JAMES POTTER AND THE VAULT OF DESTINIES

       The meal was prepared by the house steward, a bald, hunched, painfully thin wizard whose demeanor usually hovered somewhere between veiled crankiness and outright hostility. Known only as Yeats, the steward had apparently been a fixture in Apollo Mansion for nearly seventy years and didn't seem to have any intention of retiring, ever. He was so old that he appeared to be in need of a good dusting, but he moved with a sort of grim economy that implied that if ever the need arose, he could probably tackle any single member of Bigfoot House with one of his large knuckly hands while flipping crepes with the other.

       'I hope this is to the young sir's liking,' he said through gritted teeth as he pushed their plates in front of them. 'Cheeseburgers and homemade potato chips. The cornerstone of any nutritious dinner.'

       'Thanks, Yeats,' Ralph said, digging in.

       'What is it about that guy?' Zane asked quietly as Yeats retreated slowly to the stove. 'Every time we ask him for something, I get the impression that he's barely restraining himself from hexing us into salt and pepper shakers.'

       James shrugged and munched a potato chip. They were still hot and sprinkled with some kind of crumbly blue cheese. 'Yeats is all right,' he said. 'Reminds me of home. He's like a grownup human version of Kreacher.'

       'He is!' Ralph nodded, his mouth full. 'I knew he seemed familiar. You're right. He does remind me of good old number twelve Grimmauld Place.'

       Twenty minutes later, the three boys made their way out into the darkening evening, Zane in the lead. James noticed that they were heading toward the Hall of Archives.

       'Just doing a little research, fellas,' Zane said to the Werewolf students who were still serving as guards around the Archive steps. 'Or do we need a permission slip signed in triplicate from the Chancellor himself?'

       'Just make it quick, Walker,' one of the Werewolf boys sneered. 'The Hall gets locked up at eight on the dot, whether you're out of there or not.'

       'Hey,' Zane grinned as he trotted up the steps toward the huge doors, 'that rhymed! You've been practicing that one, haven't you? You Werewolves are so stinkin' clever.'

       'Smile while you can, Walker,' another of the boys called. 'We'll see if you're still grinning this Friday night after your team meets ours on the Clutch course.'

       'Well, that didn't rhyme at all,' Zane admonished. 'Back to the doghouse with you.'

       The Werewolf boys bristled, but they were apparently too committed to their guard duties to abandon their posts. James and Ralph sidled up the steps behind Zane, avoiding eye contact with the older boys on either side.

       'So what are we going to do here?' James asked as they entered the round, darkened room of the Disrecorder. 'Even if there are any relics from Magnussen's time, they'd be in the restricted section of the Archive. We can't get in there, no matter how many Werewolves you insult.'

       'Au contraire,' Zane announced, producing a slim golden key from his pocket. James recognized it.

       'That's an Archive skeleton key,' he said, impressed. 'Just like the one Franklyn used when we went down to the Vault of Destinies. How'd you get that?'

       Zane shrugged. 'I've been planning things out for some time now. I figured that you'd eventually warm up to having a little extracurricular adventure. What do you think I agreed to go with Cheshire Chatterly to the costume ball for?'

       Ralph suggested, 'Because she looks excellent in a pink taffeta dress?'

       'Well, yes, there is that,' Zane answered thoughtfully, 'but that's not all there is to it. She's on the maintenance crew that works here in the Archive, and she's always been on Henredon's good side.'

       'I can see why,' Ralph nodded.

       James shook his head wonderingly. 'You nicked the key from her?'

       'No!' Zane exclaimed, offended. 'I just asked her for it. What kind of cad do you think I am?'

       'Sorry,' James replied, blinking.

       'I told her I needed to look up some famous old dancer so I could practice my steps for the ball. She about split in two. Gave me the key that very second.'

       Ralph whistled, impressed. 'You danced with a girl just to get your hands on that key?'

       'Anything for the cause,' Zane sighed. 'Come on.'

       Using the key, the boys opened the door to the inner archive. After some nervous slinking around, they finally found a gated section locked off with a large chain and padlock. A quick wave of the skeleton key and a tap of Zane's wand opened the padlock, however, and the three crept slowly into the dark chamber beyond.

       'It's so dark and dusty,' Ralph commented, keeping his voice unconsciously hushed. 'How are we going to find what we're looking for in all this?'

       'Cheshire told me how they catalog things in here,' Zane answered, holding his lit wand overhead. 'Date first, and then the name of the event or person. Look at the top of the aisles. Magnussen taught between eighteen thirty and eighteen fifty-nine.'

       'Over here,' James called, peering up at the shelves. The other two joined him and began skulking along the shelves, examining the myriad odd objects and blowing dust off their yellowed note cards.

       A shuffling sound surprised the boys. They froze in place, eyes wide, staring at each other.

       'Was that one of you?' James whispered.

       Ralph gulped. 'It wasn't me. It came from the aisle behind us.'

       'It was probably nothing,' Zane whispered, glancing around. Almost immediately, a faint thump sounded nearby. All three boys jumped. Slowly, James turned toward the sound, lifting his wand. He was barely breathing. As one, the three boys leaned around the end of the aisle, peering into the darkness beyond.

       Something pushed out of the shelf immediately next to James' face, mashing up against his cheek and making a noise like a tiny motorboat. He cried out and leapt into the air, dropping his wand and scrabbling at his cheek.

       'Patches!' Zane rasped, his eyes bulging.

       James spun around, heart pounding, and looked. Patches the cat stood on the shelf, purring noisily, his bullet head bobbing. There were cobwebs caught in his whiskers.

       'Patches, you rascal!' Zane declared, reaching to scratch the cat between the ears. 'What are you doing down here? You about gave James a heart attack!' He laughed nervously.

       'Seems to me you were pretty wigged out too,' James grumped, reaching to pick up his dropped wand. 'You try getting some great furry head and wet nose pushed into your face out of the dark and see how you feel about it.'

       'What's he doing down here?' Ralph asked, stepping forward to pet the cat himself. 'I thought he always hung out around Administration Hall.'

       Zane nodded. 'He does. I've never seen him anywhere else.'

       'Is it just me,' Ralph said, glancing sheepishly between Zane and James, 'or does this feel like kind of a bad jinx? Maybe we should call the whole thing off, eh?'

       James expected Zane to scoff at the suggestion, but when he turned to the blonde boy, he saw him studying the cat critically.

       'What's up, Patches?' he asked the cat where it still stood purring on the shelf. 'You here to grant us your blessing? Or are you going to rat us out to the big wigs back at Administration Hall?'

       The cat stopped purring almost immediately. He hunkered low and peered over the ledge of the shelf. A