Penwick

As third-year students made their way into their first class of the day, many of them were damp at the hems, pink at the nose, and in no mood to appreciate anything that did not involve blankets or hot cocoa. The windows of the classroom had fogged at the edges, turning the world outside into a pale blur of white.

Inside, however, Professor Forrest had turned the Non-Wizarding Perspectives classroom into a celebration of pinks, purples, hearts, and flowers. Valentine's Day was only two days away, after all. On each student's desk, there was a folded card, a length of ribbon, and a small button.

Professor Forrest stood at the front of the room in a cream dress and pale yellow cardigan with embroidered flowers along the collar. Her dark curls had clearly been arranged with care that morning, though the weather had already started its usual campaign against them. Nevertheless, she looked delighted.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “Yes, it is dreadful outside, but I trust that will not distract us today, hmm?” She smiled brightly, not particularly waiting for an answer. “Right then, today, we are talking about Veela Courts.”

A scruffy Modron boy near the front raised his hand immediately.

“Yes?”

“Are the buttons involved?”

“They are.”

The boy looked down at the button on his desk with suspicion.

“They will not bite,” Cecilia added.

“That sounds like something people say before things bite.”

“It is just a button, dear.”

A few students laughed.

“Now, each of you has three objects. A card, a ribbon, and a button. At the moment, they mean very little. The card is folded. The ribbon is pretty. The button is, despite growing classroom anxiety, still a button.”

She picked up her own ribbon from the desk.

“But if I tell you the card is a letter of mourning, the ribbon is an invitation, and the button is an apology, the way you look at these objects changes, yes?”

A few students looked down at their desks. Cecilia smiled, writing one word on the board in loopy cursive.

Context

“Veela courts rely heavily on context. So do we, of course, but many of us forget that. Many hear the word ‘Veela’ and immediately think beauty, charm, anger,” Cecilia said, counting on her fingers. “Usually in that order, and usually without much patience for any more nuance.”

She set the chalk down.

“Veela are not simply beautiful women with tempers, and you'll do well to remember that as we continue our module on them for the remainder of the semester."

She turned back to the board and wrote another sentence.

A court is not just a crowd.

“When we speak of a Veela court, we are not speaking of just a group of Veela who happen to live near one another. A court has structure, positions of power and authority. It has rules for welcome, grief, challenge, apology, and rank. Not every Veela court is organized the same way, of course. Some are tied to family lines. Some to locations. Some to seasonal rites.”

A tall Floranti boy raised his hand.

“What makes it a court, then?”

“A very good question.”

Cecilia picked up a teacup from her desk. It was blue, delicate, and probably one careless elbow away from disaster.

“Imagine I invite six people for tea." She paused. “That is not a court; that is simply a nice afternoon. Now, imagine those six people have formal roles. One is the host. One speaks for the host. One receives guests. One remembers promises made in conversation. One is in charge of keeping track of when everyone arrives. Now, that is not a perfect parallel, but do you see how the context,” she pointed back to the word on the blackboard, "has changed the feeling? Veela courts operate much in the same way, with each member having a specific job to make the machine run smoothly, so to speak."

The Floranti boy frowned. “So, court does not always mean royalty?”

“Exactly. Some courts have rulers. Some do not. Some have figures who look like rulers to outsiders, but whose actual power depends on much, much more. If you only look for a crown, you may miss where authority actually lives. Now, moving on to our next point...” She turned back to the board and wrote a second sentence.

A refrain is not just a song.

“We hear refrains almost every time we listen to music. In that context," she emphasized the word, "we sometimes call it a 'chorus'. We take the word 'refrain' from the Old French word 'refraindre', meaning 'to repeat'. Now, Veela refrains are how they record history or legal decisions. A 'refrain keeper' will create a refrain that contains the information the court wishes to remember, and they keep it memorized for when the court needs to hear it again. These refrain-keepers often choose to create their refrains in the form of song or rhythmic, spoken language.”

"Remember, though, refrains can mean different things based on the what?" She pointed again to the blackboard.

"Context", the room answered back in scattered voices.

Professor Forrest smiled as she picked up the folded card from her desk. “Excellent. Now, I would like each of you to open your card now, please.”

Each card had the same sentence written inside.

We remember who was welcomed.

Cecilia waited while they read it.

“Now,” she said, “read it silently again, but imagine it is written in a guest book.” The students looked again at their card.

“Now imagine it is sung by a host at the beginning of a meal with good friends.”

A few expressions shifted.

“Now imagine it is spoken by someone who was once turned away and is bitter.”

The room grew a little quieter.

Cecilia nodded, satisfied. “Same words. Different weight. Different context”

She returned to the board. “A refrain can carry welcome. It can carry grief. It can carry insult. It can carry treaty, warning, apology, refusal, or promise. It matters who begins it. It matters who answers. It matters where they stand. Which, while beautiful, can make much of Veela court culture very hard to understand without years of study or immersion.”

The scruffy Modron boy raised his hand. “So if I sang the sentence on the card, would I be doing something?”

“That depends.”

He did not look comforted.

“If you sang it here, in this classroom, during an exercise, you would probably only be entertaining your peers if not slightly disrupting the class. If you sang it in a Veela court while standing in a marked place, while holding a guest-ribbon, after the host had asked for witnesses, then yes, you might be doing something.”

The boy looked down at his ribbon.

“This ribbon is not a guest-ribbon, right?”

“No. It is from my sewing basket.”

“Oh.”

Cecilia picked up her own ribbon and tied it loosely around the handle of her teacup.

“In one court, a ribbon may mark an invitation. In another, mourning. In another, debt. In another, a role in a ceremony. The object matters less than the meaning placed on it, which is often defined by the...”

"Context," the room answered again.

Cecilia clapped with delight, then turned to write a third sentence on the board.

A gift is not just a thing.

“If I give someone a teacup, it may mean, ‘You are welcome at my table.’ Lovely.” She moved the cup to her other hand. “It may mean, ‘You broke the last one and I remember.’ Less lovely.” A few students giggled. “It may mean, ‘I refuse to have tea with you again.’ Not lovely at all.”

She set the cup down with care. “In Veela traditions, gifts often communicate the state of a relationship. Trust. Warning. Respect. Distance. Renewal. Grief. Patience that is wearing thin. Veela refrains are often paired with gifts, and the refrain and gift together clarify the context that is intended.”

She walked to the first row and gently lifted one of the buttons from a desk. “For example. A button.”

The Modron boy looked betrayed. “I knew it.”

“It is still only a button.”

“For now," he muttered.

Cecilia chose not to dignify that with a response.

“If I gave this button to a friend whose coat I had repaired, it might mean care. If I gave it to someone who had torn my sleeve during an argument, it might mean I remember what you did.” She placed the button back on the desk.

“Now, for your homework,” Cecilia said, “six inches only.”

A small, relieved sound moved across the room.

“I want you to take each of these items, which are for you to keep, and write how each could be given as a gift with a different meaning attached to it. Do not use my examples from class, and you must write one that has a positive meaning, one negative, and one of your choosing. That is all!"

Students began packing their things. The classroom filled with the soft scrape of chairs, the closing of books, and the low murmur of people discussing buttons and teacups.

Once the last student had gone, Cecilia began tidying the classroom. She paused when she reached the Modron boy’s desk. He had left his button behind. Cecilia stared at for a moment, then sighed.

“Oh dear...”