Chapter Text
The history of the Kingdom of Cathal has been muddied by the brown waters of time, like a history book bleached blank as it lies under constant sunlight. It has evolved into a mere fairytale, chock full of peasant-like inaccuracies that scholars, like you and I, might regard with distaste.
I will now make clear that I, as a historian on whom even Queen Victoria herself has bestowed high praise, have taken the liberty of compounding several abridged accounts of the history of Cathal, having translated them into modern English for a less scholarly readership.
The Kingdom of Cathal was so named when invaders from Normandy came to the coast of England and, having captured and bound a gaggle of peasants, demanded them to reveal the name of their kingdom. They asked this in their native language, French, while gesturing towards the large chateau on the horizon.
The peasants, misinterpreting the question, attempted to tell them that what their captors were gesticulating at was, in fact, called a 'castle'. Unfortunately, their gags prevented them from enunciating this, and their muffled words were misheard as 'cathal', and so the Kingdom of Cathal was born.
If you were to locate this place on a modern-day map, it would contain central London and go along the Thames, all the way to the North Sea. The castle at the kingdom's centre was surrounded by a cluster of villages. The river rushed between the peasants and royalty, and you might often see young children playing on both banks, albeit dressed very differently.
It would be best, I think, to begin this story on the shores of the River Thames, in June of the year 1302, where a young girl is sitting on the grass at the edge of the village-side bank. If you were to look at her now, you would see her watching the ongoing construction of what will be called 'London Bridge', after the capital city of Cathal. She is gazing at the weary workers while her hands nimbly fashion daisy chains, and watching as the men heave planks into the river, passing them to others, who stand knee-deep at the edge of the water and hammer at poles as the sun drifts below the horizon. The sweat and water running off the labourers glistens in the dying light.
She holds her daisy chain up to the light, inspecting it. She frowns as several daisies come apart and fall to the ground. She glares at the flowers in her hands. They catch fire. She gasps and extinguishes the flames with her sleeve. Once more, her eyes follow the path of the setting sun.
As the shadows lengthen, the girl shivers and rises, pulling her shawl tightly around her shoulders. She wanders towards a large man wielding a hammer with his back to her and prods him with her pinkie.
"May I ask you a question, sir?"
His head turns sharply towards her, and he flings down the hammer.
"Can't you see I'm busy?" he spits through clenched teeth.
The girl's body tenses, about to flee. "Sorry - I just wanted to ask... sorry, sir, I'll go."
She wrings her hands and turned to leave.
"What did you want to ask?" The man's voice is softer.
"I like your bridge, sir, and I wanted to know if you're making it for the baby princess' christening. Is it so the guests can come in their carriages? I really want to see it, but I'm not invited. My mama says that anyone who wants to come should be allowed to, even though we're not rich. So is that what it's for? It looks like it might break if the guests eat too much - then they'd be too heavy."
"What's your name, child?"
"Hermione, sir. Hermione Granger."
"That's an... interesting name. Well, Miss Granger, we are building the bridge so that the lords and ladies in the castle can have bigger feasts, as it takes rather a long time to get all of the food across the river in a little rowboat. And for the christening guests too, of course. I've told you, there. Now run along home to your family."
The girl opens her mouth to retort, but a glance at the man's expression changes her mind and she bays him farewell. Her skirt brushes the grass as she wends her way home.