The Vault of Destinies (James Potter #3) (43 page)

"Fine," he called out, silencing them nearly instantly. "We'll run some laps on the Clutch course, just to warm up. After that, we'll go over passing streams and confined space landing techniques."

"Excellent," Zane enthused as the class cheered, drowning out the second half of Wood's statement. "We can get a little speed behind us up in the rings. It's good timing too. The first Clutch match of the season is only a week away."

"So what is Clutch anyway?" Ralph asked as the class followed Wood across the quadrangle, heading for the stadium parapets which were just visible over the roofs of Faculty Row. "Is it anything like Quidditch?"

"Not really," Zane answered, cinching up the corner of his mouth thoughtfully. "Clutchcudgel is sort of a cross between broom racing and rugby. Basically, you have a series of floating rings that form a big figure eight in the air over the field. The point is to catch one of the three Clutches, which are just flying leather footballs, and then zoom three times through the course as fast as you can. On the last pass, you toss the Clutch through the goal over the middle ring." James shrugged. "Doesn't sound too hard."

"Nope," Zane agreed. "Except for the Bullies. They're the guys on the other team whose job is to force you out of the rings and make you forfeit the Clutch."

Ralph nodded. "All right. But still, assuming you get past them, it's just a straight shot to the goal, right?"

Zane clapped Ralph on the shoulder. "Absolutely. Except for the Keeper. He carries a big wooden Cudgel, and he'll swat the Clutch right back at you if he can. Knock you right off your broom if you aren't careful. Bullies can carry Cudgels too, sometimes."

"And don't forget about the offensive and defensive spellwork," another boy called from nearby.

"Right you are, Heathrow," Zane replied. "The magic game is an essential part of the sport. Which is why the Zombies will rule the course this year."

"In your dreams, Walker," an Igor girl countered. "We'll clobber the lot of you at the first cross passage."

"Cross passage?" James asked, glancing aside at Zane, who waved a hand dismissively.

"Some of the Bullies will hang back during the first loop, just so they can meet you at the intersection and broadside you. You can usually duck under them, and most of them don't really have the guts to perform a true kamikaze."

 Igor
plenty
of guts," the girl grinned wickedly. "We just got a refrigerated shipment of them last Wednesday."

"Gonna whip yourselves up a squad of Frankensteins who actually know how to fly a Clutch course?" Zane asked brightly. "Or are you just hoping to spawn some dates for the Halloween banquet?"

The girl fumed angrily but couldn't seem to come up with a sufficient retort. Zane dismissed her airily.

Shortly, the class entered the shadow of Pepperpock Down, which consisted of a series of tall grandstands surrounding a neatly cropped field. Two wooden gantries faced each other in the center of the field, each topped with a broad platform and hung with house banners. A scattering of students sat in the grandstands, soaking in the autumn sunlight or chatting in small knots. At ground level, a group of college-aged Werewolves ran exercise drills, their grey tee shirts and sweatpants dark with sweat. Wood led his class across the pitch toward a door in the base of the right gantry.

"Grab a broom, everyone," he called, heaving the large door open and revealing a low, dark locker room. "Let's not be choosy. I want to see you all on the platform in five minutes."

James and Ralph were among the last ones into the musty space. The room was embedded into the ground beneath the field and framed in stone, with a low wooden roof. More house banners decorated the inside walls, most quite old and dusty. Hundreds of brooms were hung on pegs or stashed in large quivers. Babbling noisily in the cramped space, the students chose a broom each and began climbing a set of narrow stairs that spiraled up through the ceiling.

"Whoa," Ralph said, nudging James and pointing. "Look at those!"

James whistled appreciatively as he moved toward a set of shelves beneath the stairs. "Are those brooms? I've never seen anything like
that
before."

The objects lined neatly on the shelves were as long as brooms, but much flatter and wider, like fence planks that had been smoothed and polished. Their tails were streamlined and flattened, each bristle honed to a needle-like point. Some had been painted with garish designs and colours. They gleamed mellowly in the dusty light.

"Are we allowed to use these?" James asked, wide-eyed.

