CHILDHOOD'S END

1. QUIDDITCH

Shshshshusssss! Thwack!

"Score!" The pitch erupted in cheers. And curses.

"Barley! Try that again, lass, and I'll have to hurt you!"

"Cork your hole, MacMillstone, you haven't stopped a Quaffle all day."

Dugald MacMillan’s face turned a brilliant Fwooper pink. The scorer stuck out her tongue at him and made off around the edge of their makeshift pitch, a gorsy glen ringed by pine forest, whooping and punching the air on a broomstick that matched her own slender frame. It was a muggy July afternoon, so her triumphal fly-over served to both cool her off and mock the competition. As soon as she was as far from the goal as it was possible to get without leaving the playing area altogether, the big Keeper made his move. No sense giving the wench an advantage. She’d already scored three times.

"Man your sweeps. Here it comes!"

Dugald hurled a scabby leather ball out into a scrum of kids of all ages, shapes and weights. They rode everything from the latest in Cleansweeps to an antique Moontrimmer held together with Spellotape. They battled fiercely for possession, blagging and blurting, cobbing with elbows, kicking out with dusty bare feet, clawing with dirty, eager fingernails. This was free-for-all Quidditch, Highlands style. Every kid his own team, every score a singular super-human effort of one against many, though only one of them had penetrated the goal today�”the sassy waif on the withy-wand broomstick.

The ball bounced from hand to eager hand, but no one could gain more than a few seconds’ control. Suddenly a blur of motion on that impossibly slender broom collided with the scrum, blasted it apart and came up with the contested Quaffle. Kids shouted, whined, cursed the interloper. Only the quickest eyes could pick out her features: wiry frame, intense brown eyes, short dark hair, pert freckled nose, mouth set, but they all knew who it was without looking.

"Nerva, you Quaff-hog!"

"Not fair!"

"Get your own ball, McGonagall!"

The dark-haired urchin grinned and brandished her prize. Steering with knees alone, she turned and raced back to the far end of the glen. Her ploy drew the pack away from the goal. Just short of the forest wall, she did a vertical loop, passed all her pursuers, and roared back towards the burly red-head guarding the goal. He outweighed her by some three stone, and came at her, arms flailing and ululating a war cry that would have stopped a Viking invasion.

They met about ten yards from the goal. She’d aimed the head of her stick at his privates in the time-honored Celtic tradition, but he managed to sweep it aside with one meaty paw and grab her about the midriff with the other. Her speed being thrice his, their combined momentum spun them crazily towards the goal. At the last second Dugald realized that the enemy still had the Quaffle and that she would carry it, and him, into the great basket of knotgrass netting which was their makeshift goal.

Thwack! Tangletumbledangle!

“Score!”

More cheering and cursing, and now laughter, as the other kids found the pair trussed up together in the netting hardly able to move�”but hissing and spitting like a pair of kneazles in a trap.

“Gerroff me, Dugald! I’ll tell my Da you groped me!”

“I never touched you, you scrawny wench!”

"You did! You put your hand about my waist--

"To keep from being gelded! And I'm not touching ye now, am I?"

The other fliers bore down on them now with hearty hoots and guffaws.

“Lookit, Dugald’s got a girlfriend!”

“When’s the wedding, sweet face?”

“Look out, fellas, Minerva’s getting’ all red.”

“Maybe she’s gonna blub.”

“Naw, naw she’s just blooshing.”

“Arr, the blooshing bride.”

“Am not! You’re all just mad because the score’s McGonagall, four, the rest of you ninnies, nil.”

“Isn’t four. That last score didna count. No one but the Keeper’s allowed in the goal. That’s haversacking, that is.”

“It was never my fault. Dugald carried me in, the great lug!”

“Your stick was aiming fer my crotch. I had to defend myself.”

But the argument didn’t last long. It was coming on towards evening. Only time enough for a few more good scrums. But they needed to rescue the Quaffle, which was caught in the mess as well. Oh yes, and release the wench and their Keeper.

“Anyone know a good charm for this?” asked a chubby boy with long blond locks, spawn of the local thane by his display of the Macnair tartan and his state-of-the-art Comet 160.

“I could cut it but I canna get at my knife,” This from Dugald, who was thrashing about trying to reach his sporran. It had shifted round in the affray and was now squashed neatly between a goal post and his left buttock.

“Over my bed doddy!” cried Giggie Gwynn.

“What’d she say?”

“She means ‘dead body’, Raymie.”

“Oh. Right. Well then, over my dead body too!”

That sentiment was echoed all around. It was bad enough having to play Quidditch with an uncharmed Quaffle. They didn’t want to damage the net that they’d labored so hard on--the net that kept the ball from getting lost in the forest. Nobody in their right mind would want to hunt for it down there it with the Devil’s Snare and Creeping Coldwort rampant in the undergrowth.

“Petey, if you’re going to be showing off your charm-work, will you kindly start by Stunning this great oaf?” roared Minerva McGonagall in a voice twice her size. “He’s squirming about like a Re’em in rut. Every time he moves, he makes things worse.”

“I’d rather Stun you, lass, then I could have my way with you,” teased Petey Macnair,who had drawn his wand and was stroking it lightly.

“If I had my own wand, and I soon will, I’d make you eat those words, FAT-HAIR!!”

Now there was a flash of light which left everybody blinded for a few seconds, and something slipped through the netting and dropped to the ground. It was Minerva. Later, kids would argue that her screeching desperation had detonated a spate of wandless magic, which loosened her bonds enough to free her.

She slapped a curling tendril of Coldwort away from her sweep and flew up to the net to take stock of the situation. “Hmmm-- if we could just take this monstrous weight”�”she indicated Dugald�”“off the netting, we’d be able to fix it easily.”

“No problem,” said Petey, taking stage. “Wingardium leviosa!”

Dugald was now floating gravity-free in the netting. If any of the kids had had experience outside of the Magicosm, which, except for Petey, they didn’t, they’d have realized he looked like a great Muggle balloon, tethered and wallowing about in the updraft.

The wench was right. Petey’s Levitation Charm took the tension off the netting. Now it was easy to see what needed to be done. Several of the larger kids grabbed the edges and shook gently. Soon the Quaffle was released. Then others moved in and repaired some minor holes caused in the collision. But presently the spell wore off and Dugald came down in a patch of thistle and gorse.

His plight went unnoticed, as Raymie Sykes halted everyone and pointed west into the sun. “In the distance there, see? A great black creature. And it’s flying this way.”

His discovery inspired thrilled speculation. Was it not very like a Hebridean Black, squeaked young Ailsa macmillan, the type of dragon that had carried off two Macnair hunting hounds last spring and scared the liver’n lights out of a beach full of Muggles at Ilfracombe only a few years before?

“Gwennog McFusty’s bung-full again,” opined Magnus MacDonald, flying up the tree line to get a better look. He was referring to the hard-drinking matriarch of clan McFusty, which had from time out of mind taken responsibility for keeping the Blacks in check. “But I ken the Ilfracombe dragon was a Welsh Green.”

Regardless of its ilk, most were now sure that the flapping hulk was indeed a dragon of some sort. Boys swooped up and down the glen, scouring for rocks and sticks to fend it off with. The smaller children started scouting out hiding places, and little Angus Flynt took off east for home, crying. Magnus and Petey got out their wands and pointed experimentally at the monster, gauging the distance.

“Reckon I could Stun it when it gets a bit closer,” boasted Petey with his usual exuberance. He was one of the few to master this charm in Second Year Defensive, and he was eager to show it off to the younger kids, especially the McGonagall hag.

“Needs more than one Stunner to take it down,” grunted Magnus. “Professor Cavallo was pretty clear about that in Creature Care last year. And the bigger the drake, the more the firepower needed. Anyway, you know we’re not allowed. I’ll be surprised if you don’t get into trouble for doing that Lifting Charm on Dugald.”

“Don’t worry about that. One word from my dad and the Ministry looks the other way. Anyway, this is an emergency. They’ll be mighty grateful for us chasing off a rogue drake for them. We’ll probably get a medal.”

"Hold on there, you eejits,” yelled Dugald, who had finally gotten himself de-thistled and had flown up next to them. “That’s too small for even a wyvern. Looks more like Goodie Gudgeon, McGonagall’s nanny. She always flaps like that when she rides. Got no sense of balance, that one."

"Wheesht, MacMillstone!” Minerva was on the ground comforting some of the smaller children, among them Dugald’s sister Rhona, but she had an ear on their conversation. She flew up to them. “Don’t talk like that about my nursie. She’s just old is all. Time was, she could fly rings around the likes of you.” She waved her arms at the approaching figure. “What say, Gudgieeeeeeee?" she called.

The ‘dragon’ came within shouting distance, and was now seen to be no threat of any sort, just a fat old witch, clinging to a household broom she might have charmed herself in the need of the moment. "Lett--letter cam for ye, lass. Yer faither wants ye hame--swith!"

Cheers and jeers.

"Great game, Nerves! See you tomorrow."

"Ball hog's going home. Now we can play."

"Crate your choppers, Sykes,” Dugald growled. “You couldn't score if you had the Quaffle and four arms-- and the rest of us Stunned. You should get Jockie to play for you."

"Leave my sister out of it! And what about you, you great greasy git? You can't even block the bloody ball!"

Giggie Gwynn shouted over their argument: "'Bye, 'Nerva, hope it’s goon dews about your ma.”

"Thanks, Gig. 'Bye all. See you tomorrow." Minerva redirected her broom, again with knees alone, and shot into the sunset, leaving her aged nurse clutching her shawl and rocking breathlessly in her wake.

Chapter 2. A LETTER AND MEMORIES

"I'm home, Da. What's up?"

"You’ve been out a long time, child."

"Quidditch, Da, out back of MacMillan's."

"Fag okay?"

"Held together pretty good, but you might need to make the braking charm stronger."

"Aye, there's the trouble with that thin stick of yours. No room to put a proper charm. I wrote my auld lad, Randy Keitch. Even he couldna come up with a solution. You'll just have to slow down your turns, lass."

"Da!"

"I ken it's like asking a corbie to fly with but one wing."

"Goodie said I got a letter. Is it from Ma?"

"Naw, your ma will be in seclusion another moon. Healer Kirk says it's the best way."

"Da, she's been at Kirk's almost three months."

"You think I should be sending her back to London for treatment? Naw. And I'll not let those foreign shamans touch her again. New-fangled treatments…untested spells. She just needs rest. The auld ways are best, Minerva."

"All right, Da. What about the letter?"

He waved a tasseled scroll at her. "Och aye--it’s from your new school!"

"Hogwarts. Da, you took me away from the game for that?"

"But you have to open it! See if you're accepted."

"Da, all the kids got them--Dugald and Raymie and Susannah. I know just what it says.” She rattled off a singsong: ‘DearMissMcGonagall--Wearepleasedtoinformyou�”thatyouhavebeenaccepted�”atthegodalmighty glorious--HogwartsSchoolofWitchcraftandWizardry--'"

Her father stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "I know, lass, but all the same, would you read it out--for your auld da?" He sat down heavily, but in high excitement, on a kind of throne, backed with ancient, worn tapestry prominent with the McGonagall blue. It went well with the rest of the room, which was high-arched and gloomy, though with a promise of eastern light from a balcony at the far end.

She shrugged and took the scroll. As she unrolled it, noting its handsome purple seal and gold-leaf edging, the big man prattled on like a child. "I remember my letter. Oh they were not so free in those days with their gilt and their colored inks. And parchment was scarce. Dark Times you know. Wars and more wars. We all knew Auld Grinty was behind it, but no one could catch him--"

She cut him off gently, clearing her throat with a little squeak. She'd heard permutations of this story so many times. Grindelwald�”evil magician�”responsible for the Great War�”never caught--et cetera and so forth. And school was so harsh: no heat, snowstorms every day, teachers who would fail you as soon as look at you. How her father loved bemoaning his boyhood. A sense of mischief welled up in her. It was time to give Da something to take his mind off his complaints. She ad-libbed: "Dear Miss McGonagall,…ah…we regret to inform you that…um…due to reports of your poor…ah… spellsmanship…and…er… all that jinking and jouking about the Quidditch pitch,…er…you have not made the cut-off for admission to Hogwarts. You will…ah…be placed on the alternates list and…um…in due time--"

"What?! My daughter an alternate?!" Jupiter McGonagall rose to his full six and a half feet. “Those snotty auld Squibs--I’ll skin the lot of them!”

"Now, Da…"

He stomped about and strode out to the hallway. “I’ll feed ‘em to the Loch Ness kelpie…”

“But…”

He about-faced and made for the balcony. “I’ll grind their bones to make my bannocks…”

“Da…”

He drew his wand and began waving it about. “I’ll call down Mary Stuart’s headless ghost on ‘em!”

“Please, Da…”

“I’ll accio their precious castle to Rannock Moor…”

“..you don’t need to…”

“…and sink it in the bog…”

Her father went on this way for quite a while, giving Minerva ample time to repent her joke. In this state, he was quite capable of putting a fist through a tapestry and cracking plaster with his weight in excess of eighteen stone. She became truly alarmed when his face went beet-red as if he was working himself up to toss the caber at the Muggle Highland Games, his favorite non-wizarding activity.

"No�”Da--it’s all right--no--here--you read it."

"I'll read it all right. Then I'll tear it to pieces. Then I'll march up Hog’s Mountain and fling them in old Dippy's face. He is still Headmaster, isn't he?"

"I don’t know, Da. It's signed”-- she struggled with the crabbed writing�”“Vergilius�”Horatio�”Binns."

"Binns be damned! He's been at the place since the Year One. Where does he get off--?"

"Da. Read." She put the scroll in his hand and stepped well back.

"Hmmph! ‘Dear Miss...pleased to inform...accepted…book and equipment lists enclosed.’ Why you…you…little hempie, I ought put you over my knee and spank the liver-and-lights out of you."

"Please don't, Da. Anyway, you'd have to catch me first." She flashed a grin and brandished her broom.

He chuckled. "That I would. And there's not a sweep made these days that would hold this old body up for more than a few minutes, much less accelerate to the speeds you get up to. Here, I'll compromise with a congratulatory hand shake."

She took his hand and he engulfed hers in his great calloused palm. Then he clasped her to his chest and danced her about. “Ah, I knew you were only pulling my leg.”

She pulled out of his embrace. “Did not!”

“Did. I saw your dimple while you were reading. A dead giveaway. And no self-respecting Hogwarts professor would ever use the terms ‘jinking and jouking,’ of that I’m sure.” He sighed. "Your ma will be proud. You have to write to her. And a thank-you to the school."

"Daaa! Nobody writes thank-you notes--not even Dugald."

"Your mother did, Minerva, always, when she was in her right mind. And she made me promise you would too."

