James Potter and the Curse of the Gatekeeper

6. THE KING OF THE CATS

Thursday 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."

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!"

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.

"What's that?" Rose asked, leaning toward James.

"A response from Lucy," James replied, quickly stuffing the letter into his bag.

"So read it already," Rose said, reaching for another piece of toast.

James clambered over the bench and stood. "Can't. I have to get to class. I've got to get to the North Tower. Divination this morning."

"I'm in the same class, James. We have plenty of time."

"I, uh, left my homework in the dorm. I better go and grab it."

Rose glared suspiciously at James, but he turned and trotted away before she could argue. He took a rather circuitous route in the direction of the North Tower but stopped at an empty stairway. He sat on the bottom step and retrieved Lucy's letter from his bag. As he tore it open he saw that the parchment was wrapped around a folded newspaper clipping. He read the letter first.

Dear James,

Thanks for writing. We're currently at home, which is very nice for me, but not so nice for getting any pictures of anything interesting for Rose, sorry. I had a feeling about Albus. Really, I don't think anyone will be very surprised about his ending up in Slytherin. I wondered if I might end up there myself. Is that awful of me? I do hope it's not. Daddy told me all about your Debellows teacher. He seems quite impressed with him, and is very proud to have met him a few times.

I looked up the Gatekeeper like you asked. There was actually quite a lot of information about it. I just had to know where to look. Fortunately, since we're home, I have access to the wizarding library over in Notting Hill. Mum takes me there once a week, although she'd die if she knew what sections I had to go to research this. The Gatekeeper has loads of names, and all of them are pretty scary, which makes sense once you know what it is. According to the old myths, the Gatekeeper is the Guardian between the worlds of the living and the dead. It lives in something called the Transitus Nihilo—the Void between the worlds—and is a purely magical being. Basically, it's just this huge, lurking entity because it has no body and no boundary since it lives in pure nothingness. Supposedly, it doesn't even know about earth or humans because it is too arrogant to assume that there could be any living thing other than itself. But the scariest thing about it is something called 'the Curse of the Gatekeeper'. Salazar Slytherin talked a lot about it. He said it would be his 'Final Judgment' on those that betrayed him. Basically, the Curse says that someday the Gatekeeper will be summoned by a person called the Ambassador, who is a wizard powerful enough to travel into the Void. The Gatekeeper follows the Ambassador back, and its descent is a sign of total doom. Once it's here, the Gatekeeper feeds on horror and pain, sucking it out of people like a vampire sucks blood. The legends say it will study humans, learning how best to terrify them, and in the greatest numbers. Apparently though, it'll need to partner with a willing human host, a host that will be prepared to kill for it to prove their worth. All the prophecies say this host will be a child of tragedy—probably meaning an orphan, somebody with nothing to lose. Very, very gruesome stuff.

I am really curious, James: why are you asking about this? I'd be surprised if you are studying something like this in school. Why do you need to keep it a secret? This is seriously scary old magic. The book I read about it in nearly nipped my thumb off. Tell me, OK?

Love,

Lucy

P.S. This is a clipping from a Muggle newspaper I saw on the way home from the library. It's probably nothing, but I couldn't help noticing it after what I'd just read about. It's not connected, do you think?

James slowly folded the letter, his eyes wide. A cold sweat had beaded on his forehead. Lucy's words were eerily similar to some of the things Farrigan, the skeleton in the cave, had said. But surely, Merlin couldn't really be the Ambassador of such a horrible creature, could he? At least not knowingly. But either way, what if his long trek into the Void had summoned the thing called the Gatekeeper? James shook his head fretfully. The newspaper clipping slipped off his lap and fell onto the floor. James peered at it. He could tell by the colors and typeface that the clipping came from a Muggle tabloid. Reluctantly, he picked it up and unfolded it. He read the headline, grimaced, and then plunged into the article.

Entire Family Terrorized by 'Alien Ghost Demon'; Two Driven Insane

The quaint seaside village of Kensington Flats was rocked early this summer by rumors of a ghostly creature residents came to call the 'creature of smoke and ash'. Recognized by its fantastic appearance, the entity appeared on several occasions over the third week of May. In one instance, no less than a dozen villagers claimed to witness the entity in the Colt and Cockerel, a small pub on the village's outskirts. While none were willing to speak directly to Inside View, earlier reports claim that the entity exuded a 'palpable air of horror and panic, resulting in a sense of spreading, even contagious, insanity'.

