along," Wood exhaled, turning back to James. "Clutch can be a rather complicated sport, but you'll catch on quickly since you already know Quidditch."

"Er," James began, glancing around, "I, uh, I didn't really, you know… play Quidditch. Official-like. As such."

Wood frowned. "What do you mean? You're on the Gryffindor team back home, right?"

"Not really on the team, exactly," James answered miserably. "I mean, I support the team, of course. From a distance. I, er, planned to make the team this year."

"But the way you flew…!" Wood said, shaking his head in wonderment.

"It's skrim-specific," Zane clarified from over a nearby couch, where he was watching with interest. "Trust me. I've seen James in action on a regular broom. Not bad, but not what anyone would call a broom wizard. So to speak."

"I saved him from certain doom the first time he tried out for the team," Ralph grinned from his place next to Zane, holding up his huge green-tipped wand. James rolled his eyes and glared back at his friends.

"Well then," Wood replied airily. "No matter, of course. You're quite keen on a skrim, which is the important thing. We can verse you on the specifics of the game over the next week, and your lines will help. We field a solid team, if I do say so myself. You may be just enough to push us over the top this year."

Zane screwed up his face in an effort not to laugh.

"We'll put you Zombies in your place!" Norrick announced brashly from a nearby easy chair.

Jazmine, the rather portly Veela, sat across from him. "Er, in the nicest possible way, of course," she said, and grinned sheepishly at Zane.

"It takes more than excellent flying to win at Clutch," Zane said lightly, not meeting Norrick's eyes. "Zombie's magic game is going to be especially strong this year. What do you Bigfoots have planned in that department?"