~*~

Minerva acted nonchalant about her acceptance letter, but once she got to the kitchen, she breathed a sigh of relief. Truth be told, it was possible to be turned down by the premier wizarding school in Britain, even in this magic-rich valley in the crook-armed lee of the Grampian Mountains. Even if your family line was pure as pure. Several children of prominent families had in recent years been declared insufficiently magical for the rigors of Hogwarts, and they had in fact received letters of refusal much like the parody Minerva had teased her father with. After much weeping and wailing, attempted bribery, and, it was rumored, threats against the Headmaster himself, the families had finally resigned themselves to home-schooling their kids in Charms, Magical Defense, and Potions, and hired a tutor for the more abstruse subjects like Transfiguration and Astronomy.

But Minerva had been accepted. She would become a witch�”not just in name, but in fact. She channeled her excitement into hearty punches of the oaten dough which Goodie had left to rise. She flattened half to parchment-thinness, cut and pricked rowies to go with the mutton stew, simmering deliciously in the fireplace. Into the rest, she kneaded some beet sugar and spices and shaped plump bannocks for the morrow’s breakfast.

Minerva had been Goodie’s assistant at the great stone-walled hearth for as long as she could remember. As a toddler, she’d fashioned ‘dwagon cakes’ out of scraps of dough and beat a Highland tattoo with pot and spoon, calling all within earshot to the evening mess. But gradually she moved into her mother’s role, making menus, choosing fish and vegetables at market, cleaning, skinning, scaling, and cooking when Iphigenia Wallace McGonagall was too ill to do so.

She skimmed the foam off the Atholl brose and took a whiff of the heady brew, but refrained from tasting it. Even a spoonful of this beloved Scots beverage could put a young lass like herself under the table, and in fact had, at a harvest party the year before. She put out heavy bowls and mugs on the well-scrubbed table in the center of the kitchen, singing to herself the well-worn refrain:

Ane fer Da, ane fer Ma, ane fer the auld troll’s daughter-in-la…

It would be a small gathering about the board tonight, which was unusual. Da was stingy in some ways, but would invite everyone and his Kneazle to supper, given the chance. Filch, their foreman, who usually broke bread with them at least once a week and stayed after to talk shop, was laid up at home with a bad Knarl bite, and none of the relatives were visiting. The field workers usually went home for dinner and bed, unless there was a celebration�”the end of planting, harvest time or the decanting of a particularly fine Brose. So it would be just herself, Da, and Goodie--because Ma was away...

Ma�”Mother…Minerva couldn’t yet say or even think the dear name without a lump rising in her throat, although the automatic accompanying tears had long since dried up. Ma had always been a sensitive sort, crying over the smallest things�”a broken cup, a lost pet, a wilted houseplant. Minerva was too young to think that such a condition could be passed on, but she had an instinctive fear that the habit of crying could only lead to something worse.

She once heard Goodie whispering to visiting friends about Minerva’s birth, a lengthy, painful confinement, which had left Ma in a cloud of sadness. But a course of Dr. Wheezy’s Spirit-Lifting Tonic had set her mistress to rights straightaway. Then a year later Ma started experiencing depressions, which would flare up to excited, energetic madness at unpredictable intervals. Once Goodie had caught her mistress dancing barefoot in the embers on the hearth, clasping Minerva, who looked too scared or fascinated to cry out, and moving towards the heart of the fire. Ma hadn’t felt the pain of her burned feet. And long after the incident, her eyes still sparkled with an inner fire as if flames were shining out of them. She had been singing something�”Minerva couldn’t remember what--as she danced that heedless, deadly dance.

And so it went�”paralyzing depression followed by uncontrollable bouts of energy�”with occasional good times, calm times, lasting as long as a month, when things seemed almost normal.

But the good times were oh-so-good. She could remember holding hands with her parents as they walked together through fields of barley and oats, one summer, together with some Crups they were watching for aunts Philippa and Frances, who were on holiday. Five-year old Minerva would break off giggling and run on ahead and squat down to hide in the waving grain, until Da would ‘discover’ her and fling her in the air. She cherished the simple memory of waiting with Ma on winter nights for the neeps and tatties to boil. And playing the prediction game: throwing potato peels over her shoulder to see if the long peel would spell a word when it hit the floor. Ma, she now knew, secretly waved her wand and made it say something funny like ‘sleekiewhizzie’ or grand like ‘queenminerva’ or touching like ‘loveyou.’ And there was the time they chased that Nogtail out of the pigsty…and once they had ousted a family of garden gnomes from the orchard, giggling all the while…

Now Ma was in the kind, competent care of Ellis Kirk, the renowned Scots Healer. Madam Kirk had made mental troubles her special study and had at her hospice all kinds of fabulous magical powders and elixirs that a young not-quite-a-witch could only guess at. Goodie herself had potions that could cure headaches, calm a restless sleep, erase bad memories. Not that Ma could have any such memories. She’d been so happy when she married Da, at least that’s what everyone said. There was just that story about Grandfather Wallace…but that had been long ago and long forgotten.

Minerva sighed. She doubted even Healer Kirk could cure a disease that had eluded the best efforts of Healers in so many countries. For Jupiter McGonagall, when he finally admitted to himself that his wife’s depression was not going to just go away, had made a plan for her recovery. Belying his reputation for stinginess, he started her off with an extensive diagnostic session at Saint Mungo’s. Then, after their regimen failed to effect a lasting cure, he consulted with his sisters, his friends, anyone who might have an idea what would help. This resulted in pilgrimages to virtually all the famous healing centers of the Magicosm: to Tibet, Zimbabwe, Germany, Japan, even America. All had short-lived good effects, Goodie told her, but a permanent cure eluded them.

Minerva sighed. Da was right. She would have to owl a letter to Ma tonight. Perhaps the good news about her acceptance at Hogwarts would cheer her mother up.

3. MAKING PLANS

At supper that night, Jupiter McGonagall outlined the strategy for preparing his daughter for her glorious entry into wizarding school.

“I’ve had a look at yer book list, and I believe we have copies of most of the texts you’ll be needing, either here in the library or among yer friends’ cast-offs. And of course, we’ve plenty of cauldrons and such to round out yer equipment needs. You’re almost your mother’s height now, so I’ll have Goodie take up a few of her work-robes for you. You’ll have your tartans for special occasions of course.” He took a sip of his Brose. “What’s that you say, Goodie Gudgeon?”

The old housekeeper, in Ma’s absence, took her place opposite Lord McGonagall. “It is no ma pairt tae say it, sir, but daena ye think yer wife wad want the lass to be weel-pittin-on for her first year at that barrie school?”

Minerva grinned secretly. She had been chafing to say this very thing. She wouldn’t mind wearing Ma’s old robes to Hogwarts, but…

Goodie continued: “Tis aw weel an good to reuse auld books an sic. But a lass wants to look good amang all thir Lunnon-folk, nae be wearin her mither’s auld rags.”

The shaft hit home. Jupiter was certainly not one to allow any Londoner to outshine the daughter of a Highland lord. “All right. You two Floo over to Hogsmeade in the next day or two and pick up some nice new robes.” He paused dramatically and surveyed Minerva with his eyes a-squint, like a Quidditch fan studying a vintage Oakshaft for his collection. “But the most important thing I’ll not leave to any two-Knut merchant.”

She gulped. “You mean my wand, Da?”

“Indeed I do, lass. No untried, store-bought twig for the likes of you. Saturday week, by the dark of the moon, we’ll go down to the family Crypt and see which of your antecedents will be donating their wand to their worthy offspring.” With that, he toasted said offspring and drank the bowl dry.

~*~

After dinner Minerva slipped outside to climb the spreading beech tree in the courtyard and meditate on the day’s wonders. She’d finally showed the other kids she could hold her own at Quidditch, and she’d make her House team at Hogwarts, of that she was sure.

“Hist! Nerva! Dutchoo wooing?”

Minerva smiled to herself. It was her friend Giggie�”Gilliain Gillespie Gwynn. Gig had an embarrassing habit of mixing up words when she was excited. Some said her Uncle Leister had placed a tongue-tying hex on her as a baby when he didn’t get an invitation to the birthing celebration--not that the old curmudgeon would have attended anyway. Others said it was because she was born on the thirteenth of the month on the dark side of the moon, with the sun in the house of the Crab. Aunt Charlamaine swore uncharitably that it was because Mrs. Gwynn had developed an insatiable craving for Billywig juice during her confinement.

“I’m just thinking.”

“About what?”

“School.”

“It’ll be such fun�”going around together. You wait.”

They sat a while in companionable silence, enjoying the evening breeze and the starshine. But then Gig started twisting her hair and clearing her throat, as she did when she had something on her mind.

“I wanted to ask you what happened today.”

“When?”

“When you was tangled in the noal get�”goal net--with Dugald.” She giggled. Giggie had a bit of a crush on Dugald MacMillan, even though he was two years younger than she. Funny pair they’d make, thought Minerva: Dugald, huge and stolid, with the bright carroty hair of his Norse ancestors, Giggie, thin and bespectacled, with straw-white hair and skin, always chattering and fidgeting.

“What do you mean?”

“I thought maybe you magicked some...beastie to net you out of the get. What was it?”

“Did I�”what did you see?”

Gig whispered excitedly, “Lash of flight an’ a dark, theek sling like a snarten meaking�”marten sneaking--round the net. Then you dropped down. I thought it freed you.”

“I�”I don’t remember any beastie�”I thought Petey did some kind of Severing spell--”

“Not to nut my ket�”ket my nut�”damn--cut my net-- he did not!”

“I did feel queer afterwards. But I thought it was from the fall.”

“You landed on your feet not your head. Fat theeling… you ever have it before?”

“No. Never.”

They sat a while longer, counting stars, and meditated lightly on this mystery. They talked of other instances of wandless magic they had heard about or witnessed or performed themselves�”especially their first, the ultimate proof of magibility. Minerva recounted hers. It happened when she was three. She’d been playing with a neighbor’s cat. It bit her, and she wished it away, yowling, to the top of a chimney. Gig couldn’t remember hers�”or said she couldn’t. Minerva had heard it was something slightly embarrassing, having to do with frogs and soap and the family bathtub.

A desultory breeze played with the leaves, blowing them first one way, then another. “Ooh, ooh,” said Gig, “Wanna see thumsin?” She closed her eyes to slits and raised her face to the breeze, a wrinkle of concentration on her forehead. She whispered, “Blow wind, blow a little more.” Minerva sat, still as a stone. Nothing happened. She tried again. “Blow wind, blow a little more.” If anything, the breeze lessened. Gig gave an exasperated sigh, and Minerva stifled a snort. “Blow wind, blow a little more.” Minerva thought she heard the faintest “please” at the end of the cant. And the breeze did pick up a bit. Gig sighed again. “It doesn’t always work. But when it does, it makes me feel really powerful, you ken?”

“Do they teach that at the school?”

“No, it’s something I made up myself. All the school charms are hoo tard to say.”

“Aunt Donnie says it’s possible to do charms without saying anything�”just thinking the words�”but she says it takes a lot of concentration.”

“I can tronsincate okay, I just can’t spay the cells.”

Minerva changed the subject. She hoped she’d be able to ‘spay the cells,’ when she got to school but didn’t want to think too much about the possibility of failure. And the subject was painful to her friend. Home from Hogwarts, Giggie had tried practicing spells surreptitiously out in the henhouse and ended up changing her mother’s favorite biddie into a cookpot. Needless to say, Mrs. Gwynn had taken custody of her daughter’s wand for the duration of the summer.

They talked about boys (Gig’s favorite subject) and Quidditch (Minerva’s). A shooting star interrupted their thoughts.

“Did you ever wish you could fly over the Grampians just like that star, Gig?”

Gig’s only reply was a gulp and a wince, and the subject quickly changed to their coming trips to the big city to round out their school supplies. Gig would go to Diagon Alley with Dugald and his mother, and Minerva to Hogsmeade, a small wizarding village in the Grampians not far from the school. She’d never been so far from her home before. It would be a great adventure. Of that she was sure.

~*~

Dealing with her mother’s ups and downs, Minerva had learned to keep her emotions rigidly in check�”except when out riding her broom. Now, with her mother gone for a long time, she was slipping into the untidy, but gratifying habit of relishing the good things of life. And the trip to Hogsmeade certainly qualified as a good thing. No, not just a good thing�”a real adventure. Kids in the glen didn’t often visit the great wizarding centers. Indeed they rarely needed to. Denizens of the McGonagall grange, especially, didn’t need to go outside of it for supplies. The neatly tended vegetable gardens, orchards, herbaria, looms, mills, cow pastures, and sheep pens provided most of the clan’s needs. So when Goodie Gudgeon woke her a few days later with the announcement, “Shoppin’ day, dearie. We maun dae our chores early,” she had hardly been able to take it in.

A further thrill awaited her. As they were (finally) getting out the Floo-pot, Jupiter McGonagall approached them, waving Minerva’s broomstick.

“Here, my girl, take this to the Quidditch supply store, and tell Brobdingnag Bones that I want him to put one of those new diamond-hard finishes on yer fag.”

Minerva had heard about such coatings. They rendered a broom almost impervious to damage and made it glisten like morning dew. She grabbed the broom and gave him a grin.

“You’re sure it won’t affect the banking radius.”

“Naw, naw, tell him we want the Elasto-Sheen. That’ll keep it at maximum flexibility.”

4. HOGSMEADE AND BEYOND

Their first stop was a stationery supply store called Scrivenshaft’s. Minerva was delighted by the variety of writing materials available in the larger world: Rainbow Dyes, inks that changed color with your mood, Self-Sharpening Calligraphy Nibs that could also adjust their thickness and angle at a word, Dictation Hands that would write whatever you told them to. The more advanced varieties could even make copies. But more intriguing and useful were the Enhancement Pens. They corrected spelling and grammar and inserted grown-up words and thoughts into your writing to make it more mature. Minerva remembered Petey Macnair had once used one to forge a note from his father to get him out of some kind of school trouble.

She saw a clerk demonstrating the latest in Endless Parchment to a customer. No matter how far you pulled it out there was always more on the roll. But she resisted temptation and bought only enough ordinary parchment, ink, and quills for the first term. She could replenish at Christmas after she opened her presents. The McGonagall aunts were famous for their highly practical gifts. As a new student, she could expect to receive little else besides books and school supplies--from the relatives at least.

After a trip to Bones's Brooms to drop off her fag, they turned in at a side street to Guthrie and Gwynn, the local robe shop. Giggie’s uncle was part owner, and Minerva was sure of a discount as well as free alterations. Jacko Gwynn was in that day, and saw to their needs personally.

“Three sets of work robes in black gabardine and a pointed cap. That’s usual. And I could set you up with a cape and hood with the family crest in a nice wool-silk blend if you like.”

Goodie checked her purse and nodded, then inquired discreetly after the family’s health and activities. Bachelor Jacko was full of stories about his nieces and nephews, especially Gig, who was his favorite. He praised her fashioning of the goal net at the Macmillan farmstead. She was showing signs of becoming an excellent weaver, and once she got some charm-work under her belt, she could have a job in his shop any time she liked.

