JAMES POTTER AND THE VAULT OF DESTINIES

about you, Petra?'

       'I spent most of the day applying for jobs here on campus,' Petra sighed wearily. 'I don't need much money, after all. Even teacher's assistants get free room and board, and can even take graduate level classes for no charge. Izzy can stay here with me and go to the little faculty grade school on campus. I might go for my T.O.A.D. certification and become a professor myself. If I can get in somewhere, that is.'

       'Who wouldn't hire you?' James asked as the four made their way into the seating area. 'You're a genius no matter how you look at it! Why, they'd be a bunch of sodding blockheads not to see that.' He stopped himself and reddened, suddenly fearing that he might be making his point a little too enthusiastically.

       'Thanks James,' Petra replied. 'Here's hoping. I'll probably know by the end of the week. The truth is I'm feeling pretty confident. The Headmaster put in a good word for me with some of the department heads.'

       'He did?' James asked, wide-eyed.

       'You seem surprised,' Petra said, looking at him a bit quizzically.

       'Well,' James said, looking away, 'no. Er, of course not. I mean, Merlin, he's got a lot of pull, doesn't he?'

       Petra shrugged. 'He's Merlinus Ambrosius.'

       The four made their way into a row near the front, squeezing past a gaggle of Pixie House girls in pink sweaters, who peered narrowly up at James and Ralph's plain black ties.

       'Pledges,' one of the girls muttered. 'They should have their own seating section in the back.'

       'Oh wait,' another of the girls said, raising a hand to her lips in mock surprise, 'they do!'

       'We know the professor,' James said loudly. 'The one who's giving the speech? That bloke? Yeah, we came with him.'

       'I wouldn't have guessed,' the first girl responded. 'Your accent didn't give you away at all.'

       Ralph peered sideways at the girls as he sat down. 'We don't have accents,' he muttered. 'They do. Daft Americans.'

       'Shh,' Petra shushed, smiling. 'We don't want to make an international scene.'

       'There's Lucy,' James said, turning around in his seat. 'And Albus. They're sitting with Mum and Uncle Percy and Mr. Dolohov, a few rows back.'

       'So how's that whole Dolohov thing working out for you anyway, Ralph?' Zane asked, nudging the larger boy. 'I see you've stuck with the Deedle. Is that causing you any grief?'

       Ralph shrugged. 'I like the Deedle. I mean, I know it's not quite as dashing-sounding as Dolohov, but I just can't do it. I mean, you know the history of that family. I have a hard enough time living it down without taking the name.'

       'Yeah,' Zane nodded. 'I heard about what happened with you and Ted last year. I'm guessing he got most of that out of his system though.'

       'At least if he didn't,' James added thoughtfully, 'there's a whole ocean between him and Ralph now. And I hear werewolves don't much like the water.'

       'He's not a true werewolf,' Ralph said, shaking his head. 'He's a Metamorphmagus with certain wolfish tendencies, but still, yeah, I'm not too upset about having an ocean between us.'

       Zane sighed and settled back into his seat. 'I bet trying to live with two names is tough, either way. I don't envy you, Ralphinator. Hey, that makes three names you've got!'

       'You're the only person that calls me that one,' Ralph said, rolling his eyes.

       Next to James, Petra remained silent. Ralph, James remembered, was not the only person living with two names. Petra had changed her own name in the wake of the ordeal at her grandfather's farm, deciding to call herself, simply, Morgan. She hadn't insisted that everyone change how they refer to her, but James had a sneaky feeling that in her heart, she couldn't shake her new name any more than Ralph could shake the name Dolohov. James didn't know what it all meant, but it worried him a little.

       It was almost like Petra had two different personalities. One was the Petra that he had known for the past couple of years, the happy girl and bright student. The other, however, Morgan, did eerily powerful magic without the aid of a wand and very well might have killed someone. James couldn't help wondering if, just perhaps, those two sides of Petra's personality were at war with each other. More importantly, which side, if any, was most influenced by that last haunting shred of Voldemort's lost soul? And how might it influence Petra's internal struggle?

       James' worried thoughts were interrupted at that point as a figure emerged onto the brightly lit stage before them. The house lights went dim all around and the crowd fell gradually silent.

       'Ladies and gentleman, students, faculty, and visiting friends from the magical community,' the man said, smiling. He was tall and lean, with shiny black hair framing his ruddy face. 'Welcome. My name is Professor John Sanuye, and I am the Head of the Flora Department here at Alma Aleron. I am pleased to say that we have procured one of the world's foremost experts on magical botany, a man whose fame precedes him, even among those who have not read his very interesting treatise on the thousand and one uses of common marsh ferns and mosses. Please welcome for tonight's discussion Mr. Neville Longbottom.'

       Sanuye applauded and beamed as Neville stood from his seat in the front row. Before climbing the stairs to the podium, he turned and smiled sheepishly back at the crowd. It was not a large theater, but James was quite surprised to see that it was very full, with students crammed into the back on folding chairs, and even standing in the entryway. They applauded, but there were very few smiles in the room.

       Neville climbed the stairs and produced a small stack of notes from the pocket of his robes. He cleared his throat and peered out over the podium, smiling nervously. James felt a pang of discomfort for the professor. Neville was clearly terrified of speaking before such a large audience.

       'Ahem,' he said, clearing his throat again. 'Thank you all for coming. I am, er, quite honored and, frankly, surprised by the turnout. In the country from which I come, herbology is not a subject that commands such, er, enthusiastic adherents.'

       A murmur of laughter rippled over the room, taking Neville by surprise. He blinked and smiled before going on. 'I've, er, come tonight prepared to speak on some of the newer avenues of magical botanical research, which are, er, advancing our understanding of such studies as potionmaking, medicine, wand-creation, and even wizarding philosophy and ethics.'

       Neville grew more confident as he spoke and James found himself growing quickly bored. As much as he liked Professor Longbottom, he always found his classes exceedingly, almost painfully dull. Tonight's speech was no different except for the fact that James didn't need to pay attention for the sake of a grade. His thoughts began to wander, as did his eye. The rest of the audience watched Neville with varying degrees of alert interest, polite boredom, and, in a few cases, frowning concentration. In the front row, James was surprised to see his dad leaning aside and whispering to a man that James didn't know. The man smiled as Harry whispered to him, and then laughed silently, his eyes twinkling. Strangely enough, the two seemed to be very familiar with each other, as if they were long lost friends. James made a mental note to ask his father about the man later.

       Eventually, Neville produced a series of photographs, which he temporarily enlarged with Engorgio spells. The photographs were magical of course, but since they were mostly of plants, they didn't move. The only interesting one was of a strange tree with long tentacle-like branches tipped with snapping jaws, rather like large Venus Flytraps. The tree, which Neville called a Moroccan Fanged Viperthwip, writhed and snapped its many jaws in the photo, commanding a gasp from some of the observers in the front rows. Near the end of the speech, Neville produced a small plant of his own, withdrawing it from his robes like a long green snake. The root-ball was tiny, about the size of a walnut, clutching a neat spoonful of earth. Neville set the