JAMES POTTER AND THE VAULT OF DESTINIES

'Nothing in the eye sockets,' Zane said, leaning close. 'Just dust and a few cobwebs. Maybe somebody did beat us to it.'

       'The riddle said that the Nexus Curtain was within the eyes of Rowbitz,' James mused. 'Maybe it means that it's somewhere where the skeleton could see it?'

       Zane shrugged. 'Skeletons can't see anything, technically.'

       James ignored Zane and peered at the padded silk of the inside of the casket's lid. He touched it tentatively, feeling around for any hidden shapes.

       'Hey!' Zane announced suddenly, leaning low over the casket again. James gasped and bent over the skeleton, following his friend's intent gaze. Zane pointed at the skeleton's left hand.

       'He graduated in eighteen ten! Look! It's right there on his class ring. He was in Aphrodite Heights. Wow, I wouldn't have guessed him for a Pixie.'

       James sighed and straightened again. 'Great. Well, this looks like another dead end.'

       'Hah hah,' Zane grinned, nudging James with his elbow.

       'Let's go. I'm freezing,' James said, lowering the casket's lid with another long creak. 'Maybe there isn't anything to all of this after all. Maybe Magnussen was just playing with Franklyn, giving him meaningless hints.'

       Zane shrugged and extinguished his wand. Both boys turned and crept back out into the night.

       'Ralph?' Zane rasped loudly, glancing around.

       'Where is he?' James asked, peering around as well. 'I thought he was going to be sitting here under this —' He stopped, noticing a dark shape lying flattened on the frosty ground beneath the elm tree. It was Ralph's cloak. Zane saw it too and glanced up at James, his eyes widening.

       'Ralph?' James whispered, peering around at the shadowy gravestones. Suddenly, the graveyard seemed to be packed full of hiding places and dark recesses, where any number of awful things might be watching, preparing to pounce. Nervously, James rasped, 'This isn't funny, Ralph!'

       A noise came from behind the nearby elm tree: a heavy thump. Both boys jumped and grabbed at one another.

       'Ralph?' Zane asked, his voice quavering.

       Another thump sounded, closer this time. James and Zane began to back away, peering around for the source of the strange noises. The graveyard sat perfectly still, as if watching them. An owl hooted suddenly, sounding very loud and horribly mournful. James looked about wildly, his hair prickling.

       'Ralph?' Zane whispered once more, still gripping James' elbow. 'Is that you?'

       Suddenly, both boys backed into a large, solid object. They stopped, eyes bulging. Slowly, terrified, they turned around, and looked up.

A very tall, vaguely human shape loomed over them. The skin of its face was papery, partly rotted away, revealing the mottled skull beneath. Two large bony hands raised slowly into the air, hooked into claws, and a deep rattling voice emanated from the thing's throat.

       'Get… out… of… my… yaaard!' it said menacingly.

       James and Zane nearly collapsed in terror, scrambling away from the awful figure. Just then, however, another voice spoke up some distance away.

       'That's what he told me at first too,' the voice said, speaking as if through a mouthful of biscuit. James tore his gaze from the figure that loomed over him, seeking the source of the second voice. Ralph stood in the open doorway of another mausoleum, happily munching a large pink sugar cookie. He shrugged. 'He's really just a big softie. Name's Straidthwait. Says he used to be president of your house, Zane.'

       'Charles Straidthwait,' the zombie introduced himself once the three boys were seated inside his mausoleum. Despite his morbid appearance, the figure's speech had a disarming Southern lilt that Zane later claimed was a Charleston, South Carolina accent. 'Former President of Hermes House, Arithmatics professor, retired, at your service. You'll have to excuse me for all that creeping and thumping and grumpiness. Comes with the territory, I'm afraid.'

       'He's the one I told you guys about,' Zane enthused happily, accepting a cup of hot coffee from the shambling figure. 'He's the Zombie House President that traveled to the darkest jungles and got himself turned into the real thing!'

       'A word of advice,' Straidthwait nodded, easing himself into a chair, 'never accept any smoking 'peace potions' from a witch doctor whose hut you've accidentally burned to the ground. Long story. Suffice it to say, here I am, dead and loving it.'

       'I've seen your mausoleum loads of times,' Zane said, grinning, 'but the door was always closed and everything was quiet. We all just assumed that you spent all your time sort of sleeping or something. Like being a real-life zombie was just a big long Rip Van Winkle nap, like!'

       'If only that were so,' the undead teacher lamented. 'I've had trouble sleeping for the last decade or so. I don't have any trouble getting to sleep, mind, but I wake up early, usually after only three or four months. Age takes its toll. Er, I do apologize,' Straidthwait said, leaning forward and plucking something from the edge of Zane's saucer. 'Pinky finger,' he said apologetically, holding the digit up. 'Keeps coming off lately. Maybe you boys would be kind enough to bring me some plumber's putty and tape if you decided to come by again?'

       Ralph nodded. 'Nice place you have here, I gotta say. I'm surprised.'

       'No reason you should be,' Straidthwait replied, looking around at the cramped space. It was, indeed, rather nicely laid out, with four upholstered (if slightly moldy) chairs, a small ornate coffee table, and two kerosene lamps, all arranged upon a threadbare oriental rug. Straidthwait's coffin lay open on its shelf, neatly made like a bed. In the corner nearest the door sat a tiny potbelly stove, supporting a kettle and a small tin percolator. It was almost unbearably hot inside the stone mausoleum, but none of the boys minded.

       'I dictated exactly how I wished to be interred,' Straidthwait went on proudly. 'Including an afterlifetime supply of iced cookies, coffee, tea, and condensed milk. Stuff goes straight through me these days, but I don't mind. Hard to experience indigestion if one no longer sports a stomach. Good riddance, I say. So who, may I ask, are the three of you, and what brings you out to my neck of the woods at such an hour?'

       Over the next few minutes, the boys introduced themselves and explained their mission to the patiently decrepit corpse of Professor Straidthwait, describing the attack on the Hall of Archives, Petra's alleged involvement, and their attempts to find the real culprits. Once James had finished relating the Disrecorded visions of Professor Magnussen and his two riddles, Straidthwait nodded to himself meaningfully.

       'I remember it well, actually,' he said, peering up at the ceiling with his one remaining eye. 'I was still a student when the Magnussen ruckus occurred. My friends and I, as well as most of the school, were completely maddened by it. It was one thing to break the code of secrecy and torture people. But to kill a defenseless Muggle woman, and one as young as Fredericka Staples…' Straidthwait shook his head slowly. 'Abominable. Unforgivable.'

       James asked, 'Did you know her?'

       'No, no,' Straidthwait admitted. 'Not until after it was over, when her name appeared in all of the newspapers of both the magical and Muggle varieties. After Magnussen's escape, there was a lengthy investigation by the Magical Integration Bureau, months and months of very ticklish interactions between the Muggle and wizarding powers that be. By the end of it, none of us would ever forget the poor woman's name or that of her murderer, that horrible psychopath, Ignatius Magnussen.'

       Zane sat forward in his chair. 'So what about this whole Roebitz riddle business? Do you think there's