The Curse of the GateKeeper (James Potter #2) (23 page)

Rose looked sideways at him. "Why would you say that?"

James shook his head. "It's a long story. But I'm telling you, there's something especially wicked about her. You probably wouldn't believe me even if I told you. Hardly anybody else does."

"Well," Rose replied, keeping her voice as even as possible, "maybe there's a good reason for that."

"Who's side are you on anyway?"

"Excuse me," Rose said, getting angry. "You mean am I on James Potter's side or Albus Potter's side? Because I didn't know I needed to choose."

James sighed hugely. "Just forget it. Sorry, Rose."

Rose looked at him for a long moment as they neared the courtyard gate. "Flying runs in the Potter blood, James. You can't know that Albus isn't just that good by his nature. The whole reason first-years are allowed to try out for Quidditch is because of how good your dad was his first year. But if there is something strange about that broom, or Tabitha Corsica herself, I'll be the first one to help you tell Albus about it. All right?"

James smiled wanly. "You promise?"

Rose nodded. Together, they entered the courtyard and climbed into the light of the main hall. Ralph was sitting on the bottom of the main staircase, waiting for them. James smiled.

"He flew it, I'm guessing," Ralph said, getting up to join them.

"How'd you know?" Rose asked.

"Albus and the rest just passed me on the way in to dinner," Ralph said. "Albus came over and told me to give you a message when you came in. He said he might just steal your place at the next family Quidditch match."

James rolled his eyes and glanced at Rose. "Don't you laugh," he said, pointing a finger at her.

"I didn't say anything," she replied, covering her mouth with her hand. "Come on. Let's get inside for dinner before they close the doors on us."

T
hursday morning, James and Ralph's first class was Wizard Literature. The classroom was a semicircular gallery attached to the rear of the library. Windows lined the curving wall, filling the room with morning sunlight. The new Wizard Literature teacher, Juliet Revalvier, sat at her desk, leafing through a large book as the students found their seats. Compared to most of the Hogwarts teaching staff, Professor Revalvier was relatively young and petite. Her dark blonde hair was cut shoulder-length, framing an open, friendly face. With her reading glasses on, James thought she looked a bit like a brainy pixie.

"Not you again," Ralph whispered as Rose slipped into the seat next to him.

"I specifically asked to test into this class if I could," Rose explained, pulling her Wizlit textbook out of her book bag. "I've got all of Revalvier's books on the classics of magical literature. You know, she even wrote a few novels herself, a couple of decades ago, although they were mostly marketed to Muggles under a made-up name. It was all a bit controversial."

"Yeah, I know about those," James said, remembering Cameron Creevey and his mention of the novelizations of the adventures of Harry Potter. "That was her, was it?"

"Well, her and a few other people. It was a test project, spearheaded by one of the big wizard publishing companies. I think the problem was that it was, if anything, rather too much of a success. The Ministry ended up getting involved and there was quite a hoo-ha. Apparently, publishing true accounts of the wizarding world as fiction in the Muggle world is a violation of the Law of Secrecy, although the Wizengamot never convicted her of anything. She was stripped of most of her royalties, which explains why she ended up here, teaching."

As if on cue, Professor Revalvier closed her book and stood, tucking her reading glasses into her robe. She consulted the clock on the back wall of the room and cleared her throat.

"Behold, what manner of worlds are these," she said, smiling a little and letting her gaze roam from face to face across the room, "that conjure from the souls of men so readily the primest keystones of the heart? How were wrought these realms that no hand can touch, yet spear to the foundation of all that is most genuine? Dare I declare the pedestal upon which these kingdoms arise and the bricks its walls comprise? Not stone nor wood nor precious jewels can stand the trials of time, further than the realms begotten of words and thoughts and rhyme."

The professor took a deep breath, then, in a different voice, said, "That was a quote from one of the magical world's oldest and most revered ballads, The Heraldium. There is no record of the author of that work, nor any reliable date of when it was penned. We know nothing of the time in which it was written: not who was king, not in what city it originated, not even the language that framed it. And yet the ballad itself persists. If there was any proof of the theme of the ballad—that there is no kingdom more beautiful, effective, and everlasting than the kingdom made of words—then that proof is The Heraldium itself, which has long outlasted the civilization that birthed it."

Out of the corner of his eye, James saw Rose scribbling notes feverishly. This, he knew, was just the sort of stuff she lived for. He looked down at his own parchment, which was still blank, and wondered if it was worth the effort to take his own notes, or if there was any hope of Rose letting him crib off of her.

"The magical world is very old, and therefore has a very rich literary history, as evidenced by the library adjacent," Revalvier went on, gesturing toward the packed bookshelves lining the back of the room. "We have no hope of exploring even a tenth of that history. We will, however, choose major works representative of each age, and by digging into them as deeply as we can, seek to better understand the times from which they come. Many people find literature boring. Those unfortunate people have simply never had the stories opened well for them. I will do my best to open these stories well for you, students. With any luck, we will see these tales come alive. And not just the tales in the special section of the library where the books must be chained to the shelves to keep them from escaping."

There was a ripple of polite laughter. Revalvier accepted it with a deprecating smile.

"We will begin our exploration of the world of magical literature with a challenge. Rather than a famous classic or a revered ballad, let us begin with something a bit more accessible. Let us have some volunteers. Will someone tell me, please, what was your favorite bedtime story whilst growing up?"

