G. Lippert - JAMES POTTER AND THE VAULT OF DESTINIES

"So where are we going?" James asked Zane.

"Beats me," Zane replied happily. "But anything that gets us out of the classroom for a day is a good thing in my book."

Ralph glanced aside at James as they descended past the dance studio. "Are you worried about this afternoon's match?"

"Not really," James said, his voice betraying his own surprise. "Maybe I'll get nervous later, but for now, I'm just looking forward to it. We've been practicing for most of the week. I'm ready to finally see a match in action."

"I'll be rooting for you this time out," Zane said bracingly. "You're only playing the Igors. Next week you'll be up against Zombie House, though. I'll have to put on the yellow and black for that. No hard feelings."

"What position do you play, then?" Ralph asked Zane curiously, but the blonde boy laughed and shook his head.

"I'm a first-string bleacher bum," he replied. "You didn't really think I was on the Zombie Clutch team, did you?"

Both Ralph and James were surprised. "Yes?" James answered, blinking.

Zane laughed again. "You flatter me, both of you. I never got the hang of a skrim. Call me a purist, but when I'm a hundred feet off the ground, I want both hands wrapped around something solid. You air surfers are totally nuts if you ask me. I play for the Zombie Swivenhodge and Quidditch teams, but nobody really cares about them. It's mostly just for fun, not that we don't try our best to kill each other out on the pitch. Clutch is where the real rivalries are here at the Aleron."

As the class reached the main foyer of the Tower of Art with its curving bank of stained glass doors, Professor Baruti stopped and waited for the students to gather around. Humming to himself, he dug in the pocket of his colourful, complicated robes. When he withdrew his hand, he was holding a small envelope.

"Miss Worrel," he nodded to a girl in the front. "Perhaps you'd be willing to do the honors. I'd do it myself, but alas, it only works on the breath of a young lady. Many dried potions are tricky that way."

Emily Worrel, a skinny Igor girl with very thick glasses and mousy brown hair, took a step forward. "What do I need to do?" she asked timidly.

"When I give you the signal," Baruti said gravely, holding up a finger, "blow as hard as you can, just as if you were blowing out the candles on your birthday cake. Can you do that?"

Emily shrugged and glanced around nervously. "I guess so."

Baruti smiled again. Deftly, he upended the envelope and poured a fine white powder into the palm of his right hand. Holding it carefully level, he pushed one of the stained glass doors open, admitting the sound of the rain on the steps outside. Holding the door open, he winked down at the Igor girl.

"Now, Miss Worrel."

The girl drew a breath, leaned forward, and blew as hard as she could. The dried potion powder swirled up out of Baruti's hand and flew through the doorway, forming complicated eddies in the wet air. As it merged with the rainy breeze, however, the powder changed. It sparkled and glowed faintly, spreading but not diminishing, forming a sort of dome of light, laced faintly with rainbows.

"A trifle," Baruti admitted with a smile, "but a useful one. Thunder powder mixed with a pinch of leprechaun gold dust. You can mix it yourselves, using the ratios found on page fifty-one of your textbooks." He stepped out under the faintly shifting glow and looked up. No drops of rain fell on him despite the strengthening storm. A moment later he glanced back at the students gathered just inside. "Come, come!" he waved them forward with a laugh in his voice.

Zane shrugged. "Professor Fugue never did that," he announced heartily, and stepped out into the rain. James and Ralph followed, and soon the entire class was threading through the wet campus, completely dry despite the increasing rain. A few older students, late for their own classes, ran past with their book bags held over their heads, their feet casting up dreary splashes on the footpaths. Baruti walked sedately, humming to himself again, while the rainbow-laden glow followed overhead, absorbing the rain with a sort of sparkling hiss. The class babbled happily and clustered around Emily Worrel, who grinned sheepishly and shrugged.

"I didn't know I had it in me," James heard her say.

James found himself drifting toward the rear of the group, where Petra walked alone, her leather satchel still slung over her shoulder. She held a large black book under her right arm.

"So do you know where we're going?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "Professor Baruti never discusses his classes beforehand. He barely follows any curriculum at all. He hasn't said so, but I don't think he himself knows what he's going to teach from one day to the next. He only arranged this outing just last evening."

James nodded, thinking of the announcement regarding the earlier class-time that had come during breakfast that very morning. "So how is it working out with him?" he asked. "Are you liking being a teacher's assistant?"

"For Professor Baruti, yes, I am," Petra nodded. "He's unusual, but he knows his stuff, and he's more than willing to teach it to me. Potions was never my strongest suit, you know. Other magic… well, it sort of came naturally to me, so it was easy to rely on that alone. Now, though, I'm beginning to understand just how valuable potion-making really is."

"The professor is teaching you?" James asked, glancing aside at her. "Like, outside of classtime?"

Petra nodded. "He's teaching me loads of stuff, not just potions."

James felt a stirring of jealousy. He knew it was utterly stupid, but that didn't make the feeling go away. "What else is he teaching you?"

Petra smiled crookedly at him, as if she was reluctant to admit it. "Well, he's teaching me French."

" French ?" James blinked, surprised. "You mean, like, the language?"

"Of course, silly!" Petra laughed. "It's his native tongue. I've always wanted to learn it myself. It's a beautiful language and… I don't know. I just always thought it would be neat to learn. Like it might come in handy some day. Didn't you ever think it might be useful to know another language?"

"Er, yeah, sure," James lied, looking away and running a hand through his hair.

Petra sighed and hefted the book that she'd been carrying under her arm. "He has me reading this. It's in French, but since I'm already familiar with most of the stories, it makes it a lot easier to understand. He says it's the way he learned English, back when he was just a lad himself."

"What is it?" James asked, glancing down at the huge leather-bound book.

"It's a Bible," Petra replied, lowering her voice. " Les Saintes Écritures. When I was very young, my grandmother would read to me from her big family Bible. I remember those stories even better than I do the bedtime stories my Grandfather Warren told me at night. In some ways, Grandmother's stories were even more magical. Jonah and the whale, Daniel in the lion's den, even Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Or jardin d'Éden , as it's called in French."

James nodded. "My Aunt Fleur speaks French," he said, not knowing what else to say. "And so does my Uncle Bill now. He sort of had to learn, like, so he could understand what Fleur and Victoire were saying behind his back."

Petra put the big book under her arm again as they passed in front of the Archive. James glanced aside and saw that there were still a few guards, older Werewolf students in raincoats and tricorner hats, posted around the entryway. They'd been there ever since the attack on the Vault of Destinies, although James couldn't imagine what they were protecting, considering what had already been done. The Archive custodian, Mr. Henredon, was rumored to have been moved into a secret wing of the campus medical school, where he was ostensibly still frozen solid despite the Healers' best efforts. James glanced back at Petra, curious to know what she thought of the Archive's guards, but she wasn't looking at them. After a moment, in a very low voice, James asked, "Petra, are you still having dreams?"