These visitations culminated on the night of 17 May when the home of Herbert Bleeker was terrorized for as long as three hours by the entity. Neighbors claimed to hear unearthly noises coming from the house as well as all manner of shrieks and strange lights. Mr. Bleeker, a grocer, along with his wife and adult son, Charlie, were inside the home at the time, although neighbors were apparently too frightened to check on them. The next morning, all three Bleekers were found on their front lawn, looking, as one witness described, 'like they'd had their brains scrambled'. Later checked into an asylum in neighboring Dunfief, the Bleekers were described as unresponsive and delirious.

Twenty-four hours later, Charlie Bleeker began to respond to doctors. He described the visitation of the entity as an evening of freakish terrors. "It was like it was dissecting our brains from the inside out," Bleeker is heard to have said. "It was like we were radios, and it was tuning us, trying to make us feel the worst horrors imaginable! It was monstrous! Terrible! Like it didn't even know what we were but wasn't going to stop until it found out!"

Mr. Bleeker slipped back into incoherence after this short outburst, although he appears to be responding moderately well to treatments. His parents, however, remain virtually comatose. Professor Liam Kirkwood of the Department of Paranormal Research at the University of Northern Heatherdown says such manifestations are on the increase. "Similar reports have emerged all across the country, and beyond. Most likely, this is the work of an alien species, researching humankind for its own unknowable reasons. We can only hope that whatever it is, its goals are not as frightening as it initially seems."

Inside View will follow these occurrences, providing further updates as circumstances dictate.

Slowly, James folded the tabloid clipping. He stuffed it and Lucy's letter back into the envelope. It couldn't be connected, he told himself. It was just a tabloid story. A lot of them were rather sensational, weren't they? Aliens and monsters and saints' faces being burned onto toast. Even so, the thought of the 'creature of smoke and ash' made him shudder. What if it was the Gatekeeper? What if it was already loosed on the earth and Merlin didn't even know it? Or worse, what if he knew it and was responsible for it? It simply couldn't be. It was too horrible. James determined he would have to find out, one way or another. He didn't know how he'd do it, but he would find a way. Having decided that, he felt a tiny bit better. He put the letter back into his bag, shouldered it, and ran the rest of the way to the North Tower.

"Hup, hup, students!" Kendrick Debellows cried heartily, pacing the length of the promenade overlooking the lake. "It's not even October yet! The water's still balmy. It's best if you jump in directly. Take it all on one shot and you'll be used to it in no time."

James stood between Ralph and Graham, his toes curled over the edge of the deck. The water below looked cold and murky. His face reflected back at him, his expression tense and worried.

"I don't know what's worse," Graham muttered through gritted teeth, "the idea of jumping into that water, or being seen wearing this idiotic outfit."

None of the students had packed swimwear, of course. Debellows, being rather insufferably persistent in his goals, had somehow located a closet of very old bathing suits once worn by an official Hogwarts water wrestling team. The one-piece suits extended to the elbows and knees and were striped in faded burgundy and grey. A Hogwarts crest was embroidered in the center of the chest.

"Who ever heard of 'water wrestling', anyway?" Ralph said.

"Oh, it was huge for a while, back in the old days," Graham replied. "The mermen had a team. You wouldn't think they'd be all that strong, looking at them, but I guess they were really wiry."

"Students wore these to wrestle mermen?" James said, glancing down at his oversized swimsuit.

"Yeah, but the mermen cheated sometimes," Graham explained. "The whole event was scrapped when the merman captain was found with a Grindylow hidden under his cape. He was apparently using it to batten on to his opponent and pull them down."

On the grass bordering the edge of the lake, the second-year girls were supposedly running reflex drills, waving pommel-tipped sticks at each other. Most of them seemed to have abandoned the activity, choosing instead to stand in groups and watch the boys, smirking or looking bored. Debellows ignored them.

"This is very simple, students," Debellows called. "Jump in, swim out to the buoy, circle it, and swim back to the promenade. It may look far-off, but I assure you it is quite manageable. I did it myself six times just this morning. Brisk, it was! Now, does anyone else not know how to swim?"

