James Potter and the Curse of the Gatekeeper jp-1

by G. Norman Lippert

  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.”

  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.”

&nb
sp; 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!”

  James looked skeptical. “Fiona Fourcompass told you that? How would she know?”

  “She saw Professor Curry earlier today, outside her office,” Rose explained earnestly. “She was unpacking from her trip and she told Fiona about the assembly. She said afternoon classes will let out early so everyone can attend.”

  “Did she mention what the big deal was?” Ralph asked.

  Rose shook her head. “She didn’t say, and Fiona didn’t ask. I’m really curious though.”

  “Well,” James replied, “she had us playing football last year, and that was actually pretty fun. Maybe it’ll be something like that. But why the whole school at once?”

  “That’d be quite a football match,” Ralph agreed.

  A little while later, James, Ralph, and Rose noticed it was getting rather late. Most of the other students had gone and the librarian was blowing out the lanterns near the deserted tables. The three packed their books, quills, and parchments into their bags and threaded their way through the bookshelves.

  “Hey, Rose,” James asked, “have you started your Wizlit homework yet?”

  “The King of the Cats essay? I finished it first thing. Why?”

  James glanced at her. “Just curious, that’s all. It wasn’t… difficult?”

  Rose shouldered her book bag. “Man walks through the woods, sees a bunch of mice having a funeral procession, follows them, so on and so forth. Easiest homework I had all night.”

  James frowned thoughtfully. “Oh. Well, good.”

  “I got a little confused when I got to the part with the skunk though,” Rose added, angling toward the library doors.

  “The skunk?” Ralph asked, blinking.

  “Yeah. I couldn’t remember if it was in front of the stairs or sitting on them. I forgot the color of its stripe too. It was green, right?”

  Ralph stared at her, and then looked back at James. James shrugged and shook his head.

  As they left the library, James saw that there was one other person still there. Sitting at a table in the rear alcove, alone in a pool of lamplight, was Petra. Her head was lowered, her long dark hair hanging on either side of her face like a curtain. On the table in front of her was a single piece of parchment. James waited to see if she’d look up, but she never moved. It pained him a little to see Petra so suddenly melancholy. He considered calling to her but decided not to. Most likely, he would see her later in the common room anyway. Perhaps she’d be in better spirits then.

  James said goodnight to Ralph as they parted ways at the stairs. Rose accompanied James to the common room where they sat by the fireplace and watched a rowdy Winkles and Augers match for a while. Finally, they headed up the stairs to their respective dormitories. Scorpius was already in bed. He was sitting up, reading a book called True Stories of Dragons and Dragon Hunters. He was wearing his rimless spectacles, and they did, in fact, manage to make him look more dashing than dorky. He glanced over his glasses as James entered the room.

  “Nice bedtime story,” James muttered.

  “Would you prefer The Three Foolish Harridans?” Scorpius drawled, turning a page. “Or maybe one of Revalvier’s old bedtime stories about your father?”

  James threw back the blankets on his new bed. The words
‘WHINY POTTER GIT’ still glowed a faint purple on the headboard. James’ efforts to remove them had been entirely unsuccessful. He dressed in his pyjamas and climbed under the covers, throwing a disgruntled look at Scorpius.

  “I hear your brother is looking good to make the Slytherin Quidditch team,” Scorpius commented, his eyes still on his book.

  James sat up again. “You keeping close tabs on your dad’s house, Scorpius? Is he planning to come for the matches? I wonder who he’ll support. A bit of a stumper, that one.”

  “I understand Albus is riding Corsica’s broom,” Scorpius said, finally looking James in the eye.

  James met Scorpius’ gaze, unsure what to say. Was Scorpius teasing him? Or was this some kind of warning? “Yeah, I know,” James finally admitted. “I saw him. So what?”

  “I had flying with dear little Albus earlier this week, along with your cousin Rose. Improved since then, has he?”

  James rolled over. “What’s it to you anyway?”

  “Nothing, really,” Scorpius said. “Just trying to make a little conversation. You intend to try out for the Gryffindor team, I assume?”

  “Maybe I am,” James admitted. “Are you?”

  Scorpius didn’t answer right away. James looked back over his shoulder. Scorpius glanced up from his book again. “No, Potter,” he said, sighing. “Organized sport is so… parochial. Let’s just say I’ll be using my talents in less obvious ways.”

  James rolled his eyes and flopped over onto his side again. Scorpius was just trying to pique him. That’s what his talent was, and apparently, James was his favorite target.

  It wasn’t until James was falling asleep that it occurred to him that he had not seen Petra come up to the common room after all.

  James was just finishing his breakfast the next morning when Nobby swooped over him and dropped a letter onto his plate. James scooped it up quickly and waved at Nobby, who banked and flapped upwards through the rafters, disappearing through a window along with the rest of the morning’s owls.

  The letter was from Lucy, and it was surprisingly fat.