Minerva liked Jacko. He had a wealth of stories to tell and would regale anyone who would listen with tales of magical beasts and beings of impossibly grandiose attributes. Yet his manner was so compelling that he always left children pleasurably frightened and their elders shaking their heads in wonderment. “Aye, that Jacko,” they’d say, pretending to be unmoved, “Black Irish for sure, with a tongue full of blarney.”

Indeed Jacko had the thick, curly, blue-black hair of his Erse-speaking ancestors, and unusual hazel eyes, and he liked to set them off with brightly colored robes. Today he sported a calf-length azure gown over pine green pantaloons, and strode about, measuring and hemming, mumbling snatches of gossip through a mouth full of pins.

“By-the-by, Minerva,” he whispered in her ear while Goodie visited the Ladies’, “Seen anything unusual in the forest around Macmillan’s lately?”

“N-no.” Minerva sensed the onset of a revelation, and she looked full into Jacko’s eyes. They looked almost golden, and reminded her of the way Ma’s eyes shone when she was excited.

“Well, I heard a rumor, just a rumor mind you, that there’s a strange creature lurking about the vale.”

“What is it? A bear?”

“Now you know there’ve been no bears seen in the Highlands since before the last Goblin Rising. And any that might have been left, Duncan McNair will have stuffed and mounted in his den.”

That was surely true. Laird McNair was a great hunter and had many trophies.

"Not a Hairy McBoon--”

Jacko squinted as if considering this. “Noooo. So far as I know, no Quintaped has ever yet escaped the Isle of Drear. They say this monster--if monster it be--is two-legged, and thin and hairy, and tolerable fast. Magnus says it shines like silver in the moonlight and makes a strange noise…unlike any heard in these parts.”

“Oh. Magnus.” Magnus MacDonald was a great talker, but nothing much ever came of his boasts.

At that second, Goodie Gudgeon returned and bustled Minerva off to the pub for tea.

They enjoyed buttercress sandwiches and gillywater while they waited for the alterations on her robes to be completed. Then they visited the Hogsmeade bookstore and managed to find a copy of every textbook she still needed, except one--Transfiguration for Beginners--which Dugald’s mother could pick up for her in London. In spite of scary reports of the dodgy characters lurking in Diagon Alley, the Macmillans at least didn’t seem to be put off. In fact, Dugald had already Flooed there once by himself and hinted he could be persuaded to take Minerva sometime, an offer she resisted with a snort and a comment that she didn’t need a great overgrown sheepdog herding her about.

They collected their purchases and were returning to the pub when Minerva remembered her broomstick. Goodie glanced at her watch and said the Master'd have nought to eat tonight if she stayed a whit longer. So Minerva left her packages for her nurse to carry back in the Floo and returned to Bones’s to retrieve her newly enhanced broom.

~*~

“Here it is, Miss. Looks like Bobby’s got it nicely polished up for you. I’ll put it on your father’s account, shall I?”

“Yes, thanks.” Minerva looked her sweep all over. The Boneses weren’t the brightest Billywigs in the wizarding world, but they knew their brooms. And Bobby Bones, who had barely scraped through Hogwarts, could take a broom apart blindfolded and put it back together without a twig or spell out of place, or so it was said.

“Best try it out before you go on home. I’m sure Bobby air-tested it, but the owner knows his�”ah�”her fag best,as we say. Just take her up over the mountain there a bit. There’s no Muggles about for miles.”

Minerva was doubtful about his plan, but she was impatient to get this right the first time. Who knew when there’d be time to bring the broom back to Hogsmeade if she found the finish slowed her turns or something equally unacceptable.

~*~

It was a pleasant afternoon, if warmer than usual. As she kicked off into the air, Minerva felt the thrill of flight, and something more--an unusually compelling curiosity. She’d never been over to the north side of the mountains before. She surveyed the Hogwarts school--her school now-- on its great massif. It would make a clear landmark for her return. She flew out boldly, riding east and north, following a line of soft-looking green and gray mountain tops. She’d just go a little way, put her fag through its paces, and then turn back.

But beyond those bland, featureless mounds lay a wide erosion-scored plateau, multi-hued and dotted with shining lochs, a grand and lonely sight. This was followed by more mountains separated by odd, rounded valleys, and beyond those a stretch of pinkish clay waste, strewn with boulders. At its far edge, some pale, rounded peaks poked their heads above sharp, darker crags, like balding warlocks in a coven of pointy-hatted witches. On her left, far in the distance, she was just conscious of the soothing undulations of the mountains. And beyond them, unseen but felt, like a great rent in the land--Loch Ness.

Every vista promised one better over the next ridge, so she naturally traveled further than she’d planned. When she saw clouds to the east tinged with pink, the reflection of a glorious sunset, she knew it was time to be heading home. Her broom seemed to be flying well. If anything, it was faster and more responsive than she remembered it. But then she hadn’t put it through any heavy testing, taken as she was by the wild beauty of the land around her.

She turned about in a gentle arc and took a last longing look at the mountains. It was dusk when she finally made out the spires of Hogwarts. Goodie would be angry, but the things Minerva had seen on her ride were worth a hundred lectures on punctuality. She angled her fag downward for the descent into Hogsmeade, willing the Brake to take hold.

~*~

“Pa, where’s the McGonagall fag?”

“Gone, my boy. Lass took it out for a test-run.”

“No--oh no, Pa, I weren’t finished with it yit.”

“Whyever not, son? It looked to be in perfectly grand shape to me�”-though a mort small. But that’s inventors for you, always making some new…”

“Pa, that’s not what I mean.”

“Well, what do you mean, my boy? You followed the directions on the can didn’t you?”

“Yes, Pa. I removed all the charms: the Cushion, the Brake, the Accelerator. It’s a dandy, is that Accelerator Charm... And I give it three coats, like you said to.”

“Well, then where’s the problem? It was dry enough, and fairly flexible. I bent it acrost my knee, and it twanged right back, no cracks er nothin …”

“Please, Pa. I was able to put the Cushioning Charm and the Accelerator back, but�”I don’t know�”the Braking Charm wouldn't take hold. The fag’s just too small. I don’t know how Maister McGonagall managed to fit it on in the first place…”

~*~

Instinctively Minerva pulled up on the head of her sweep and shot past the village, barely missing a hill on its outskirts. It got caught in a gust of cooling air and plunged towards some very uncomfortable-looking boulders. Once again, she grasped it hard with her knees and jerked its head upwards, but this exposed the tail-end to other currents rising off sun-warmed rock, and made it buck like an angry centaur. And the Braking Charm was just not there. She bent closely over the stick and coaxed it into a course parallel with the slope. Better that than an abrupt meeting with the ground.

But now she found herself accelerating down the mountainside. Her feet began to brush against the tops of evergreens. Their shadowy depths held who knew what dangers: briar patches, outcrops of granite, beasts with fangs and horns and claws, the kind--magical or not�”that Jacko Gwynn populated his stories with.

She could hardly see at all now in the gathering dusk, and wondered in a moment of panic if it might not be better just to slide off her broomstick and hope wandless magic would set her down in the top of a friendly fir. But McGonagall grit and a horror of abandoning her fag won out and she clung on. The suppleness of that stick, so useful on the Quidditch pitch, was a positive liability out here on the mountainside. The wind plucked at it as at a harp-string, and it responded with a strident whine that rose steadily, ominously in pitch. So she wrapped her arms and legs around it, trying to damp the vibration. At this rate her broom would shortly blast into splinters. And Minerva’s energy was draining away along with her courage.

Ahead of her, the darkness, which had been punctuated by pine and fir crowns, became smooth and unbroken like the surface of a great loch. Somewhere below, water rushed, echoing as in a hollow, and Minerva felt about her limbs the cold, sluggish down-draft of a deep valley. The wind, which had pushed her down the slope, now followed a new angle, an almost vertical drop over a precipice. It plunged Minerva and the withy-wand broomstick into that narrow darkness.

5. FLIGHT

She woke in the same cold dark on a gentle slope of spongy turf. She was among trees too, not the tall firs that had punctuated her ride, but stunted Scots pines, with needles like hair, long and fine. These had embraced and slowed her as she rocketed through them, their pliant limbs dragging at her like so many soft fingers. She’d come to ground in thick brush, rolled a way, and then fainted. But as she took stock of her injuries, she realized she had come through it with little more than scrapes and bruises. It was the shock of the impact and stark terror as had likely caused the black-out. But something�”a noise perhaps�”had wakened her.

She did not feel fit to travel a long way tonight, only enough to find her broom and shelter until daylight came. The flora and terrain of this area were much like that of her own valley, and she felt home couldn’t be far away. She could make out the familiar shapes of whin and heather in the moonlight�”smell them too. Moonlight. How long had she lain there oblivious under the pines? Moonrise at this time of year was about midnight. And there it was, a big white disk, just coming in sight over the trees.

Full moon. She froze. Something was nudging her brain�”a memory�”recent�”the thing that woke her. What was it? There it was now�”again�”a screaming howl, off to her left. How far away? And what?

But she knew without seeing. It must be a werewolf. Jacko’s stories notwithstanding, she knew enough of witching lore to ken that sound, an almost human scream, rounding into a snarl. She had to get away and quickly. The Wolf’s sense of smell was legendary, no matter which way the wind was blowing.

Now there was the noise of movement far off in the trees on her left. She felt about for her broomstick. It would take her far from danger. But there was no salvation near to hand�”and, though she wished and wished, she could not Summon it. Underage magic was a whimsical force. One never knew what form it would take�”if it took. She saw a shadow in the trees that hadn’t been there a moment ago. And a glint of something in the moonlight. What? Pale fur? Eyes? Fangs?

She was scrabbling on the slope, then running full out, away from the glint, the movement, the screaming howl. She was fast for her size, but she didn’t know her surroundings. One false step and she’d be on the ground and easy prey. No sense hiding, her scent would give her away in a second. She could hear behind her the whirr and creak of pine boughs being thrust aside. She imagined the fanged muzzle gulping breath, the sharp claws renewing themselves on flinty rock, the hackles bristling with anticipation of the kill.

She ran headlong into a spinney of low-hanging willows and alders. Overhead, wide-fanning branchlets dimmed the moonlight, and beyond in the heart of the thicket, blocked it out completely. Would this be an advantage or a liability? Would the absence of light negate the creature’s thirst for blood?

Apparently not. As she crashed through the darkness she heard with dismay, ever nearer, the sounds of slavering, foaming breath, and imagined a lolling tongue and drool-flecked muzzle. And the beast could likely see in the dark.

Her arm bumped against a tree she hadn’t seen. It staggered her, but for an instant only. Seconds later a low-hanging branch whipped across her face stinging her eyes. Now half blinded, she hesitated, her stride shortened. It wouldn’t be long before she was stopped entirely by a full collision with a trunk, or tripped up by a naked root, or tangled in thorn bushes, trussed and splayed for the coup de grace.

Then it was that the trees, dark threatening shadows against a deeper dark, began to develop an edge, a form, against some kind of light behind them. What was happening? Was it dawn so soon? No, the light was tinged with green, like an effusion of verdant life from the trees themselves or the onset of a fierce mountain storm. If this was not an illusion, a mirage of hope to numb the certainty of doom, she could now pivot, dodge, run full out without fear.

But her earlier hesitancy had closed the gap too much. The creature was right behind her. Something sharp brushed her back near her shoulder�”a claw�”or the dreadful fangs. She closed her eyes, gulped and gasped, prayed wordlessly, and lunged onward.

What does one wish for at the end of hope? Minerva was never clear afterwards what her last thoughts were before it happened.

~*~

They found her at sunrise, curled up under a hairy pine, bruised and dirty, her clothing in tatters.

“You hardly stirred when Robbie MacDonald found you,” her father murmured, bending over the great old feather bed, stroking her hand, her hair, as if to reassure himself that she was really there, safe and whole, and no illusion. “When you didna come home by sunset, I started to worry…then I got an owl from Brobdingnag Bones. His fool of a son…och…we had the whole valley out searching…found your tartan in a briar patch…you must have lost it trying to get free.” His brow puckered. She couldn’t tell if he was on the verge of tears or a tirade.

Minerva tried to think back past the crash. She had only disjointed memories of intense pleasure at a sky plump with clouds, and dismay at the pink of sunset.

Goodie broke into the silence. “Ah, a good lang bath’ll mak ye feel better. Then ye can tell yer yarn, an a barrie tale it will be.” She bustled about, Accio-ing the big iron tub and water from the laundry room as she chivvied Da out the door. “Tak aff yer claes, child, and we’ll hae a look at yer wounds, then into the tub wi ye and forgit yer tribble.” She started a small blue fire under the tub and ran more water in from her wand-tip. Minerva jumped down from the high bed and got out of her shift, eager for a bath and rub down. She felt so sore, and not only from the bruising of the crash. Surely fearful rigor had caused a lot of her muscular soreness. Even her jaw felt clenched…and her shoulder hurt. Her shoulder…

“Goodie!” she screamed and the scream tapered to a whimper. “Oh Goodie…my shoulder… I’m…I’m a…” She suddenly dropped to a crouch and hugged herself as if to ward off the memories of the night before, which now came pouring into her conscious mind.

“Whit is it, child? Yer not hurtit, juist knurles an scarts…tho mony midgie bites….” Knurls an scarts…bruises and--scratch marks! This set off a fresh bout of wailing and Goodie had to reach down and pick her up about the shoulders. She drew her sweet babbie, already growing into a great gangling girl, over to the ancient nursing chair with its willow frame and seat and arm-rests, which had over the years molded itself to the old nurse’s ample requirements. Goodie settled into the chair and gathered Minerva close, clucking and patting, rocking her in a gentle rhythm, like a boat turned sideways to a current of small lapping waves.

“Wheesht, child, calm yersel. And look here.” She reached down next to the chair and pulled up the withy-wand broomstick. “The MacDonald lad�”he wis wi the search party�”he found it in a bush. Only twa-three broken faggots…”

But Minerva would not be comforted by the sight of her trusty sweep. “Goodie�”last night�”it was full moon.”

“Aye, ma dearie, I knaw. Lucky it wis to hae a good strang licht to see by.”

“No--Goodie --The Wolf!”

“Naw, naw, there been nae wolves in the Hielands in a lang, lang time.”

“No, Goodie, no�”I don’t mean an ordinary wolf.”

“What are ye sayin, child? You didna meet a werewolf.”

“I did, Goodie, and he scratched me or bit me�”just here.” She reached up and touched behind her right shoulder.

Goodie squinted at the spot. “There’s naught there Minerva. Nae scart…naethin.”

“But I felt it, Goodie, I feel it now. It makes me shiver to think the creature was close enough to touch me. And then�”oh Goodie�”I changed.”

“Changed, child?”