The boys stared grimly, none daring to raise their hands. A few minutes earlier, Ralph's friend Trenton Bloch had admitted he had not yet learned how to swim. This had seemed, to James, a potentially inspired way to get out of the dip into the gloomy lake. Rather than excusing Trenton, however, Debellows had produced a set of inflatable rubber arm floaties. To Trenton's horror, Debellows had blown up the floaties himself, and then rammed them up the boy's arms. Trenton stood miserably at the far end of the promenade, arms akimbo. A couple of girls on the bank snickered at him.

"This is a test of will, my friends!" Debellows barked. "In the Harriers, not only did we have to learn to swim at distance, but we were trained for water combat, facing all sorts of aquatic beasts, from Snarracudas to Shrieking Eels. You will not face any combat on this endeavor, but we may introduce a Marshweed course later in the spring if Professor Longbottom is able to produce a sufficiently tame hybrid. For now, consider this a pleasure swim. And now, on one… two…" Debellows raised his wand, pointing it skyward. He grinned happily. "Three!" he shouted, firing a loud crack from his wand.

The boys scuffled, slithered, and variously lowered themselves into the water. Their splashes were accompanied by a chorus of groans and complaints.

"Are there still mermen in here?" Ralph hissed through his teeth, lowering himself into the cold, black water.

James nodded. "But my dad says it's the mermaids you have to worry about."

"That's wonderful," Ralph gasped, dropping up to his chin and trying not to splash. Gamely, he threw himself into a jerky breaststroke, heading for the orange buoy some fifty yards away. James followed him.

Ralph was a surprisingly good swimmer. By the time James rounded the buoy, finally getting somewhat accustomed to the water, Ralph was climbing the ladder onto the promenade. Debellows grabbed his hand and hoisted him up, nodding approvingly.

James completed his lap and grabbed the slick, seaweed-covered ladder. He'd swallowed an accidental gulp of the lake water and it rolled nauseously in his belly as he pulled himself up. He stumbled onto the deck and joined Ralph and Graham. All three stood shivering, streaming water from their oversized swimsuits.

"Let's double-time it, Bloch!" Debellows boomed, cupping his hands to his mouth. "Pretend you've got a Slagbelly chasing you. It could be true, in fact! I hear they've been sighted on the far side of the lake. And I understand they're attracted to splashes."

"Professor Debellows," a voice called. James turned, his teeth chattering. Professor McGonagall stood at the castle end of the promenade. She glanced quickly around but kept her face neutral. "The students are expected to be in the amphitheater in fifteen minutes. You do recall that today's class is to be concluded early."

"We are very nearly finished, Madam," Debellows called, clapping Ralph on the shoulder. "I daresay we will beat you to the assembly if you don't hurry." He turned, addressing the boys on the deck. "You heard the professor! Gather your shoes and form a line. I'll dry you as you pass by, then we'll have ourselves a nice trot around to the amphitheater. You can change afterwards."

Debellows produced his wand and pointed it at James, who was nearest. A blast of hot air erupted from the tip, pushing James backwards a step. A moment later, he was mostly dry. His hair stuck straight up from his head like a corona.

"We have to wear these stupid swimsuits to the assembly?" James asked incredulously.

"They're perfectly decent, Mr. Potter," Debellows replied dismissively. "Even rather stylish, if you ask me. We haven't a moment to lose, students. The amphitheater can be found around the East Rampart. Let's prove ourselves exemplary and precede the rest of the classes there, shall we? Now run, my friends! And Mr. Bloch! Will you be finishing your lap this term, or shall I send Mr. Deedle in to retrieve you?"

By the time James got to the outside amphitheater entrance, he was sweaty and out of breath. Most of the other classes were already gathering, their voices ringing in the natural acoustics of the space. James grimaced, seeing the hundreds of robed figures milling about. It was nearly impossible to remain inconspicuous in the oversized, striped swimsuits. James and Ralph huddled near the back, trying unsuccessfully to hide behind each other. Scorpius was the first to notice them. He walked past with a group of first-year Gryffindors, smirking. Cameron saw James and made to grin and wave. His grin turned slightly puzzled when he saw James' attire.

"I see none of the second-year girls are wearing swimsuits," Rose commented, slipping in next to James. "Defence Against the Dark Arts, I assume?"