Ralph shrugged and grinned. "I don't see why not. I'd ask Zane, but he was one of the first ones up to the platform. Come on, let's give it a shot! They sure beat the house brooms back home!"

James nodded. Almost reverently, he picked up the closest of the strange brooms. It was painted glossy black with blue flames streaming from the front. Ralph took the one next to it, which was streaked with orange and black like a tiger's stripes. Held upright, each broom was slightly taller than they were. After a moment's admiration of themselves with their impressive brooms, both boys turned and followed the last of the class up into the open-air staircase.

A minute later, much out of breath, they climbed into the brightness of the platform high over the field. The grandstands didn't seem so very tall anymore as they ringed the field. The campus sprawled away into the hazy distance, topped by the bell tower on the roof of Administration Hall, which was the only thing higher than the stadium platforms. Glittering in the air over the field, James saw the rings that formed the Clutchcudgel course. The one in the middle was larger than the others, and topped with a second ring, smaller and shining silver—obviously the goal ring. A line of pigeons perched atop of the goal ring, watching the students where they gathered on the platform.

"All right," Wood said, clapping his hands together briskly. "Let's stretch our legs a bit, shall we? Three warm-up laps should do the trick. This isn't a competition, so let's avoid passing each other. Leaders cross on top at the intersection, followers keep below. Understood? Then let's be off."

With a curt nod, Wood straddled his own broom and kicked off, bobbing up into the air and passing through the nearest of the floating golden rings. The thought of taking off from such a high perch gave James a vaguely queasy feeling, but none of the other students seemed the slightest bit nervous about it. Like dandelion seeds in a breeze, they streamed into the air, following Wood as he navigated serenely through the course.

"Well," Ralph said, hefting his broom so that it bobbed next to him, "here goes nothing."

Both boys attempted to straddle the oddly-shaped brooms and immediately found them rather uncomfortable and awkward.

"Is it just me," Ralph said, bouncing on tiptoe toward the ledge of the platform, "or does something about this feel a little… backwards?"

Most of the rest of the class had already taken off, forming a long line that streamed through the rings, calling out chatter like birds on a telephone wire. Zane still stood on the edge of the platform, waiting his turn as the others launched ahead of him. He glanced back as James and Ralph hobbled into place behind him, and his eyes bulged.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" he hissed suddenly, alarmed. "What are you doing? Get off, quick, before anyone sees you!"

James blinked at his friend and then scrambled to get off of the odd broom. Ralph did the same, but seemed to be rather stuck. He tilted sideways, nearly falling off the broom onto the platform.

"You guys are lucky I'm the only one that saw that," Zane rasped urgently. "If anyone else saw you
sitting
on a
skrim…!
" He shook his head speechlessly.

"What?" James exclaimed in a hushed voice. "Wood said grab a broom! What's wrong with these?"

Zane rolled his eyes and smacked a palm to his forehead. "These aren't
brooms
!" he said, exasperated. "They're skrims! It's an American thing! I mean,
look
at them!"

"So what's the difference, exactly?" Ralph asked, annoyed.

"For one thing," Zane replied, "you don't straddle a skrim. You stand on it. For another thing, they're designed specifically for Clutchcudgel matches, not regular flying around!"

James threw up his hands. "How were we supposed to know? They were right there in plain sight!"

Zane sighed, still straddling his own broom. "Well, I guess there's no rule
against
using a skrim in class. It's just not something anyone
does
."

From across the open air of the course, Professor Wood's voice called out. "Hurry it up, you three! We're one lap down already."

"They've got skrims!" a girl cried incredulously. "I bet they don't even know which end's the front!"

There was a chorus of laughter as the line of students circled the platform, looping back toward the intersection. James watched and they watched him back, many of them smirking and shaking their heads. He glanced back at Zane, who shrugged and raised his eyebrows.

"Well, it's your funeral, mate. Go for it." With that, he kicked off himself, merging with the rest of the class.

"You aren't serious," Ralph asked in a low voice. "Are you?"

"Do they even teach flight at that poofy European school of yours?" one of the Werewolf students called out, grinning.

James set his face into a resolved frown, lifted his right foot and planted it onto the beam of the skrim. It bobbed slightly but remained steady.