“I changed into a wolf--a little one. Oh Goodie, darling, I’m a…a…” She searched for the dreaded grown-up word. “…a Lycatrope. I shall be locked up or banished from the clan or hunted down and a silver stake driven through my heart!” The tears were streaming down her face as she clung to her last refuge, her Nursie, whom she would soon have to leave forever.

“Bletheration! There be nae werewolves in these pairts, only pine martens and red deer…an orra black draigon mebbe…”

“Then how come I changed? Changed, Goodie. I swear it. I was running�”on my last breaths and strength�”and it was dark in the wood, so dark, you couldn't see the wand in front of your face�”and the wolf close behind. It scratched me�”I know it did�”and suddenly I was thrown forward onto my hands. Only they weren’t hands, Goodie, they were paws, hairy and clawed. My whole body changed. I was fast Goodie�”ever so fast. I dodged the wolf, I feinted and turned�”just like I was on the pitch�”and the wolf wasn't fast enough. It scrabbled about and started gaining again, but I had my energy back and to spare, and I outran him like he was standing still. I lost him in a beech grove and�”oh, Goodie�”” She dabbed at her eyes, searching for words to continue the terrible story.

“Ye maun dreamt it, child. ‘Tis only natural. When ye fell, ye dinged yer head…”

“You don’t understand. I felt my body change, my back legs crook like a hound’s, my teeth go to fangs, my ears prick up to the top of my head. And after the chase was over, I felt hungry, so hungry, and I�”oh�”I sniffed the air and smelt blood�”"

“Ye whit?”

“I saw something moving in the grass. I chased it. It was little and fast, but not so fast as me. I cornered it and �“oh---I played with it first. I threw it up into the air and carried it about. It was so scared, I could feel it quivering in my�”my mouth. ” She shuddered. “Then when I was sure it was dead, I ate it�”head and tail and all! I remember the crunch of its little bones, the fur, the warmth and…and the blood...Augh! I must be a Wolf, Goodie, I must!” She buried her head in the ample bosom and wept uncontrollably.

“Hark, child, gif ye did cheenge into a beastie�”and I’m not sayin’ ye did, or ye didna�”it wouldna be from the touch or even the bite of a werewolf. The first cheenge niver comes til the neist full moon---that I ken.”

“The next full moon? But how�”are you sure, Goodie? Are you dead sure?”

“Sure as my auld mither tellin’ me so in a chair very like this ane.”

“I can’t believe it was a dream, Goodie. It was so real.” Minerva dried her eyes on the back of her hand. “Promise me you’ll lock me in the barn next full moon, just to be safe. I wouldn't want to bite you or Da or any of our friends--”

“Aye, dearie, I promise.” There was more clucking and patting and rocking. And then--“Intae the tub wi ye nou, before that dirt yer coated wi hardens ye intae a stone golem.”

6. FAMILY MATTERS

Thankfully, there were no repercussions over Minerva's flight through the mountains, no Muggle witnesses to be memory-wiped, even though she had gone much further than Brobdingnag Bones intended her to. Petey Macnair took the opportunity to tease her about the possibility of being brought up before the Wizengamot for breaching the Statute of Secrecy. And Da did give her a long lecture on Magical Law, including, not only the dangers of flying over Muggle territory, but also unauthorized wand use.

"Having yer own wand will be a big responsibility, Minerva. And there are good reasons why the Ministry forbids underage mages to use one out of school."

“But Petey casts spells all the time, Da.”

“Let Petey’s parents take care of it then.”

“He says no one at the Ministry of Magic can tell who’s using magic up here anyway.”

“Aye, he would say that. But the Ministry knows, child, take my word on it.”

“Then his father does have influence…”

“I’m not saying he does or he doesn’t. The law’s the law, Minerva. We’ve always upheld the Statutes, and no daughter of mine will be the first to go against them.”

Nor would Minerva willingly disobey her father’s dictum.

Da was the youngest of seven and the only son. Her aunts all lived close by and when Da had started making the rounds of Healers with Ma, Minerva had stayed with each of his sisters in turn. Minerva knew well the feelings each had for her father, and she would rather be beaten raw with her own broomstick than give them cause to brand him a poor father and disciplinarian.

In fact, women dominated the McGonagall clan throughout its history, and their portraits held Minerva’s attention for hours on end. The gallery ran around three sides of the first floor above the Great Hall and paintings of her famous antecedents lined the walls from the Master Bedroom door around to the top step of a wide curved stairway. Minerva’s room was in the corner opposite her parents’ near the pictures of a lively group of Medieval and Renaissance relations.

Today, as she passed them on the way to breakfast, she could hear Hortensia of Argyll, muttering between her teeth. Hortensia had saved the life of one of the Bruces early in the national history, and never let anyone forget it. And she smoked a pipe--incessantly.

“And where, I ask you, is this mistress of ours? It’s been months--months!-- since she’s gone to the Healer’s and not a word about when she’ll be back. It’s wrong to leave the lord of the manor alone so long to deal with all these problems.”

“What problems, Tensie?” This from Jenny Blair, Hortensia’s nearest neighbor, who sat in a frame delicate with carved roses. She had a heart-shaped face and a sweet, soft voice, which she used sparingly. It was hard to believe she had once single-wandedly defeated a band of drunken warlocks who were trying to re-route the river Tay to flood a Muggle village. But Goodie swore it was true.

“Dry rot, Mistress Blair, dry rot. The entire place is falling to pieces around us.”

A whispery voice two frames down, charged, “And I foresaw it, did I not?”

“Eh?”

“Did I not predict ruination for this house if the Master married that Mudblood? The Keep is cursed, I tell you.”

“Oh, cork it, Meg, you haven’t been right since our King James succeeded the Tudor hussy. I was perhaps exaggerating a little. It’s dry rot, or worms, no more than that. But we need the Mistress to come back and see to it.”

Meg of Dundee bristled. She was the only known Seeress to come out of the very pragmatic McGonagall clan, and she took herself extremely seriously. She had correctly predicted the ascendancy of the Stuart line, though Minerva couldn’t remember any other prophecy of hers that came true. She certainly hoped this latest one was wrong.

“It doesn’t take a Muggle gypsy to see what’s causing your problem,” hissed Meg. “It’s your pipe! It needs a powerful anti-drying charm to protect any surface from that smokestack of yours.” And it was true. The paint at the top of Hortensia's picture was badly blistered and the entire frame coated with ash.

There came a great shout from further down the row. Minerva knew that voice well. It was Anne McCutcheon. Lady Anne was a spirited witch, who had allied herself with 'the Tudor hussy,' Elizabeth, because she felt Muggle women had little enough power in the world as it was. She was usually to be found pacing restlessly back and forth, using up all of her portrait and several others, her long auburn hair streaming behind her as if caught in a perpetual wind. She had helped to conjure the gale that defeated the Spanish Armada, and her laughter would ring out up to the battlements whenever a storm hit the Keep.

Minerva rushed over. Lady Anne was seated for a change and holding a hand of cards. The table in front of her was littered with coins, and another chair had been drawn up to it. She recognized the person in it, although his back was to her. Black curls flowed over his collar, and a strong brown hand threw playing cards into the air, then slashed at them with a dagger as they came down.

“Game to you my lady�”again,” he growled.

“Oh, don’t take it so hard, Rowdie, it’s only Leprechaun gold.”

“It’s not the money, Madam, it’s the principle of the thing. I let Mistress Blair cheat because she blushes so prettily when she wins, but you, Madam, have the most irritating way of rubbing it in...”

This was Minerva’s favorite ancestor: Ralph Guthrie Flynn, whose portrait hung by the stairs. ‘Rowdie’ Flynn had, in his youth, turned his back utterly on his magical heritage to join the infamous Scots buccaneer Rory MacNeil, adventuring on the high seas. It was a favorite family boast that Rowdie had given the name ‘Galleon’ to the gold coins used by mages in honor of a particularly wealthy Spanish ship he had captured. He always swore the life of a Muggle was much more exciting than that of any wizard and described it in his journal:

‘…with naught but my Compasse and a Blud Staned Dirke, and the thinne Plankes of this oaken Vessell betwixt me and a waterie Grayve…’

He was the ultimate in courage, thought Minerva, but at this exact moment, he was whining like a child.

“…and the worst of it is, I can’t see how you’re doing it.”

“Nor will I enlighten you, you rogue. See what you’ve done to my favorite deck. The King of Cups is bleeding all over the table.”

But she waved a hand over the ragged fragments and turned them back into cards.

“Odds bodikins, woman, wandless magic? You should visit Hortensia over there and help her with her dry-rot.”

“It’s not dry-rot, it’s that pipe of hers. Filthy habit! Why you ever introduced her to it...”

They continued their argument, moving out of the frame to join the others further down. Rowdie broke into a chorus of Come Sirrah, Jack, Ho, his favorite song. Minerva knew it to be about smoking and other adult pleasures. Goodie had once caught her singing the naughty refrain, and threatened to Scourgify her mouth if she caught her at it again. She sighed. The other ghosts would welcome Rowdie and Lady Anne. They would argue, josh, gossip for hours, but they always ignored Minerva utterly.

“Why, Gudgie?” she’d asked once, in a fit of temper.

“Yer no proper witch yit, lass. Whan ye hae yer wand an learn twa-three spells, than they’ll tak notice o ye. The nou, yer naught but a Moogle tae them.”

And soon, for the first time�”no, the second, counting the day of her birth�”she was going to visit the tombs of these hallowed ancestors in the family Crypt that was carved out of the mountain-roots at the north end of the estate. It was a long-established custom for the clan chieftain to bring his newly born child to the Crypt, together with all the relatives he could muster, for the ancestral Blessing and Binding Charms. And although Minerva could not remember this happening to her, she knew the way to the Crypt, because her father invariably pointed it out on their walks about the estate. It was guarded by a great bronze door under a stone outcrop with markings etched through some long-forgotten craft into the smooth slate façade. Anglian they were, or perhaps Scandinavic runes. And always in his rumbling bass, Jupiter John Cadwallader McGonagall would intone direst warnings about the curses that would be inflicted on any stranger who tried to enter, the least of which had something to do with their insides being turned out and their heads set ablaze with Gubraithian fire.

And, in under a week, she’d be visiting it safely with Da to pick out her wand�”or rather, to let one of her ancestors’ wands choose her to be its mistress.

~*~

But for now, she had to keep her wits about her, for no less important business was at hand. Giggie Gwynn, whose head was always full of projects and ambitions, had announced that the community Quidditch pitch needed a second goal. It seemed Petey Macnair had bragged about the advantages of the Perthshire pitch at school and now a group of students from another valley was wanting to challenge them to a match. So now, she and Gig and Petey were out on a spur of the mountain gathering knotgrass. Gig was well ahead of them, scouting out the terrain.

Suddenly her blonde head, which was bobbing about barely a foot above the heavy growth of weeds and heather, disappeared completely, accompanied by a faint surprised yelp. When Minerva, and then Petey, reached the spot where they’d last seen her, there was no sign of their friend. Thankfully there was also no steep hillside that she might have tumbled over, only random clumps of yellowing broom and whin, and a shallow uphill gully, lined with the debris of many rains. They tramped about calling her name, each pondering the possibility of fates far worse than a mere fall off a cliff.

Their fears were fed by tales they’d heard of ancient ruined necromancers banished to some lonely plane and reaching out across the ether with remnants of their magic to snag random life-forms. And abandoned Portkeys, lying about the hillsides, whose touch could send an unwary hiker to Merlin-knew-where. Or Boundary Hexes, which changed trespassers into trees or rocks or clumps of grass.

Minerva was looking despairingly at one such clump when Petey gave a yell and pointed. At the mouth of the gully, where the erosion from run-off was severe, there was a rent in the ground. The ground around it looked soft and unstable. Minerva and Petey were familiar with the perils of sink-holes from Jacko Gwynn’s stories. Minerva dropped immediately to the ground and splayed her body to distribute her weight. She inched forward and put her mouth to the hole.

“Gig! Gig, are you down there?”

A faint scrabbling sound came to her ears, followed by a curse�”a very loud, very well-enunciated Celtic curse. It called down elementals and mountain trolls on whatever “ill-trickit, bastartin, daftie-bampot” put that trap in her way. Minerva breathed a sigh of relief.

“Are you all right?”

“Aye�”but I canna see anything.” Minerva turned to Petey, who was lying nearby, brandishing his wand hopefully. Its tip was glowing.

“Is she hurt?” He intoned hoarsely. Minerva shook her head. “Thrust this in and see what she’s about.” He edged nearer and started pulling at the edge of the rift, to widen it. A great clump of sod came off in his hand, which dislodged a shower of stony debris into the hole and caused more curses to come out of it.

Minerva pointed the wand into what was now almost a crater, wide enough for both her and Petey to look into.

They could see Gig, dirty and glaring, about a man’s height below them, sitting on dark, smoothish ground. “Och, Fat Hair, is it you masin’ all that meck?”

“Wheesht, wench!” Petey’s voice trembled with relief. He edged closer and stretched out his arm. “Can you reach my hand?”

“Naw, naw, I canna. But if you take your great greasy self outta the hole, and sheep the kight lining I clight mime up.”

They weren’t entirely sure what she meant by that. But they wriggled back out of the way. Now Gig had light enough even without the wand to examine her surroundings. They could all see that she had not fallen, but slid down a pile of brush and stones that made a path of sorts. And they could see behind her a wall of stone.

“Wait,” said Petey, “I want to come down.” And he grabbed the wand out of Minerva’s hand and jumped feet first into the hole. He blundered down the natural ramp and knocked Gig over, which made her madder than ever.

“Why don’t you go where you’re watching, eejit?”

“Look,” was his reply.

7. THE CAVERN

Petey's wand illuminated the wall behind them. It was actually a cluster of close-packed natural stone pillars, a rare intrusion of limestone into the Grampian schist. Golden-brown and streaked with orange and red, they looked as if they might have been poured out of the sky by some celestial candymaker and hardened like toffee into folds and whorls and coils.

“A cavern,” breathed Gig. “Oh, Petey, ‘Nerva, let’s explore it, please?”

Minerva was equally entranced, but cautious. She inched down the scree and laid a hand on Petey’s arm. “We need to think a bit first. Remember Jacko’s story about that fellow who got lost in a cave. He starved to death, didn’t he?”

“We’ll kee bareful,” said Gig. “Every time we fum to a cork�”come to a fork, I’ll mark a make�”I mean make a mark.” She took a piece of chalk out of her pocket. “Please--Minerva, I’ve never been in a cave before. There bight me�”-might be--treasure--“

“Or more sinkholes. Or creatures like…”

“Like bats that’ll tangle in yer hair?" Petey’s eyes were bright and his breath quick and shallow. "That’s just old hag’s tales, Minerva.”

“No, Petey.” She tried to remain calm, but she could almost see those bats skittering up out of a chasm and scaring Gig into tumbling into it. Her experience out on the mountain had made her wary of taking chances.