James nodded. "It's OK though. Debellows says these are actually quite stylish. Come on, let's find a seat."

James' last time in the amphitheater had been the previous term, on the night of the first all-school debate. That had been a fairly unpleasant occasion, in which Tabitha Corsica had proclaimed from the stage that Harry Potter was a fraud and a liar. An all-out riot had been barely prevented by a well-timed bit of absurd fireworks, produced by Ted Lupin and the Gremlins. Now, by daylight, the amphitheater was quite cheerful. The huge stage was mostly bare; as James looked, a couple of older Ravenclaw boys climbed up from the orchestra pit. They bowed deeply on the edge of the stage, and then began to make faces and blow raspberries at the crowd. There was some scattered applause and hooting until Professor McGonagall shooed them back to their seats.

As James, Ralph, and Rose sidled into a row, Noah Metzker called from nearby. "Interesting choice of uniform, you two. The stripes say 'Azkaban', but the cut says 'exercise yard'."

"Har, har," James groused. "You'll be next, Metzker."

"Actually, we already did the lake run," Noah replied seriously. "Just wait until sixth year. Debellows shoots Stinging Hexes at you from the shore. It's supposed to teach you 'the mental discipline of overcoming pain'."

Damien nodded gravely. "All I had to overcome was a burning desire to clip him upside the ear."

James noticed that Petra wasn't sitting with the rest of the Gremlins. She sat at the end of the aisle, several rows down. She stared blankly at the stage.

Finally, Professor Tina Curry climbed the steps to the stage. She wore a sporty blue cloak over her robes. Her frizzy hair had been teased into a loose bun.

"Greetings, students," she called, raising her wand to her throat. Her amplified voice echoed around the amphitheater. The babble of voices subsided.

"Thank you for attending this rather unusual first class," Curry continued. "Since nearly all of you are taking Muggle Studies this term, following the new year-specific curriculum, I thought it'd be rather a treat for us all to begin the term's endeavor together. As most of you know, I am Tina Curry, Professor of Muggle Studies, and it is the goal of this class to teach us to understand the ways and means of the Muggle world. We do this for a variety of reasons, but primarily because, being witches and wizards, we have the benefit of knowing of the Muggle world, whereas they know nothing of us. It is, therefore, incumbent upon us to study the Muggle world, to understand it as well as possible, so that we may, whenever necessary, mingle in that world and work comfortably within it. Further, we must recall our shared humanity, valuing our differences without creating prejudices from them. Thus, as an exercise, this class encourages us to immerse ourselves in the Muggle world, utilizing some of the ingenious tools and methods that they have developed to compensate for their non-magical nature. Last term, many of you will recall that we played a Muggle sport called 'football', using only our feet and a simple, unenchanted ball. This term, we will attempt something on a far greater scale. This endeavor will require the cooperation of every class. Every one of us will have a specific duty, and we will accomplish those duties using no spells, potions, or charms. This term, students, we will be producing a theatrical presentation of the famous wizard play, The Triumvirate."

A wave of chatter moved through the assembly. James couldn't tell if the general response was positive or negative.

"What's that about?" Ralph asked.

Rose whispered, "It's a story about a love triangle between a young witch princess named Astra and two wizards, Treus and Donovan. Donovan's older and richer, Treus is younger, a captain in the king's army. I saw it with my mum once when I was little. It's got a huge cast. Should be interesting."

Near the front of the assembly, Havelock Baumgarten, one of the Slytherin Beaters, stood up, raising his hand peremptorily. "Professor Curry, The Triumvirate is a classically magical production," he said in his cultured, rather smarmy voice. "By its nature, it is dependent on key magical elements. The dream sequence alone has the heroine flying, imagining phantom armies, and witnessing the predicted sinking of Treus' galleon in a hurricane. How can we possibly expect to remain faithful to the story if we insist on strictly Muggle methods?"

"A legitimate concern, Mr. Baumgarten," Curry replied. "However, I have just returned from a tour of some of the Muggle world's better theatre productions, and I must say that the sheer ingenuity and resourcefulness of those presentations amazed even me. In fact, you may be interested to learn that even Muggles refer to the 'magic' of theatre."

From the crowd, Victoire spoke up, "But how can Astra fly without levitation?"