James looked around the room. A Ravenclaw girl named Kendra Corner raised her hand. Revalvier nodded at her encouragingly.

"Like, any story?" Kendra asked. "Even if it's short?"

Revalvier smiled. "Especially if it is short, Miss Corner."

"Well," Kendra said, her cheeks reddening a little, "my favorite story when I was little was
The Three Foolish Harridans.
"

"Very good, Miss Corner," Revalvier said. "I imagine many of us have heard that account of the three old women taking their goods to market. A very old story, that, and an excellent example. Anyone else?"

Graham answered next, "The story I remember most is the one about the giant and the beanstalk. Some Muggle kid finds some magic beans, and then climbs the magical beanstalk that grows out of them. A giant lives at the top, and the Muggle kid tries to pinch the giant's stuff, but the giant catches the kid and smashes him up into bread. The moral was about how careless magic brings trouble for everybody."

"Another classic example, Mr. Warton," Revalvier agreed, "although yours illustrates how stories tend to evolve over time, based on shifts in culture."

Several others described their favorite stories, ending with Rose, whose favorite story, not surprisingly, was one of the tales of Beedle the Bard. "Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling Stump. My mum read it to me from a very old version of the book she got from a former Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore," she said with some pride.

"Certainly, most of us are very familiar with
The Tales of Beedle the Bard
," Professor Revalvier said, leaning comfortably on her desk, "though not all of us were fortunate enough to be read them from such an illustrious source. Indeed, these are all very good examples of classic wizarding literature. They all have some very important things in common. They are all quite old. They are all primarily passed on by word of mouth. And they are all meant to teach important life lessons. Less obviously, these stories tell us subtle things about the times in which they were created. For instance, the days of frail old women pushing cartloads of goods to market are long past, and yet they seem familiar to us because we all grew up with the story of The Three Foolish Harridans. The beauty of great literature, even in the form of children's stories, is that they teach us things about life, history, the world we live in, and even about ourselves, without us ever knowing it. The point is, the very best lessons in life are the ones we are not aware of learning. These are the lessons literature can teach us."

"Let us look at another example, one which was not mentioned so far. When I was a little girl, my favorite bedtime story was a tale called
The King of the Cats
. Do any of you know that story?"

Tentatively, Ralph raised his hand. "I think I know that one, but my version might be a little different. I grew up with Muggles. Or so I thought."

"Many stories with magical origins have found their way into Muggle myth and legend, Mr. Deedle. Would you care to tell us the version you are familiar with?"

Ralph sucked his upper lip for a moment, thinking. "Well, all right," he agreed. He took a deep breath and began. "This man is going for a walk in the country one day, really far away from where he lives. No one else is around and there aren't any houses for days in any direction. All of a sudden, he sees a whole bunch of mice. At first, he thinks that he should chase them off, but then he notices that they aren't acting like regular mice. They seem to be walking in a sort of procession, and they are carrying something. The man crouches down behind some bushes because he doesn't want to scare the mice, but he's really curious about what they are carrying. As they pass in front of him, he sees that they are carrying another mouse on a little tiny bed. The man realizes that the mouse on the bed is dead, and that this is a little mouse funeral procession.

"As quietly as he can, he follows the procession deep into the woods until they come to a big, wide clearing, all bright in the sun. In the center of the clearing is a tiny stone stairway leading to nothing. It just goes up and stops. There is a big cat sitting at the bottom of the stairs, blocking them. It's all striped and golden and very serious and solemn-looking. The cat watches the mouse procession as it crosses the clearing, getting closer and closer. The man almost calls out to the mice because he is sure the cat will eat them, funeral or not. But then the mice finally get to the cat and stop right in front of its paws. They put the tiny bed down and back away. The big gold cat is watching the whole time with its huge green eyes. Finally, it bends down and says something to the dead mouse. The mouse jumps up, alive and dancing. It darts between the golden cat's legs and runs up the little stone staircase. The man watches, still hiding, as the mouse runs right past the end of the stone stairs, still going up. The mouse climbs further into the sky, as if on invisible stairs, until it is completely out of sight. The man can hardly believe what he is seeing.

"When he looks down again, the rest of the mice are all gone. Only the big golden cat remains, and it is staring right at him with its big green eyes. The man is scared of the cat, so he turns on his heels and runs as fast as he can out of the woods. He doesn't stop running until he gets back on the path, and he runs the whole path all the way back to his own land and into his own house. That night, the man sits down at dinner with his family. He tells them everything he saw that day, and the last thing he says is, 'That cat was surely the King of the Mice!' Just then, the big old family cat, which up to that moment had been sleeping in front of the fire, jumps up on its hind feet and says, plain as day, 'Then I am the King of the Cats!' And it leaps up the chimney and is never seen again."

Ralph finished telling the story and the room fell strangely quiet. Professor Revalvier had her eyes closed, as if soaking in the story. The bright morning sunlight made the room feel strangely sleepy. It seemed to buzz with warmth, trancelike, as if time had slowed down while Ralph spoke.

"That was a wonderful telling, Mr. Deedle," Professor Revalvier said, opening her eyes slowly. "It was indeed slightly different than the version I remember from my youth, but interestingly so. Have any of the rest of you heard that story before?"

There were no hands in the room. Ralph glanced around, apparently rather surprised.

"What is curious about that story?" Revalvier asked the class. "Can anyone point out a specific difference from this tale and the others we mentioned earlier?"

Murdock raised his hand. "For one thing, it doesn't make any sense."