“We’ll�”-be--careful,” repeated Gig, in the persistent, wheedling tone she usually reserved for her mother.

“All right,” said Minerva, not for one moment believing her. “But we go slow--and I lead.” This brought a scowl to Petey’s face. “Well, we’ve only the one light, so logically the person carrying it should be the tallest, and he should walk between the other two. And anyway, I’ve been in a cave before, so I know what they’re like.” Minerva carefully omitted the fact that her time spent in the family Crypt, which from Da’s description could be said to qualify as a cave, had been as an infant in her Aunt Donnie’s arms.

They walked carefully through the passageway. Petey kept his wand high so they could see all around them. The spell was quite strong, and Minerva complimented him on it.

“It’s one of my best, better even than my Levitate.”

But even so, the footing was uncertain, so there was no more casual conversation for a while, just whispered remarks like “mind that overhang” and “puddle ahead” and “take care around these stointy pones.”

Delicate icicles of limestone hung from a ceiling they could barely make out, and the floor was mined with fang-like projections. They had to tread carefully to avoid being tripped up. Now they stopped and sat on a large stone to take in their surroundings. It was like being on an island in a choppy sea.

“Look,” murmured Minerva.

“What?”

“All these little stalagmites�”they’re so slender. And see here--and over there--they’ve been broken off. Know what that means?”

Gig’s face became very solemn in the shadowy light. “We’re not the first...”

“Yes, someone has been here before us.”

“Pirates!” shouted Petey, and his wand tip flared with his emotion. It shone on the ceiling and reflected for an instant the full beauty and extent of the passage. The icicles shone milky white. His laughter filled the cavern and the echoes sounded like a band of bloodthirsty trolls closing in for the kill. The space was seen to be long and narrow and downward-sloping�”-and, to Minerva's relief, empty. At the furthest edge of the light, they could see a high wall. It glimmered as if something glassy moved along its surface. They edged towards it.

Petey reached out and ran his hand over the stone. It was furrowed with centuries of erosion, and coated with a thin film of moisture.

“Hook lere,” said Gig, who was feeling at its base. “Another opening.”

She was right. The wall looked solid, but it was actually two closely fitted plates that didn’t quite touch at the bottom. A pile of rubble banked up against the hole, but Gig and Petey cleared it away in a trice, and now they laughed, feeling a cool, strong breeze blowing out into their faces. The hole looked big enough for them to crawl through. Minerva held her breath as Petey did just that. He got in as far as his rump, paused for seconds, then withdrew and sat on his haunches. There was an odd look on his face. Fear? Disappointment? The girls couldn’t be sure.

“What happened?” asked Gig. “Stet guck?”

Petey grinned, then grabbed their arms. “’Tis a room!” he shouted. “The walls are smooth and plumb. Man-made. I’m sure we’ve discovered a pirate’s lair!”

“We’re long ways from the sea, Petey,” said Minerva drily.

“Well, then, robber-barons or something. Anyways it looks clean and dry and there are none of your stalga-mites or whatever you call them.”

This did little to relieve Minerva's fears, but she bit her lip and followed her friends inside.

The small oblong chamber had walls of gray stone, and it seemed to have been carved out of the rock. It was not at all like the beautiful random formations in the cave, but they would soon find it had its own attractions.

Petey played the light about the wall looking for clues to its origin and he was the first to notice a small doorway with a pointed arch. As he walked over to investigate, the other end of the room became dark, and it made Gig gasp.

“Lookit, oh look!” she exclaimed

She was pointing behind Minerva. The wall there was different from the others, highly polished, like a mirror, but if a mirror, then the most unusual ever seen. It was formed of a dark crystalline rock cut smooth, and seamless. What had first caught Gig’s eye, she explained as they drew nearer, was little lightnings curling along its edges and one that shot straight across, but with no accompanying boom of thunder or even a hiss or anything. Now they were close enough to see themselves in it, although darkly. At its edges a pattern of leaves and flowers and curling vine tendrils was etched into the rock and inlaid with copper to form a simple, elegant frame. The metal was mottled with verdigris, but this only enhanced its ancient beauty. And the wand light playing on the metal’s surface did resemble bursts of energy to their excited eyes.

The stone seemed an integral part of the structure of the walls, a vein perhaps of onyx or obsidian that had intruded itself long ago, before even magic, when all this region was molten and unsettled. But the decorations had to be man- or wizard-made. They stared into its depths trying to divine its origin, its purpose. Suddenly all three became conscious once again of the door behind them, as they caught its reflection in the glass. They turned as one and strode up to it.

It was a small archway, just wide enough for one to pass at a time. Now, even though it looked very dark beyond, there was no hesitation at all. Whether it was because of the very civilized look of the room,the sheer lust for discovery, or, in Minerva's case, the fact that one of them was well-armed, the three children fell immediately and unafraid into the order they had earlier agreed upon and marched through the door.

~*~

The second room was about four times as big as the first, and a perfect square. Its walls bristled, ceiling to floor, with hooks of some dark metal on which hung weapons, hundreds, maybe even a thousand of them. Some were lustrous, and shone in the light of Petey’s wand, as if they had only just been cleaned. Others were dark and dull, or rust-spotted, or rimed with dust. Swords, spears, staves, and axes, and some forms less easily recognized, were ranked in rows though apparently not by history. An ancient hoary staff stood next to a gleaming claymore; a modern-looking bow companioned a blood-blackened mace. Petey gasped in wonder and put his hand around one particularly beautiful dagger. The gesture gave Minerva a primitive thrill of fear.

“Don’t!” she commanded sharply and her voice rang through the stone chamber and echoed in the passages beyond.

“Why not?” A unison from Petey and Gig.

Minerva couldn’t explain her foreboding, the feeling that they were trespassing and unwanted. “Why�”uh�”we’ll be coming back this way, won’t we? We can always pick stuff up then, as much as we like. Best not load ourselves up with loot when we don’t know if there might be obstacles ahead."

“Right,” said Gig, whose imagination as usual leapt to the fore. “Who knows if they’ll be galls to wet over or hiney toles to squooze three. Maybe even some Moneybuns or Pizzchirples or Luckhumps or Bumglumbles…”

“…or a Niffler…or a Moke!” Petey had picked up Gig’s enthusiasm if not her exact meaning.

Or a band of kobolds or a mountain troll, thought Minerva.

~*~

There were other rooms, each containing treasures: robes, scrolls, musical instruments. And there was a primitive-looking cavern with earthen walls, unremarkable except for a great hole in its center. This the girls gave a wide berth, though Petey crawled to the edge to try if he could see to the bottom. But Minerva was remembering again her night flying down the mountain, and she could not face another height, did not even want to hear Petey’s description of it. Gig did toss a small pebble into it from afar. They did not wait to hear its landing.

As Minerva had requested, they touched nothing, thinking to make a leisurely choice of treasures on the way back. On and on they wandered in a straight, simple line deep down the mountainside, Gig and Petey marveling in innocent wonder at each succeeding revelation. All the while, Minerva’s trepidation grew. This was no abandoned horde of passing gypsies or highwaymen, but a preserve, lovingly planned and maintained, of museum pieces--or heirlooms.

8. TRAPPED!

Finally they entered the biggest room yet, a high-ceilinged hall draped with pennants and banners. Over a door at the far end was a medallion of two serpents twined about a sheaf of heather. Minerva whirled about recognizing in turn the tartans of the Wallace, Macnair, and Campbell clans. And covering the wall of the door they had just come through, a great drapery embroidered with the Connghaill gryphon rampant, holding a rose, in gold on a field of blue. The sight made Minerva gasp.

“I knew it. We should not be here.”

“Why not?”

“These banners, these tartans…we must be trespassing…”

“No, we’re not. My father’s thane of this valley. That’s our crest over the door. We’ve a right…”

“We’ve no right! Ah, Petey, I think�”I think�”it’s the McGonagall Crypt we’re in!”

“And so what if it is? You’re an heir--”

“You ken no one should be entering this space without the clan chieftain being with them, lest�”lest…”

“Ahhhh, you’re not afraid, are you, Minerva?” sneered Petey. “Afraid of a little curse?”

“Are we gonna kee burst?” whispered Gig, her eyes widening.

“Not if we leave right now,” said Minerva. She wasn’t sure of this, but she tried to pronounce it in a firm, sensible voice, hoping any spirits that were listening in would agree. Under no circumstances would she divulge in front of her flighty friend the awful punishment inflicted on trespassers: their insides turned out, their heads set ablaze.

“Just a bit further,” said Petey soothingly. “It’s probably okay. Nothing’s happened to us yet, and we’ve been in here a good while--though it’s probably just as well we didn’t touch anything.”

“I’m not going astother nep,” said Gig, “And if I had my wand with me I’d be out of here night row.”

“Come on, Petey. We’ve seen enough, I think.” Minerva made a pass at his wand, but missed and that put Petey in a taunting mood.

“Oh you McGonagalls, you're big with the Quidditch scoring and stories of bravery, but when you have to face something the least bit dangerous, your hearts turn to haggis. You’re a coward, Minerva, you are.”

“I’m no coward! I just think�”this isn’t right.”

“All right, keep your kilt on. Wait here with gawping Giggie. I’ll be back in a few ticks.”

Since he held the only source of light, and since Gig was indeed looking ill, Minerva had to let him go on alone. She edged over to her friend in the deepening gloom and touched her arm. Soon they could hear Petey describing what he saw, and his voice echoed eerily back to them. He was obviously trying to tease them into coming after him, as boys will.

“Oh this is the biggest room yet! There’s big blocks of stone with lots of pictures and carvings. A wand sticking out of a hole on the top of this one. And over here another. This one’s heavy, must be a wizard’s. And you’ve got to see this great black…” Then his voice changed. “Wha? Whozzat? Gerroff me! Don’t come any closer…I’ve got a wan…”

They heard noises: it sounded like groans and muttering. From the sound of it Petey had met up with something a lot scarier than even a mountain troll. His voice was rising like a girl’s. “Don’t get all in a lather�”I’ll put them back. No�”now--get back, or I’ll Stun the lot of y----aaaaugh!” Mingled with his cry, they heard a rush of wind. Petey, his wand flickering dangerously, burst into the room. He flew past them, gibbering and crying, and made for the far exit.

Minerva saw in the fast diminishing light that Gig had gone rigid, her hands splayed about her cheeks and staring stupidly. She’d seen that look on cornered animals before�”tharn the old folks called it. It was a prelude to mindless bolting or complete collapse. Instinctively, she embraced Gig to reassure her and also shield her as best she could from the rising gale. She mustered up what she hoped was a calm voice, but she had to shout to be heard, so the effect was lost.

“IT'LL BE ALL RIGHT GIG...JUST HOLD ON NOW!”

Behind them came a booming sound, as if a herd of crazed Graphorns was trying to fit through the doorway all at once. A really strong gust of wind caught her full in the back and knocked them both sprawling. As she hit the floor, Minerva inhaled a lungful of dust and--freezing air. She gagged and felt Gig coughing beneath her. They could hear the pennants and banners flapping furiously overhead. And there were voices, ebbing and flowing around them with the changes in the wind, keening, whispering, cursing. The coldest sensation Minerva had ever felt flooded through her. She hoped Gig was not hearing or feeling the same things she was. If so, she might never get her friend back out into the sunshine.

Now she heard Gig whisper, very slow and deliberate, though her teeth were chattering: “This p-place belongs to the w-wights and the ghouls, it does�”like the b-b-barrows of the South Downs. Oh Minerva…”

“That’s not true,” Minerva whispered back. “It’s only the spirits of my ancestors�”they’re good people, and they won’t harm me--or my friends.” Even if one so-called friend was a knock-kneed coward. She had a mental image of her last sight of Petey, his eyes white with terror and wailing like a banshee in a bog. The wind and the voices seemed to be dying away in the direction of his flight. Serve him right if they do turn his insides out, she thought.

“Come on now, Gig. Let’s go. I know the way, but I’ll need your help. One foot in front of the other.” That last was a saying Goodie Gudgeon used often, whenever there was a long journey or a hated task to complete. One foot afore the other, lass, an we’ll be hame in a wee.”

She tried to pull her friend to her feet. It was no easy task, because although Gig was hollow-boned and easy to maneuver as a rule, fear and rigor had made her into a dead weight. No, worse than dead�”rigid and resistant. So Minerva did something she had never, ever done. She shook her, hard. Gig gave a little pinched sob and yielded to her younger friend's determination.

Now as Minerva looked around, she had to fight down panic. The darkness was so complete. There was no afterglow or starlight here deep underground to gradually reveal shapes and shadows. For a horrible instant she found herself wishing she could change back into the Beast she had been the other night. She remembered the keen awareness she’d had of everything: smells, sounds, shadows, infinitesimal movements of creeping things. Her whiskers�”yes, she had had whiskers�”had sensed every breath of breeze, every ripple set up by the minuscule vibrations of tiny beating prey-hearts.

And, by Circe, she thought she actually felt the start of that sensation, the beginnings of the Change, like an infusion of a hotter blood than her own into her veins, and with it a fierce animal energy. But she could not allow it to happen. However beneficial it might be, the sudden appearance of the Beast beside her would surely send Gig over the edge into madness. With a superhuman will, Minerva quelled the oddly reassuring tingle, squeezed it out of herself. She thought she heard a faint 'pop!' as if the effort had broken something inside her, but there was no time to dwell on that now.

Now they started back, hand in hand. Minerva remembered the order and general floor plan of each room, but she pretended ignorance and encouraged Gig to describe them as they stumbled along, to keep her sensible and 'in the game'.

"H-here's the Hardic Ball..." Minerva recalled the name--the Bardic Hall--as Petey had christened it in his lordly hubris. "We have to kee bareful here," Gig opined with a hint of returning strength. Minerva remembered thinking this herself, even when they had the benefit of Petey's light. Stringed instruments were ranged about the walls, the larger ones on randomly placed pedestals.

Gig was still talking as they felt their way, clinging to the wall. "...and if nee wock over that big hooden warp near the center, the noise will wurely shake any ghost that's still asleep." Minerva grinned at the crack and breathed relief that her friend’s sense of humor was returning. They felt their way around the edge of the chamber, only once knocking into something-- a round-bodied mandolin Minerva remembered. It had looked much like a cook pot with strings. It twanged a mournful note, like an Augurey’s song. They both giggled at this and knew now that they would be all right.

They made it through The Library the same way, step by careful step. It was easier here. Shelves full of scrolls and books were ranged in parallel rows leading straight to the next opening. At one point Gig thought she heard a noise, a groan or something, but they waited several minutes and did not hear it again, so went on. But now came the challenge. Beyond the Library was the dreaded Hole-Room. They stood some precious moments, catching their breath.