"You'd be quite surprised what can be accomplished with ropes and pulleys, Miss Weasley," Curry said, smiling. "In fact, I think all of you will be quite impressed by the amount of mundane 'magic' that can be done simply with paint, costumes, props, lights, and a seemingly endless number of stage-hands. This is why I have asked the school to involve all classes in this rather extensive production. The sheer number of teams and skills required assures that every one of us will play a vital role in the production. I will serve as director, of course. The production will run one night only, in this very amphitheater, the last week of the school term. Your parents and families will all be invited to attend. It will be, I am quite sure, an evening that all of us will remember."

The assembly broke apart into hushed babbling again as everyone considered this rather unusual plan. Professor Curry cleared her throat.

"To this end," she said, raising her voice over the chattering crowd, "I have posted several sign-up parchments in the hall immediately adjacent to the amphitheater. Anyone who wishes may try out for a part. Auditions will be scheduled in class, and parts will be awarded by the end of next week. Those who do not wish to act onstage may sign up for the orchestra, the props department, the costume shop, light crew, stage crew, and et cetera. I am sure everyone will find an area they will enjoy working in. And now, allow me to be the first to welcome you all to the world of the theatre! The assembly will conclude now, allowing you plenty of time to consider your options and sign up for whatever you wish. Thank you, students, and good evening."

As the assembly broke up and trickled toward the huge castle archway, Rose said, "You should sign up for a part, James. You're tall for your age. I bet you could play Treus."

James grimaced. "No way,"

"Why not?" Rose insisted. "Don't tell me you're afraid to get up on stage in front of everyone."

"No," James said, his face reddening a bit. "It's just silly. I mean, if we were doing The Last Assault of Keirkengard, I might sign up. At least in that story there's sword fights and explosions. I was thinking about signing up for the stage crew."

"Yeah," Ralph agreed. "I'm going to sign up for that or the props department. This could be kind of fun. I saw a play in London when I was a kid. It was wicked. I always thought it'd be neat to work behind the scenes."

"I'm putting my name down for Donovan," Noah proclaimed. "I've got that older, mysterious rogue look down already. I should be a shoo-in."

"It's too bad Ted's gone this year," Sabrina commented. "He'd love this. I wonder how he's doing with his Quidditch training."

Damien said, "We'll see him Hogsmeade weekend. We have a plan to meet him at the Triple Sticks."

"As long as he can get off work from Weasleys'," Noah interjected. "I hear George's been working him like a dog. Ted's not complaining though. He gets paid on commission, and he's pretty much a walking advertisement, isn't he?"

The crowd of students thronged near the archway as everyone milled around the sign-up parchments. Rose broke away, pressing toward the far end of the hallway. "I'm going to sign up for Astra," she called. "It's probably a long shot, but I can always fall back on costume shop if that doesn't work out."

Ralph also shouldered his way into the throng, heading for the props department sign-up parchment. James watched his friend go, and then scanned the nearby parchments. The crowd was finally thinning a bit as most of the students happily found their way to an early dinner. James glanced around, still hanging back. Satisfied that no one was watching, he slipped quickly over to the actors' sign-up parchments. He glanced over them, finding the parchment he was looking for. Grabbing the quill dangling from a bit of string, he signed his name to the parchment titled 'TREUS'.

It was completely silly, he assured himself. He'd never get the part. It was just a lark, a personal dare. Still, there was something exciting and giddy about the idea of playing the dashing male lead. He couldn't bring himself to admit it to Rose or Ralph. If by some remarkable fluke he were to get the role, he'd probably acknowledge that he'd secretly wanted to play it. Otherwise, no one would ever know, and that was just fine. Before stepping away, James peered quickly at the other names on the parchment. He'd been halfcertain that Scorpius' name would be on the list. It wasn't, and he felt a bit silly for looking.

James sauntered as casually as possible over to the group still gathered around the stage crew sign-up parchment. Ralph was just finishing signing his name.

"I'm on stage crew and props department," Ralph said. "I hope I can be on both. What'd you sign up for, James?"

James finished signing his name on the stage crew parchment. He turned, keeping his face blank, and gestured with the quill before letting it drop back on its string.

Ralph nodded and smiled. "We'll work together, maybe. Trenton's signed up for stage crew too, and so is Beetlebrick. He's not so bad if you can stay off the topic of Quidditch. Did you see what Albus signed up for?"

