Harold pondered over his tea for a moment. "Well, the desire to improve upon the Bard's work is one that gnaws at many students over the generations, and, I rather fear I am not enough of a poet to not lose something in the translation, though I shall give it some thought."
To be truthful, he didn't consider any of the works sacrosanct, but he was certainly concerned about losing some of the quality of the material if he should try to reinvigorate it or reinterpret it in a different light. Perhaps better to not go there.
"As for Grace, I know you say there's nothing to worry about but, well, there are a number of clubs - more than I remember from my own school days, and I rather fancy more than in your school days - about the place, and I do not think her studying would come to any harm should she take some time out for herself. Her main problem is simply one of confidence, and this is the remarkable trait I believe Mr Cashmore has done something about; he is from a muggle family, first wizard that any of them knows about, and I believe he spent his first and perhaps his second year feeling rather as Grace seems to now: not knowing anything, feeling like he needed to study all hours just to keep up with his class mates, but in reality the problem was not knowledge but merely confidence. I am certain Grace will come around - she just needs to find something she can be confident about."
Inwardly he groaned, it occurred to him that he might have given Rose some reason to doubt her daughter in ways that her daughter was already doubting herself on.
"Something other than Hamlet has crossed my mind, rather often actually. Certainly the students - of my own youth as well as the current generation - have a mildly macabre fascination with the subject of death in plays, as long as they don't all die at the end. The Scottish play courts those of a certain disposition - the power-hungry, the bullies, the bullied. Its themes are more vivid than Hamlet's and I suppose a shade more relatable, have we all not felt as MacBeth did about pride before a fall? Or the guilt of a misdeed that we could not wash from our hands, as Lady MacBeth does? Or, at the end of it all, to realise that after all the struggles, perhaps none of it ever mattered in hindsight?"
Harold had found himself adopting a particular air in his statements. Pentameter it was not, nor was it in any fashion iambic, but it was certainly less mild school professor and more pedestrian thespian. "That is, after all, the joy of the Bard's work: each of the plays tells you something about what it means to be human, strengths and weaknesses alike."
There was a mild nod to accompany Rose's comments about Sylvia, but Harold said nothing. What more was there to say?
He sighed, finished his tea. "I suppose that as the course has been set, we should stay it, and forge ahead with our own take on Hamlet - and yes, I daresay I can probably find a way to make it a little less... terminable... by its closing. What colour hair did you have in mind? I had a rather auburn streak in my youth."