Minerva led the way through the arch, with Gig behind, her right hand tucked into Minerva’s waistband, her left, like Minerva’s, feeling along the cavern wall. They negotiated the uneven ground without a misstep. Halfway round as she judged it, Minerva began to feel they could do this. She allowed her mind to stray from intense concentration on balance and foot placement to a cautious preview. Only three rooms to go: the Wardrobe (some standing suits of armor to avoid there, but most of its contents were robes and cloaks hung on wall pegs), The Armory with its gridwork of weapons, (again mainly on the walls, and, she hoped, with no sharp edges protruding into their path), and finally, The Mirror-room. It should be easy to find the hole to the outer cave. Surely it would give itself away with a glimmer of outside light and there would be light enough to see around those stalagmites. It couldn’t be night time. Not yet.

There was a gasp behind her. “Thumsing brushed my leg,” whispered Gig.

“It’s just a stone,” returned Minerva in a normal tone.

“No, it was�”something--soft.” She was laboring to stay calm and make herself understood.

Not a bat then. Their wings were stiff and leathery. Then Minerva heard it�”a patting or padding sound and something like snuffling coming from her right�”from the Hole itself.

9. THE HOLE

They froze and clung to each other, pressed against the wall. It was not difficult to remain silent. Their breath had ceased utterly on hearing that sound.

“Ach. Vassiss?” A question. And definitely not Petey’s voice. It had the hard gutturals of Gaelic, but was otherwise unfamiliar. Then there was a cry and a thud. After an age of time, Minerva peered through slit eyes and saw�”a faint, flickering glow coming from the Hole. Starved for light, she strained in the gloom, devoured every shape as it became clear. There was the crack-striated floor, the rough, curved walls, and, as she turned her head cautiously, the darkness of the exit door, not so far away as she’d thought, yet not near enough. There was no clue to the owner of the voice. It had retreated--dropped or fallen--into the Hole. Then her eyes rested on Gig’s, which were tight-shut.

One thing was sure, she had to get her friend into the next room and out of sight. She gave her a gentle shake and Gig blinked. Minerva nodded deliberately and gestured towards the door with her head. She hoped Gig understood. She didn't dare risk so much as a whisper. Still clinging, but lightly now, she backed towards the exit door, step by halting step, pulling Gig after her, like they were in a kind of slow-motion dance. Twice they halted in midstep, the first time, as the voice repeated its odd combination of sounds: “Ach. Vass iss,” and again a moment later when a high-pitched cackle echoed through the cave.

They made it to the door, exhausted by tension and bated breath. Minerva shoved her friend into some soft folds of material, hanging from the wall, and wrapped the ends around her, tucking them in like a blanket. “I’ll be right back,” she whispered, her mouth in Gig’s ear. Sensing no protest, she inched back towards the Hole-Room, then eased herself down to hands and knees.

She crawled towards the light in the floor. Her purpose was clear. It had been stupid and cowardly to have passed the Hole earlier without having a look along with Petey. Well, no matter what her fears were, she had to see the source of the danger now, if danger it was, before she would turn her back on it again. And...she had to know what kind of beast had such a curious, oddly appealing laugh. Reaching the Hole, she assumed a crouching position, ready for flight, if the discovery was bigger or faster than she could handle, and peered over the edge.

In what was no abyss, but merely a wide depression about six feet deep, she saw an elf-like creature bent over a guttering lantern. It was bigger than a garden gnome, and skinny, with bony bare feet sticking out of its robe. It looked slow and harmless. It had no weapons that she could discern, except a stick protruding from a neat bundle and a staff that lay nearby. It seemed to have made itself at home down there. But behind the elf was another hole--in the floor of the depression. It was about three feet wide, but how deep she could not say.

The creature turned suddenly and looked up. It stared at her for an instant out of twinkling black eyes, then made that cackling sound and stretched out its arms, as if it expected her to leap down into them. “Mine kint,” it cried. “Come!” And once again, it laughed. The curious thing was, Minerva felt a powerful urge to obey it. The laughter tickled at her brain and seemed to promise the company of pink-cheeked children about a hearth, chestnuts roasting on the fire, and a tin of ginger snaps. Only Jacko’s cautionary tales of babes replaced in their beds with Faerie changelings and Red Caps stalking travelers to their deaths kept her in her place.

The elf’s demeanor changed. Its slanted eyes flashed and its pointy chin wobbled. More of that strange language issued from its mouth, but now it sounded petulant. It started to climb up towards her. Minerva instinctively kicked out, and her heavy brogues made contact with its face. Falling back, the creature missed its footing, hit its head hard on the lantern, and lay still.

Minerva longed to climb down and retrieve the light. She wasn’t all that sure that it was still day outside, and feeling their way through the cavern with sharp rocks all around would be no picnic. But the lantern looked heavy�”it had hardly budged in the collision. It had shutters, and she recognized it as the kind made to stand up to windy nights guarding sheep in the mountains. She wasn’t sure she could maneuver it and herself up the steep sides of the hole. And she expected Gig would be too scared to be much help.

But now there came a scuffling sound behind her, and Gig threw herself down beside Minerva, looking indignant.

“That robe you hid me in," she hissed, "it stried to trangle--mingle--strangle me. What’s that?" She pointed to the elf, its body splayed out between the lantern and the smaller hole, its sharp features ghastly in the flickering light. “Oo, Erkling,” she exclaimed.

“What?”

“Erman jelf�”I mean�”German elf. Kidnaps children. Detey’s Pad has one in his brylairy. Stuffed.”

Minerva shivered. An Erkling. Its merry laughter had very nearly lured her into its clutches�”and from there�”where? The Hole? Or worse?

“If I climb down, I think I could lift that lantern up to you on a staff. Do you think you can hold it?”

“If it’s hot too not.”

“I’m going to try. Keep an eye on our friend there.”

Minerva lowered herself into the depression, with the help of some large rocks jutting out of the dirt. She looked the elf over�”it lay as if dead. She felt the briefest twinge of conscience, but turned her attention to the task at hand. The lantern was indeed heavy and she’d have to boost it straight up with the staff, keeping her weight under it. But the staff, though long enough, was completely smooth. No knob or notch marred its surface to provide a convenient hook.

The bindle stick was better. It was thick and had a fork at the end, perfect for her purpose, but she judged it a bit short. She rummaged through the elf’s belongings to see if she could find anything else that would help. The only remotely useful item was a long rusty knife, half-buried in the dirt. There were also some papers and orts of grayish bread and a hooded cape in a dusty knapsack. She set the handle of the lantern into the crotch of the stick and swayed it upright.

“You’ll have to reach down for it, Gig. Lie full out with just your arms over the rim. Grasp it by the handle. It’s not that hot.” Minerva braced herself with her back against the cliff--she couldn't bring herself to turn her back on the Erkling--and lifted the lantern over her head on the end of the stick. She inched it hand over hand straight upward. It wavered in her grasp. Rocks dug into her back. Sweat trickled down her face. Her muscles were tiring quickly. She glanced at the prostrate elf. A trick of the flickering light made it seem as if it were winking at her. But now a foot twitched, then an arm. It was no illusion. The creature was waking up!

She forced herself to glance upward, and she could see that the lantern was not yet high enough for Gig to reach it. The Erkling sat up, then started to raise itself to a standing position, shaking its head as if trying to clear it. Minerva gave a last lunge of superhuman effort and stretched up on tiptoe. The lantern, if it was going to clear the rim, had to do so--right now. She grimaced, and a loud “MMMMMRRRRRRUHHH” of frustration escaped her lips.

The creature stared at Minerva. It might have taken her for a menacing beast, roaring and raving, with a great bright weapon raised over her head because its eyes widened in surprise�”and fear. It took an instinctive step backward�”foolhardy, for the hole was but inches away. Its foot struck the edge. It seemed to realize its mistake and tried to correct it by paddling with its arms, but to no avail. It toppled backwards through the hole, and disappeared into the darkness.

Seconds later she heard the impact. The bottom was a long fatal way down. Silence ensued.

In her shock, Minerva hadn’t realized that her burden had lightened. She tore her eyes from the hole and saw Gig hauling the lantern up over the rim.

“Gaire’d he wo?” Gig asked. She obviously hadn't been watching.

Minerva couldn’t bring herself to reply. She was glad Gig had identified the thing as an Erkling. She’d read about them somewhere. They were firmly classified as beasts, nasty child-eating beasts, so she didn’t need to feel guilty about its painful end. Still, she couldn’t help wondering about the voice she’d heard. It had sounded so like language.

10. THE VISION

Minerva shrugged and fell to examining her surroundings. Busy work helped in times of confused emotions, Goodie always said. She gathered up the elf’s belongings and thought a moment about sending them down the hole to join the beast’s remains. Her ancestors had buried their dead with their possessions. But this�”this creature was not human.



Then her logic asserted itself. What was an Erkling--native to Germany--doing in Scotland in the first place? Perhaps there was a clue in his belongings. It was a bit of a struggle getting them up to Gig, but the prospect of soon escaping this oppressive space strengthened them both.



They made it without incident to the Mirror-room. Gig found the entry hole and wriggled on through. Minerva laid down her burdens and started poking ‘the loot’, as Gig had christened it, through the hole. As the lantern disappeared, she became aware of another light source somewhere in the room. Gig called out that it looked like the sun was setting and that Minerva should get a move on.



Minerva stuck her head into the opening. “Go on and find Petey. He’s probably out there hiding somewhere, the big feardie. I’ll be along straightaway.” She saw Gig shrug in the day’s enduring glow and then make her way eagerly towards it.



Minerva turned to face the mirror. Something inside it shone with a fierce white light. She could just make out the walls of the room in its glow. Alone with this undoubtedly magical phenomenon, she wondered if she was safe to listen to the urgings of curiosity. She took a step closer to the mirror and could see that the light came from a silvery column within it, whirling and writhing like a tornado.



A wind from the depths of the cave freshened and seemed to penetrate the glass, for immediately the column rippled and distorted. It took on the form and coloring of a man in Muggle Scots clothing: heavy leather shoes with knee-high stockings and a long dust-colored coat covering a kilt of a pattern she couldn't make out. He was carrying a long crooked stick with a kind of a knife fastened to one end and he wore a metal cap with a brim all the way around. It covered the crown of his head but stopped well short of his ears and was fastened with a chin-strap. And as he turned this way and that, apparently looking for something or someone, she could see on his back a knapsack much like the one they’d found, but with many smaller pouches and kit bags attached it, seemingly balanced one upon another.



Now he spoke to someone only he could see. “Who goes there?” He had a Highlands accent, sharp and firm, and he pointed into the fog menacingly with his stick. Yes, it was fog, not just magical residue, and it dragged wetly at the man’s garments. Now Minerva could make out a shape, another man in the mist, but he was dressed incongruously in wizarding robes. He was holding his side and coughing as if he had a very bad cold. “Oh, it’s you lot,” said the Muggle, raising his stick, his voice not so hostile now. “What’s the matter? Lost your magical compass?” The other made no sound, but pulled out a wand from inside his sleeve. He drew himself up to his full height and aimed it at the Muggle. There was a flash of light and the mirror went dark.



Minerva blinked and rubbed her eyes. The flash left her sunblind, and a reddish afterimage was all she could see for a few scary moments. Gradually she perceived behind her the light from the hole to the outside. She put her hand to her face and felt her eyes streaming with moisture.



There was a sound like a keening wind, but no accompanying gust of cool cave air. Minerva remained rigid staring at the glass, willing it to lighten again, and the story to continue. Who were those men? There was something about one of them�”the Muggle�”that seemed familiar, the twist at the corner of the lips, the dimpling of the cheek when he thought he recognized a friend in the wizard. It seemed he was mistaken, for the spell had been of the attacking variety, of that she was sure. Well, almost sure. Perhaps it was her love of Jacko Gwynn's stories that primed her to believe the worst had happened. But was there not, just before the spell hit, a look of surprise and dismay on the Muggle’s face? Who was the wizard fellow? And where did the confrontation take place? Was this a premonition of a future event, or something that had already happened? If so, when? And why, oh why had the glass revealed this to her?



A sound at the cave mouth roused her.



“’Nerva, you okay?” It was Gig.



Minerva sloughed off the nagging questions, picked up the knapsack, and headed out. She had spent too long in that dark place. Perhaps her eyes were playing tricks on her. Perhaps the whole thing, the rooms, the ghosts, the Erkling, had all been illusion. But no, she still had 'the loot' and too much residual fear cramping her muscles for that last to have been a dream.



She didn’t remember afterward how she got back into the open air. The sun was bright and cool behind the mountain, but not too bright for her eyes, which had endured a flash far brighter, and at the same time, darker...



Something about her face made Gig ask, in an excited whisper, “What did you see?”



“Kind of hard to explain.” Minerva wanted to think about her vision�”if that was what it had been�”before sharing it with anyone else. “Where’s Fat-Hair?”



Gig grinned, “Think he went on home. Probably ashamed�”knew yo? But…” She patted the bindle. “We lot the goot.”



~*~



“Hist! ‘Nerva!”



At home after the day’s adventure, Minerva had collapsed onto her bed and fallen into a deep dreamless sleep. Of course she didn’t tell Da about discovering the Crypt, much less about Petey’s cowardice. Duncan Macnair and Jupiter McGonagall maintained a relationship built on schoolboy friendship, blood ties, Scottish pride and the wizarding brotherhood. It did not seem to Minerva a warm relationship, like, for example her friendship with Gig, but she would not be the one to spoil it by embarrassing Lord Macnair's youngest son.



“Hi! Wa-ke u-PP!"



It was Giggie. No one else exploded their consonants like that in an effort to be understood. Minerva wrestled with the bedclothes and leaned out the casement window. It must be almost midnight, she thought.



“Gig, whatever do you want?” she hissed.



“Come down. I got thumsing to yell tou.”



“Can’t it wait?”



Gig shook her head vehemently.



Minerva swung out onto a sturdy limb of the beech tree that curved sinuously under her window, and dropped to the ground. It was too cold really for a mere shift and the bed scarf she’d pulled over her shoulders, but she hid her discomfort. Gig looked almost as scared as she had earlier in the cave. They huddled together on the steps outside the kitchen door.



“Petey�”he never hum comb.”



“What?”



“Laird Macnair came to our house about ten. Da got me up and they asked me stuff. When I last saw Petey and such.”



“What did you tell them?”



“Said I went on home after we grot the gass. Didn’t see him after that. I didn’t say aught about the cave.”



“Why not?”



“I thought it would tree bubble for you and your dad.”



“But Petey might still be in there, Gig. We never did see him after he ran. What if he�”what if he’s down the Hole...”



“Serve him right if he is!”



“You don’t mean that, Gig. I know he’s a bit of a braggart, but he’s�”he’s kin to us�”to me anyway. And we’ve been through lots of stuff together. Remember, he brought you an infusion when you had the haingles and there was that time he let us watch when he pulled that big scab off his knee…and he snuck you into his father’s library and showed you all his hunting trophies.”