James shook his head. In fact, he hadn't seen his brother the entire assembly. "We can ask him at dinner," James replied. "Come on."

It wasn't the first time James had sat at the Slytherin table. The previous year, he had frequently joined Ralph and Zane for meals under the green and silver banner. Only now, however, did James realize how comforting it had been to have his mischievous American friend, who'd been a Ravenclaw, alongside him in those instances. There were no seats near Albus, who persisted in being rather a popular character in his new house. James reluctantly sat with Ralph and Trenton Bloch near the end of the table.

James was distracted throughout the meal. He was annoyed at having to go to such lengths to attract the attention of his younger brother. It was supposed to be the other way around, wasn't it? Albus was simply being gullible. He believed that the Slytherins were drawn to him for his wit and personality, but James knew that they were just using him. Having a Potter amongst the Slytherins was a sort of moral victory for Tabitha Corsica and her stupid Fang and Talons club. James wanted to warn Albus that the Slytherins' friendship wasn't sincere, but he was also a little angry with him for being so easily taken in.

Albus finally stood up from the table along with the group of older Slytherins that always seemed to accompany him. James shoved his plate away and stood as well, meaning to head Albus off near the door. He wanted to warn him about Tabitha's broom, but that wasn't all he meant to say. Albus was accepting this whole Slytherin assignment too easily, and James couldn't help feeling it was a betrayal of his family. He firmed his jaw as he turned to catch up to the departing Slytherins near the door.

"James," a voice rang out. James glanced back and stopped. Tabitha Corsica was approaching him from behind, smiling pleasantly. She had apparently broken away from Albus' constant entourage. James merely looked at her.

"I'm glad to see that you still feel comfortable dining at the Slytherin table," Tabitha said, affecting a warm smile. "I know there was some… unpleasantness last year. I am glad to see that it hasn't strained interhouse relations."

James shook his head, his anger rising. "Just stuff it, Corsica. There are no 'inter-house relations'. Just because Ralph is my friend, it doesn't mean I'm all smiles about what you and your lot stand for. I haven't forgotten the debate."

"Nor have I forgotten that you attempted to steal my broomstick before the tournament match last year," Tabitha said, batting her eyes coquettishly. "But I've decided to let bygones be bygones. I'd have thought you might feel a bit different, considering everything."

"Considering that Albus ended up going to the Slytherins just to spite Scorpius?" James spat. "He doesn't know what he's doing. And you're taking advantage of him."

Tabitha frowned slightly. "I'm sorry you feel that way, James. We happen to think that Albus fits in with us very nicely. He tells me that you witnessed his remarkable practice flight the other night, and I want you to know that I am quite glad you did. There was no trickery there. Albus is very talented. He will make a valuable addition to the Slytherin Quidditch team. And since you mention Scorpius Malfoy, I would think that the fact of his Sorting would prove to you precisely what I've been saying all along."

James glanced toward the door. Albus was leaving without so much as a look back. "What's Scorpius have to do with anything?" he asked.

"Well," Tabitha replied, arching her eyebrows, "Scorpius has either broken from the tradition of his father, choosing courage and valor over ambition, thus proving his worth as a Gryffindor. Or the Slytherins have changed, no longer to be the house of greed and corruption, as was the case in the day of Scorpius' father. Either way…," she smiled, waiting for James to give her his full attention, "it is proof that the Sorting Hat knows its business. Your brother is in Slytherin because that, James, is where he belongs. I truly hope you will not feel the continued need to interfere with that."

"He's my brother," James replied. "I'll interfere wherever I see fit."

"I'm not threatening you, James," Tabitha said, the smile going out of her voice, "I'm doing you the favor of warning you. Your brother is special. It may well be that we Slytherins are the only house that could recognize that. Albus has a destiny. I tell you this as a friend: if anyone attempts to stand in the way of that destiny, even you, they do so at their own risk."

James studied Tabitha's face. She seemed remarkably sincere, and yet it was so hard to trust anything she said. "What do you think you know about Al's destiny?"

Tabitha smiled a little again. "That's for him to tell if he chooses. But I expect he hardly realizes it himself yet. My advice, James: watch and wait. And enjoy your brother's success. It's what he would do for you."

With that, Tabitha turned, her robes sweeping delicately, and left the Great Hall.