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 s
urely 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."
The professor inclined her head slightly. "Is that so? Does anyone else agree with Mr. Murdock's judgment?"
There were nods throughout the room.
"Not that I didn't like it," Morgan Patonia added, raising her hand. "It was nice. But it was also a little creepy."
Revalvier narrowed her eyes. "And contrary to what might be expected, the creepiness is somewhat appealing, yes?"
More nods in the room, although they were accompanied by puzzled looks.
"Why do you suppose your parents might not have told you this story, apart from Mr. Deedle, of course?"
There was a long pause. Finally, Rose raised her hand.
"All the stories I got told when I was growing up were nice stories," she said. "They sometimes had evil witches and wizards in them, but they didn't have any dead mice or anything. And they all ended happily, or at least had a moral to them that made them seem happy even if the main characters were unlucky or did the wrong thing."
Revalvier looked thoughtful. "And this story is not happy? Nor has a moral?"
James knew not to respond to an obvious question like that. Obvious answers were never the right answers. Revalvier seemed to approve of the silence.
"Tonight's homework, students, is for you to write down the story of The King of the Cats," she said, walking behind her desk. "I'd prefer that you not consult each other about how the story went. The point of this exercise is not to perfectly repeat the story as told by Mr. Deedle, but to write it as you remember it. If your version is somewhat different, all the better. Looking at how magical stories change through retelling is a very interesting way to learn things about the teller of the story. In this case, the teller is you, yourselves. We shall see after you have finished this task if you still feel that the story has no moral."
Revalvier sat down behind her desk and put her reading glasses back on. "You are exempted, of course, Mr. Deedle. A reward for your delightful recital of the story. And now, class, please turn in your textbooks to chapter one."
The remainder of the class was spent in a lecture about the historical background of the golden age of magical literature, from which sprang some of the most well-known (and least read) wizard classics. Revalvier assured the students that she would do 'everything necessary' to make the stories relevant to them, and James had some hope that she might actually succeed in that endeavor. He was quite curious about how she meant to do it, and looked forward to finding out.
As they left the class, James said to Ralph, "Nice work, speaking up like that. You saved yourself an essay."
Rose asked, "Did your dad really tell you that story when you were a kid?"
"Actually, no," Ralph admitted. "My grandma did, whenever I went to stay with her."
James glanced at Ralph. "I assumed it'd been your dad too. After all, he had the wizard background, growing up."
Rose commented, "Well, it's just like Professor Revalvier said. Lots of wizard stories leak out into Muggle culture as legends and myths. Obviously, The King of the Cats is like that. That's how Ralph's grandma knew it."
Ralph nodded. "She was full of stories like that. They were all a little weird and eerie, but I liked that about them. They were… well, they were sort of magical. I had really mad dreams whenever she told me those stories. Not bad dreams exactly, but…" He shook his head, unable to find the right word.
"That happens to me whenever I eat my Uncle Dmitri's special paprikash," Graham interjected. "He makes it every Christmas. He says the magic ingredient is powdered Mandrake root, but Mum says the magic ingredient is a pint of goblin rum."
James had expected the Wizlit essay to be fairly easy, but as he sat in the library that night with his quill and parchment, he found himself staring out the window at the moon, tapping his quill idly. Finally, he shook his head as if clearing it.
"It's really strange," he commented to Ralph, who was bent over his Arithmancy problems. "I can totally remember you telling us the story in class. I could probably sit here and tell it back to you right now. But when I try to write it down, it goes all murky in my head."
Ralph sat back and stretched. "What do you mean? If you could tell it, why can't you write it?"
"Beats me. I mean, I know it starts with a guy walking through the woods. I write down that much, and suddenly, I can't remember if it's day or night when he's walking. I start to imagine where he might be walking to. Why's he so far away from his own home? And why is it no one else lives anywhere around for miles and miles? It's mice he sees, right? Only, when I start to write, I keep imagining squirrels. Or voles."
"Voles?" Ralph repeated, making a face. "What in the world is a vole?"
"I don't know," James said, throwing up his hands. "Some kind of little animal, I guess. But that's just the thing. The story sort of squirts away whenever I try to write it down. It's like it wants to become something else entirely."
Ralph thought about it and finally shook his head. "That doesn't make a bit of sense. You want me to tell you how it goes again?"
James sighed. "No. Revalvier said we're not supposed to do it that way. She made it sound like we were supposed to write it down however we remembered it. I just didn't expect it to fight back. I mean, it's just a bedtime story."
Ralph shrugged. "Well, it is a magical bedtime story."
"Not your version," James replied. "Your Muggle grandma told you. I figured it had to be your mum's mum because as far as you knew, your dad was an orphan."
Ralph nodded but remained silent.
James was about to make another attempt at his version of The King of the Cats when Petra Morganstern walked slowly around the end of a nearby bookshelf.
"Hi, Petra," James said, trying to keep his voice low enough not to earn a stern look from the librarian.
Petra was rather listlessly scanning the bookshelf, her bag dangling from one hand. She seemed not to have heard him.
"I say hi, Petra!" James repeated, framing his mouth with his hands.
Petra turned and raised her eyes. She saw James and blinked, her large blue eyes distant. "Oh," she said. "Hi, James. Sorry. I didn't see you." She turned back to the bookshelves. "I'm not really sure what I'm looking for…"
James watched Petra as she moved down the aisle, dragging her bag. "What's with her?" he whispered to Ralph as she got out of earshot.
Ralph shook his head. "I don't know."
Rose plunked a pile of books on the table and sat down. "No harm getting a head start on Wizlit," she proclaimed happily. "These are the ten books the textbook says are a must-read for every thinking witch and wizard. I've read four of them before, but it never hurts to get a bit of a refresher."
"Hey, Rose," James interrupted, leaning close. "What's going on with Petra?"
"Petra?" Rose repeated, distracted. "Why should anything be going on with her?"
"She just went by a minute ago looking like her owl just died."
Rose thought for a moment. "I couldn't guess. She seemed fine at lunch today, although she left early when she got the package."
"What package?" Ralph asked.
"Oh, you two were already gone," Rose explained, pulling the top book off of her stack and opening it. "A box came by Ministry owl for her. Apparently, it was from her father. She left right afterwards. I assumed she wanted to open it in private."
James tilted his head. "Why would a package from her father come by Ministry owl?"
Rose raised her eyebrows. "I assume her father works there. Loads of people send personal mail using company post. Dad does it sometimes, although Mum says he shouldn't. Things like that get her a little uptight."
"Maybe it was bad news from home," Ralph mused.
"It looked like more than just a letter," Rose replied. "I assumed it was sweets from her mum or a birthday present or something."
James frowned, looking in the direction Petra had wandered. "If sweets from her mum make her look like that, Petra's mum must be a pretty rotten cook."
Rose suddenly brightened. She leaned in and whispered, "I just ran into Fiona Fourcompass over in the reference section, and she said she knows why this week's Muggle Studies classes have been postponed so far!"
Ralph said, "I thought it was just because Professor Curry wasn't back from some sort of research trip. Fine by me, too. She can go off researching for the whole term."
"That's sort of true," Rose nodded. "But it's what she's been researching that's key. She got back yesterday, and tomorrow afternoon there's going to be a big assembly of all the Muggle Studies classes for all years. She's going to make an announcement about this term's class, and whatever it is will affect everybody!"