“It wasna the haingles, ‘twas the buffits, so the potion didna help…and that scab�”och, it wasn’t the least bit icky…



“We gotta help him, Gig, for auld lang syne.”



“Aye, well, the Nundu heads and the ‘Rumpent horns…they were really tecspacular...pecstacular…stecpac--really great...and he always helps me fix the noal get when it breaks…All right… but I’m not going back in that cave.”



“I’m not saying we have to. But Laird Macnair has a right to know where Petey was today.”



“But we’ll gret in tubble.”



“Leave that to me.”

11. SEARCH PARTY

In the end, Minerva couldn’t figure a way to let Lord Macnair know about the cave without also admitting that she had been there. But she kept Giggie out of it, saying that she and Petey had gone back out on the mountain spur after Gig went home. She stripped the story down to the bare essentials with just a passing mention of the various rooms, but said nothing of Petey’s entering the Crypt itself, or the encounter with the Erkling. She couldn’t help implying his cowardice in leaving her alone in the dark, but to salve the Macnair pride, she hinted that the way out was relatively short. She hoped no one would mark the disparity when they started exploring the chambers.

Lord Macnair owled clan leaders for a search party. Daybreak saw Minerva leading large hairy Macmillans, Sykeses, Campbells, and Flynts to the sinkhole. The McGonagalls, excepting herself, had not been asked. Magnus MacDonald, an underfed, tow-headed boy of Minerva’s age, trailed behind them unbidden. Magnus had a smooth face of no distinguishing feature, except rather paler-than-usual blue eyes and a large space between his upper incisors. He looked puny and awkward. But he was brave (some said reckless) and what he lacked in talent he more than made up for in a dogged insistence on being included in any and all adventures and a penchant for describing said adventures afterward in exacting, tedious detail.

After she led them to the mouth of the cavern, Minerva watched a few moments as Lord Macnair gave orders. The volunteers descended one by one into the earth under his brooding scrutiny. Though he had ignored her utterly throughout the trip, he now gave Minerva a piercing glare and squeezed his bulky frame through the opening.

She plodded on home, sick at the possibility of their finding Petey’s broken body at the bottom of the Erkling-hole. For surely that must be his resting place. Clan Macnair had already combed the countryside and found no trace of him. If he’d run a mindless course from the Crypt in his panic, he would have made straight across that cracked, earthen floor, not thinking, not remembering the crater at its center.

Magnus visited her later with a wide-eyed report. For once Minerva was grateful for his need to boast, although his meandering way of telling a tale made her at times want to shake him. They didn’t find Petey in the cave. But he did find this unusual rock, shaped like an Erumpent head, if you held it just so...Did she want to see it? Well, yes, they’d searched every room, even as far as the front door, with the Laird leading the way to ward off ghosts and curses. Did she know there were three Unforgiveable Curses? Banned by the Ministry, they were. They'd learned about them in Defensive Arts last-- Anything unusual? Oh,just some rusty sand at the base of a wall in the library, not far from the doorway�”which might or might not be blood. By the way, did Minerva know the twelve uses for dragon's blood? The first --Yes, yes, they’d found the hole in the floor and Magnus himself had insisted on being lowered into it. He being light and slender--and, thought Minerva, otherwise useless--the adults had agreed. But first they put many spells of protection and disillusionment on him, which he proceeded to name.

She stopped him mid-list and questioned him closely about the hole, but not too closely. After all, she hadn’t told anyone about her encounter with the Erkling. She was able, in a roundabout way, to ascertain that there was nothing, not so much as a bone or a scrap of cloth, at the bottom. And no tunnels leading off it either, into which the creature might have dragged itself, mortally injured. Where then had the Erkling’s body gone?

She and Gig puzzled over this anomaly, and, at Gig’s suggestion, snuck around listening at keyholes and peeping over balconies, searching for clues in the adults’ whispered conversations. But they had scant reward for their spying, except for a conversation they overheard two days after his disappearance, one that she was even now trying to put out of her mind.

They’d watched from the gallery as Lord and Lady McNair paid a visit to Da. He escorted them into the parlor, and closed the double doors. But Gig and Minerva ran down the wide curved stairs, then tiptoed across the Great Hall and pressed an ear apiece to the stout oak planking and strained to hear the latest news.

“…but what were they doing in that cave?” Milady’s voice, quivering with some emotion Minerva could not gauge.

“You’ve questioned my daughter. She fell through a sinkhole and Petey insisted they explore it.”

“My son would not do such a dangerous thing. I have always forbidden�”he knows…” The voice trailed off. Minerva tried to imagine the redoubtable Lady Macnair curled over her handkerchief, silently weeping.

“Boys will be boys, my Lady.”

“Do not speak of Peter as if he was some Muggle turd!” Lord McNair’s voice. Minerva had to pull back from the door. The latch reverberated under his booming rasp.

“Sir, I did not mean…”

“That’s your weakness, Jupiter, you never mean�”and you never think�”not about the important things. You sit here in your hidey-hole, brooding over petty inventions, tending your sheep, mucking about with Squibs and halfbreeds. Once a year you travel to Inverness and show lesser mages and those stinking Muggles what a great Highlander you are, tossing a puny tree trunk about and some hunks of lead not even worthy to be called Bludgers. But what do you know of policy, of power? You’ve no sense of your place, man. Married a sickly Muggle-born. And no son to carry on your name. You eschew your very birthright…”

“Enough!”

Minerva was having trouble following the train of thought in this conversation, but even through the door, she was quick to catch the change in her father’s tone. It had started out gentle, almost servile, with him calling his neighbor and boyhood chum ‘Sir.’ Now his voice was still quiet, but pricked with menace. She gave Gig a warning look. If Lord Macnair pursued this line of talk, he’d find himself bounced out on his ear and they’d be discovered. They started to edge away from the door, but then Minerva heard Petey's name and strained for more.

“ ...disappearance has obviously upset you, so I forgive your insult. But Minerva is scion of my flesh, and she will have my land and title when I move on.”

“Not if I have any say in the matter�”and I am thane of this valley!”

Da’s voice became quieter still. “Why would you do such a thing�”supposing of course that you could.”

Milady McNair reentered the fray, her voice now under control. “It is because of her that our son is missing.”

“You wouldna blame a child…”

“No babbie she. I’ve seen the knowing look in her eyes. Canny she is, and older than her years. And she’s not told the truth of Peter’s disappearance, not the half of it.”

“Begging your pardon, but you’re no mind-reader, Milady. And I’ll not have you calling my daughter a liar in my own house. Minerva’s not perfect, but she knows what’s right and she has a very scrupulous conscience.”

“I may not be a Legilimens, but I am a mother--and I know! I’ve seen her in action, your little hoyden. She’s got your brains, Jupiter McGonagall, and her mother’s wild and secretive ways. She leads the boys around like they were Nifflers and she a piece of purest gold. I don’t believe a word of her story, but you’re so wrapped up in your ‘bairnie girl’ you can’t see it! There’s something she’s not telling us.” And in the silence Minerva thought she heard a whispered “…and I’ll have it out of her…” But she didn’t wait for more. She ran, Gig after her, back across the Hall, through the kitchen doors and outside to the comfort of the beech tree.

~*~

So when Minerva visited the family Crypt with her father by the dark of the moon, it was with a certain hesitancy and guilt. She hoped that there would be no evidence of Petey’s visit remaining in the catacombs. But would the ghosts of her ancestors recognize her as one of the intruders of the week before? She'd put the question to Gig, who replied without hesitation, “You said yourself your pin are good keeple. They hon’t warm one of their own.”

Minerva hoped not. But what of the Erkling she had killed? Would its shade be haunting the Crypt, seeking vengeance?

These questions plagued her as she climbed the foothills with her father. His bulk cleared a path through the heather, and she dogged his steps. He chattered incessantly over his shoulder about his adventures at Hogwarts and her own undoubted success once there.

Now another worry assailed her. Most kids her age would have buried the subject immediately as bold, even risible, to broach with an adult. But this was not Minerva’s way; her relationship with her father had always been an open, easy one.

“Da, how will you get along�”when I’m gone to school?”

He stopped and turned.

“You think your auld Da canna take care of himself?”

“No…I mean, yes...of course you can.” But she looked doubtful.

“I think I can learn to mix my own brose again, if that's what you mean. And of course there’s Goodie and the servants…”

Minerva grinned wryly. She’d witnessed the many arguments her Nurse and Da had got into over the years. They could go at it hammer and wands for hours, and always, after the Master put his foot down�”“my final word on it, auld woman�”I’ll not hear another”�”Goodie Gudgeon would stretch out the argument for days with ‘humphs’ and ‘tuts’ as often as their paths crossed. Would she return home over the holidays to find that they'd hexed each other into oblivion? She knew she was letting her imagination run wild again. But there was another, more cogent concern.

“But Goodie’s old, Da. She relies on me to�”to remember where she puts stuff and help fetch things…”

“When her spells go wrong, you mean. Aye, I’ve noticed her Craft is failing a bit. I’ll keep an eye on her…”

“Gently, won’t you?”

“Yes, I’ll try not to hurt her feelings. I promise, Minerva.”

“Thanks, Da.”

She hugged him hard--as if for the last time. After all, she’d be starting on the path to the Magicosm’s deepest secrets soon. Who knew what that knowledge would do to her relationships, her outlook, her very self? Every one of her playmates who had gone to Hogwarts before her had come back in summer, changed in ways she couldn’t express. Much as she would like to deny it, even featherbrained Petey had come home the summer before more grown up and aware of his magical birthright than she could have imagined.

Petey! She hoped and prayed that the spells he had learned at school were somehow keeping him alive, wherever he was.

12. THE CRYPT

“Here we are,” intoned her father with pride as they reached the porch of the Crypt. Without ceremony, he raised his wand and boomed the password.

“Gonagalohomora!”

The doors swung inward, and a cold breeze brushed their faces. Minerva swallowed an upwelling of terror. Those final words of Lady McNair�”she’s not told the truth... not the half of it�” resonated with her guilt. She hadn’t told the whole truth. But nothing of what she’d held back could possibly have kept the Thane and his men from finding Petey, could it?

Her father waved his wand in an elaborate tracery of arabesques. Torches flared into brilliance along a tunnel ribbed with wooden arches too impossibly delicate to withstand the force of the rock overhead. Its length seemed endless, but at least there were few shadows here, and no corners or niches or holes where an enemy might hide. All the same, she felt for and clasped her father’s hand, as they walked inside.

He gave her fingers a little squeeze. "Awesome, isn't it? Tons of earth pushed back by magic. But there's no need to fear, lass. The ceiling's held up by invisible wards as well."

"I thought wards were supposed to glow, Da."

"Aye, some mages add a coloring charm, especially if they need reassurance that the power's in place. And others do it just because they like people admiring their handiwork."

At the end of the hallway was a great round metal door embossed at its center with the figure of a rose. A halo of thorny branchlets surrounded it.

“You know the symbology of the Connghaill Rose, do you not, Lass?”

“Aye, Da.” Goodie told her long ago: love comes not easily to a McGonagall, they put up all their thorns against it, but when it takes hold, they cling on fiercely and loyally, like a rambler rose to the side of a mountain. Da of course had his own interpretation. The French, despite their other shortcomings, said it best, he opined: Il n’y a pas de rose sans epines. There is no rose without a thorn, no prize worth having without a struggle, no war worth winning without bloodshed, no goal worth reaching without some loss along the way.

He waved his wand again. Bars, chains, springs and tumblers released themselves, creaking and groaning, and the door swung wide.

The sarcophagi of her ancestors were ranged in concentric circles over a vast area. Those she could see had a niche or a slot in the top containing one or more wands. Some Scots witches and wizards carried several wands for different spell effects: a slender willow switch, perhaps, for a delicate conjuration, a stout, combat-blackened oak faggot for Heavy Defense. It reminded her irrationally of the Muggle game of golf, which she had once witnessed at Inverness. It involved choosing, from a bag full of clubs of various shapes and weights, the one best suited to hit a Snitch-sized ball if it lay in a bog or a sandy patch or in deep grass...

“Where do you feel you should start, Minerva?”

“What? Oh. I don’t know, Da.” She had expected that he would guide her through this, but here he was giving the choice over to her, as if she had a clue where to begin. “Should I try the oldest wands first?”

“Start with Auld Fearghas?” He waved his hand at a large black column in the center, which rose out of the thicket of tombs like a single spike of heather in a field of scrub grass. "Nae, child. We’ve not time for that. There are over a thousand tombs here. All your magical ancestors in an unbroken line and many of its branches. But we can narrow it down a bit. You’ve heard stories about your forbears. Surely you favor some over others, as you like some of your friends better than others. I’ve watched you staring for hours at the portraits in the gallery. Which picture, which stories speak to your heart of hearts?”

Minerva turned shy. Rowdie the buccaneer was her favorite, but she only said, “I’m kind of partial to the folks of Queen Mary’s time, Da.”

“Really? Bunch of Frenchified dandies if you ask me�”except for Lady Anne of course and auld Nicholchannich. Mmmm... Anne McCutcheon. Yes, you’re a bit like her…clever, nervy…” He rumbled on, leading her about the edge of the great chamber. “Down there. Lady Anne’s is." He pointed down a zig-zag pathway between great slabs of sandstone and granite. "You should try whichever one takes your fancy, of course.” He dropped his voice to a whisper, “I may not accompany you, Lass, lest my own vibrations influence the Choice. Go on then. You know what to do.”

She picked her way among the tombs and came quickly upon Jenny Blair’s. It had her name on it, spelled out on a ribbon of stone held up by two fat cupids. She picked up the wand, which lay in a marble, hand-shaped shallow on the top. It was so light and so brittle, she was almost afraid to wave it. But she did, and nothing happened.

It was harder to find Lady Anne’s sarcophagus. It was very plain on top, with just the words Semper Fortis carved in the side, but under it, there was a relief of a witch looking out to sea, her hair streaming in the wind, watching a fleet of galleons sail towards her. Her wand too gave no reaction. Minerva thought she heard a little sigh of disappointment behind her.

She laid it down gently and moved on. The next two tombs held no wands. One was the resting place of an unwanded child. The other was that of a wizard, whose wand a member of her family probably possessed--unless it was one Petey had removed in his ill-timed explorations.

She had no time to worry over this ugly possibility, however, as the sight of the next tomb gave her a sudden thrill. She could see by the battle scenes of Muggle ships firing into each other that it belonged to her dear Rowdie Guthrie Flynn. She lifted the wand from its niche, which was a slot in the side of the tomb, shaped like a dagger’s sheath. It was short and stubby, of a blond wood--maple perhaps. She gave it a wave, but again, there was no response, not a spark. But for some reason, she held onto it. Perhaps, she thought hopefully, there is such a thing as a delayed reaction.