"He's going to try it!" a girl yelled. "He'll plummet like a stone and bury himself in the field! Maybe he'll take some of those Werewolf upperclassmen with him!" She laughed shrilly.

Ralph raised his own foot and placed it awkwardly onto the tiger-striped skrim. "I can't help feeling like this is a really bad idea," he muttered to himself.

"Buck up, mate," James said. "At least it wouldn't be our first sport-related disaster."

Ralph glanced at him. "Last time I saved your bum. Who'll save
us
this time?"

"Maybe we can save each other. Or maybe this time we won't need any saving."

"So how do we do this?" Ralph asked, swallowing hard.

James shook his head. "I think," he said, steeling himself, "that you just don't think about it."

Before Ralph could respond, James drew a deep breath, coiled himself, and kicked off.

"Wait!" Ralph called out, but James was already gone. The skrim dipped sharply off the end of the platform, with James ducking low over it, and then, miraculously, it bobbed upwards again, wobbling wildly.

"He's doing it!" a voice announced incredulously. "So far, at least. Look at him dance!"

"James!" Wood cried from across the bright distance. "That's a skrim! What are you doing?"

"He's fine!" the Werewolf boy called, grinning meanly. "Look at him! He's a natural!"

There was a smattering of laughter. James struggled to keep his balance on the skrim as it bobbed and slithered beneath his feet, zigging out into the middle of the course. The field swayed far below, looking ridiculously distant and unforgivably hard. He gasped and nearly lost his balance. Instinctively, he closed his eyes, shutting out the sight and concentrating instead on keeping his balance. Amazingly, it worked. The skrim leveled out and ceased its terrible wobbling. James drew a deep breath, bent his knees a little, and relaxed his shoulders. Slowly, he slitted his eyes again, keeping them raised and refusing to look down. The line of broom-borne students strung out ahead of him, most looking back with curiosity and surprise.

"Well, I'll be jiggered," a fellow Bigfoot named Norrick announced, smiling. "Look at you, James! You're doing it!"

"He'll go over the side like a brick any moment now," the Werewolf boy called, his grin faltering.

James didn't
feel
like he was going to go over the side, however. In fact, the more he relaxed on the narrow beam of the skrim, the more he thought he understood the way the unusual broom worked. Unlike normal flight, operating a skrim was all about how he angled his feet and maneuvered his center of gravity. These were skills that had come naturally to him on the football field. Maybe the same thing that had made him good with the football would make him good at flying a skrim. Cautiously, he experimented with leaning forward, accelerating slightly. He angled around the student who flew in the rear, passing somewhat nervously. The student was a girl from Pixie House, her streaming blonde hair tied in an immaculate ponytail. She frowned at him with disbelief.

"No passing, please," Oliver Wood called from the opposite end of the course. James glanced aside at him as he flew, slowing slightly.

"Beginner's luck," the Werewolf boy proclaimed, looking back at James over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed. "Try that during a
real
match and see what happens."

James ignored the boy. He glanced down at himself, surprised at how well he was doing. Some part of him had suspected that he might actually be able to manage himself on a skrim. He hadn't known why, but now he thought perhaps he did. Potters were born flyers. He'd never understood it before, but then again, he'd never been given the opportunity to fly like
this
before. It felt perfectly natural, as if the skrim was simply an extension of his own body. Experimentally, he tried a little shimmy, and felt the board carve effortlessly back and forth beneath him, cutting the wind like a knife. He began to speed up again, passing the Werewolf boy.

"He's gonna lap you, Pentz!" another boy called from across the course. "The newbie's gonna show you up!" There was a hoot of laughter.

James saw the look in the boy's eye a moment before the grey-gloved hand lanced out. The Werewolf boy, Pentz, meant to smack the skrim as it passed him, knocking James off balance. Instead, his hand missed cleanly as James tilted his ankles, dodging momentarily out of the boy's reach. Both of them blinked in surprise. Pentz's face turned ugly, and he lunged out again, meaning to catch the end of James' skrim. James feinted away again, marveling at how easy it was. Pentz was growing furious. He lashed out again, lunging on his broom, and nearly rolled it over as James dipped down and away, grinning.