She moved on to the next tomb. It had astrological symbols all over it and a crystal ball sticking out of its top, Meg of Dundee's, no doubt. She picked up the wand, a slender polished black faggot, and immediately felt a quiver of life course up her arm. A loud, booming discharge from its tip jerked her hand upward and knocked her back several paces. The wand began shooting out arcs of orange smoke, flecked with sparks. She felt that, at any second, it woudl fly out of her hand. But before that could happen, the violent flood subsided to a series of gentle, pulsating puffs. Her father came running up to her. He looked a bit bemused, his nose wrinkling against a smell which lingered in the air, rather like burning metal.

“Och, Meddlesome Meg. There’s a surprise. But one never knows. Perhaps you’re destined to be a Seeress, dearie, and predict the next Muggle War, eh? Though I would have expected stardust or tea leaves from her fag." He sighed and patted her shoulder. "Well, we’ve one more errand left to us."

In a daze, Minerva followed her father to another door, remembering just in time to slip Rowdie’s wand back into its sheath. She had no particular desire to learn fortune telling. Meg of Dundee spent all her time pressing on gallery visitors her cheerful prognostications about victory in battle, successful investments, and great riches, none of which had ever come true, so far as she knew. And Minerva's blithering aunts, Frannie and Philly, were always going on about the glories of palm reading and the Tarot, which alone was enough to make Minerva skeptical of this branch of magic.

The minute they were through the door, Minerva’s inner grumblings were smothered by renewed fear. This was the room hung with banners and pennons that Petey had abandoned her and Gig in. She passed through it in an agony of terror, fearful of reawakening the ghosts they had disturbed that day. Her fear changed to wonder as they entered the other chambers--the Bardic Hall and the Library--marveling that she and Gig had managed to pass through them in total darkness without stumbling or getting turned about. Sheer, dumb luck she thought, shaking her head. If Jupiter McGonagall noticed that she seemed unimpressed with the richness of her surroundings, he didn’t let on.

But when they walked by the Hole, she had to ask the question that had been most on her mind over the past week. "Da," she whispered, "what--what's that?"

"They call it Bearach's Borehole. You've heard the tales of Auld Fearghas."

"Many times, Da. He lived high on a cliff. And he loved animals, especially birds."

She knew well the early history of her clan. Fearghas mac Bearach, sech clenni Conn'ghaill, was the root and trunk of the family line, and as such, a staple of Goodie Gudgeon's bedtime stories. Born on an island off the coast of Ireland to thoroughly unmagical parents, young Fearghas showed his gifts early on, innocently, wishing birds out of the sky or crabs from the sea to delight his playmates. He spent much of his time among the nesting colonies of kittiwakes and puffins on the stoney north cliffs. From here, on an occasional mist free day, he glimpsed the coast of Scotland, whence, he was told, came his ancestors.

At some point in his youth, townsfolk and members of his family became frightened of his prowess and drove him away. He made a home of sorts in a cliff cave, lived on kelp and turtle eggs, and learned to converse with all manner of creatures of land, sea, and air. Goodie's favorite story was of a mob of drunken sots who came upon him dozing on the beach one day and beat him almost insensible. He managed to Transport himself to his cave before collapsing. Sympathetic spiders wove webs across its mouth and all over its interior, blanketing even his inert body. The mob, searching for him, was fooled by the friendly camouflage.

After healing up, Fearghas determined to leave the island. He felt a pull towards the land of his forbears across the North Channel. One day, in a fit of longing, he Summoned a huge bird of a type he had never seen before--an erne from the western sea. It bade him, in the language of the raptors, to climb onto its back. This he did, though he was afraid, and it bore him across the channel to a finger of land--the Mull of Kintyre.

Her father broke into her meditation. "This place is the crater of an ancient volcano, long since collapsed and filled with debris. Yer ancestor came here in his old age looking for something, in response to a voice only he could hear. You ken the story?"

"No, Da."

"You know that as a lad, he escaped his wretched home and made his way across Kintyre, and up through the mountains as far as Kingussie. There he met a wizard. We know not his name, but undoubtedly he was a Merlin of great learning. The Merlin made young Fearhas a wand from the ash wood of the Old Forest and taught him the use of it.

"One of his first spells saved a Highland chieftain and his hunting party from a Gryphon attack. The chieftain declared Fearghas to be mac Conn'ghaill--a 'son of high valor', and granted him land in a lush hidden glen--along with the hide of the Gryphon.

"He settled down, took a wife, and raised a family--many sons, many daughters. He it was built the first Connghaill Keep. And, true to his childhood, he continued to love high places and seek out the eyries of eagles and ospreys. It was on this very mountain that he heard a voice, urging him to dig, to free someone or something from its innards.

"He used magic to scoop out this crater from its top and then to re-form a roof over it." He gestured to the ceiling overhead which Minerva now saw was of a different consistency than the walls or floor, smooth and glossy like candle wax. "And here at its bottom," continued her father, "he blasted out a tunnel, which led him to discover a most puissant artifact. And that's where we're headed."

"Is it d-down there? The Pleezant Ardavak?" She pointed to the hole-within-a-hole where she had last seen the face of the Erkling, twisted by fear, as it plunged into darkness.

"Down the Borehole? Och, no, there's only a warren of old lava tubes down there, each one a blind alley. One of his early efforts, they say. No, the way is through here." He led her through the Wardrobe and on into the Armoury.

But Minerva was thinking about his last words. Can there really be other tunnels at the bottom of the Hole? That's not the way Magnus described it. Surely if he saw even one opening, he would have reported it to the Thane, and the search party would have explored all those tunnels down to the last dead end.

But the light of her father’s wand, blazing bright, recalled her to the task at hand. It penetrated every corner of yet a new chamber. She recognized it: the Mirror Room.

Now Jupiter’s wand-tip powered down to a twilight glow. The Mirror's edges flickered with squirming tendrils of light. He looked at her expectantly in the near darkness.

“What, Da?”

“Do you see anything unusual?”

She hesitated. Of course, he meant the Mirror. But it wouldn’t do to recognize it too obviously. “Ah... that wall has little... erm... glowing worms... or some such, crawling on it.”

He chuckled. “Worms. Och aye, Minerva, so they may seem to a newcomer. But this is not an ordinary wall. No, it is a magical artifact of incalculable worth. We call it The Seeking Glass. It is the thing Auld Fearghas was looking for. I believe it was created out of the heart of the mountain by some nameless deity, long since gone to rest or ruination. Many secrets and much history are stored up in this grand artifact.”

History. Stored secrets, she thought. That explains a lot. “How does it work, Da?”

He waved his wand, and the glass grew bright. “This is a kind of window into the Beyond. Any clan member can use it to observe past moments in the life of anyone--whether magical or Muggle, so long as she brings to it something that belongs to the person she wants to see. But the more important thing for you to know, here and now, my dearie, is that, with The Seeking Glass, you can actually bridge the gap to the Beyond and speak to the person whose wand you share. In a moment, you’ll be able to talk to our Meg. Wave your wand, Minerva, and see your patroness in all her glory.”

She did as he asked, and, just as had happened in her last encounter, the mirror filled with a tornado of magnesium light, shooting out forked strings of lightning. Color suffused the whirling mass and a figure formed out of it, but it was not the plump Seeress Meg of Dundee. No, this person was tall and well-built, a man, in fact, brawny and dark, dressed in Tudor doublet and tights, a plumed hat cocked at an angle on his head. The face she recognized by its slight smirk, which she had passed so often in the Gallery�”Rowdie Flynn!

She let out a squeal of delight, but her father was aghast. He grabbed Minerva's wrist and raised her wand to eye-level, squinting. “Why, this is no witch’s stick. How could this have happened?”

Minerva bit her lip. She knew just how. She knew Petey had handled some of the wands in the Crypt. In his haste to escape when the spirits appeared, he must have mixed them up. But she couldn’t tell Da that, not now.

Unfortunately, she had never been good at making up stories, especially if it meant adding new lies to the old, and most especially when she knew her father’s formidable logic could easily catch her in a contradiction. But there just might be something she could use to her advantage. Something Gig had told her about grown-ups. They’re always impatient, Giggie said. And the smarter they are, the harder it is for them to resist finishing your sentences. That was the answer. If she could only stay calm and noncommittal, her father’s own fertile imagination might just pump out an appropriate story for her to react to.

Her hesitation was looking more and more suspicious under her his questioning gaze. “What do you know about this, Minerva?” he rumbled.

“Ah... I suppose... maybe... the wands got mixed up?”

“Well, yes, I can see that, but how?”

Silence.

“Oh you little devil, you did it yourself, didn’t you?”

“Da, how can you say such a thing?”

“Because I know you, lass. Aye, I remember now. I never actually saw you return Rowdie's wand to its sheath. You could have easily carried it along with you.” He let go of her hand and thought a minute. “The only thing I can’t see is why there was no evidence of the Choosing when you first picked it up. No fireworks or nothing.”

“Oh... ah... there was, Da, a sort of... erm... vibration.” It was easy to embroider the story he had so generously supplied. “But it startled me so, I dropped it, and it... erm... slipped into my robe pocket, and then I got this idea to�””

“�”to fool your auld Da into thinking you were chosen by Meg’s wand.”

“Ah... something like that.”

“But why?”

“Why?” Minerva looked blankly at him. “I…I…”

Her father’s expression softened and he put his hand on her shoulder. “Ah, my dearie, it’s all right. I understand. I know your aunts have always made fun of old Rowdie, calling him a damned black-Irish Squib.” He had lowered his voice, as if fearful that the figure in the Glass might hear them and take offense. “But whatever the stripe of his magic, he was a brave chappie, and well worthy to wear the Connghaill Gryphon. ‘Tis no shame to be carrying his wand. But now, see here, he’s waiting for us.” He turned her to face the vision in the glass.

13. ROWDIE

Rowdie Guthrie Flynn was a tall figure, magnificent in maroon doublet and kidskin leggings. Fashionable slashed sleeves revealed insets of the McGonagall blue that matched his fierce eyes. They were Da’s eyes too, but Rowdie’s hair was coal black, a contribution of his Irish father. His broad chest was protected by a cuirass of polished steel, inlaid with swirls of some goldish metal. His legs were planted wide apart in loose, nappy leather boots, and he wore a brimmed cap with a short white plume, held in place by a cameo brooch with a profile of perhaps a woman's face. In powerful contrast, a long plain claymore hung at his belt. No jewels or scrollwork decorated its hilt, leaving room enough there for two strong brown hands to grasp and swing the blade in a deadly arc. He was reading a scroll, but now looked up, showing a modest beard, not cut and shaped in the Court style of the day, but natural-looking like her father’s.

“Ah, here’s a bawcock and a fine juvenal to beg audience! Welcome, young Jupiter! You’ve been standing afront me in lengthy converse. I ken the portent of your words to run on the true ownership of the wand in yon child’s hand there. Contest it no longer! The fag is truly mine, Cousin, the very one I abandoned when I left home to sail the wide seas with my well-loved Rory MacNeil.”

“Forgive us, noble kinsman, we were indeed struck with surprise by your appearance in the Glass, but we are well and truly gratified that your wand has blessed my daughter…” Minerva stole a quick glance at her father. She had never heard him talk in this swanky way before.

“Daughter, say you? Odds bodikins, ‘tis a rare thing that a wizard’s wand favors a witchling. Forgive me, but I had taken your daughter for a boy-child, slight in build, but mettlesome. Methinks I see the fiery spirit of the Flynns in her eyes. The judgment was well taken.”

“Thank you, my lord. Her name is Minerva.”

“Ah, the goddess of wisdom. Another happy choice. I alas have not been known for my wit, but it doth seem there was no other path I could honorably choose...” He hesitated, looking wistful.

“Please go on, my Lord. We would be honored by any tale that comes from your lips.”

Da was just being polite, but Minerva, who could not resist a good story, especially one about her wizarding relatives, chimed in: “Oh do, please!”

“I cannot say thee nay, fair lady.” He moved closer to them, so that he took up almost the entirety of the glass. And Minerva could better observe the detail of his dress. He had, in addition to the fearsome claymore, a sharp dirk and a curious, blunt, curved rod of wood and metal stuck in his belt. And the jewel in his cap was indeed etched with the face of a woman, a very beautiful woman.

“Let me ask first, Lass, will you be attending the Hogwarts School betimes?”

“Indeed she will,” boomed Jupiter, his chest puffed out with pride. “This very year.”

“Prithee, does that august institution retain the honor of being haunted by one Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington?”

Minerva looked bewildered. She had a list of current Hogwarts teachers, but didn’t recognize the name. Her father answered, “Aye, cousin. He’s the official Gryffindor House ghost. Has been since old Godric retired about four hundred years ago.”

“In faith, I am glad to hear on’t. He deserved a more seemly end.”

“Did you know him?” This from Minerva once again, who was now bristling to hear more.

“Why, dear lady, we were at Hogwarts together�”Gryffindors, of course. Poor fellow, he was afflicted with what we called in those days ‘mage-fright’. You’ve not heard of it? Perhaps a cure has been effected since my time.”

“Actually,” said Jupiter, “the condition still exists. Minerva, your friend, Gilliain Gwynn, has it--actually a variant called Spoonerismus, I beleve.”

“Oh--so this ghost�”Sir Nicholas--mixes up his words?”

“Only Spell-words,” said Rowdie, “and only under great duress. In any case, it proved his ultimate undoing. He was trying to help out a very influential witch�”her name escapes me at the moment�”and he botched the spell badly. It wouldn’t have mattered so much except that the help was unsolicited.”

“Ah yes,” said Jupiter, remembering his school days. “Sir Nick has always been rather impulsive as I recall.”

“Indeed, and sadly not the brightest of lads. A few Knuts short of a Sickle, we used to say. Now, the mishap involved a facial abnormality in the lady�”crooked teeth, I ween-- and unfortunately Nick’s mistake occurred in a very public place. And rather than straighten the teeth, he caused them to grow."

"Let me guess: he said Dens Augeo instead of Dens Rectio," said Da.

" Aye, When it was all over, the lady resembled nothing so much as an enraged walrus.”

"Och!" Da winced.

“What happened to Sir Nicholas?” asked Minerva.

“He got the ax for his trouble.” Rowdie drew his dagger and passed it across his throat. “C-c-cackkkkk!”

“Oh dear.”

“Yes, he was convicted of gross stupidity and willful destruction of a witch’s good name and dentition, and, as he couldn’t pay the fines, he was handed over to a beef-witted codpiece of an executioner. It took forty-five blows of a blunt ax to finish Sir Nicholas. Certes, he bore it like a gentleman, nor blenched nor cried out.”

Minerva was stunned to silence, imagining Sir Nicholas’s painful end.

Da hastened to change the subject to a more pleasant theme. “You have yourself escaped the chopping block several times, have you not, Cousin?”

“Indeed, young Jupiter, I once was arrested with my captain MacNeil and brought before the King of Scots to answer charges of piracy against English ships. But we explained that we were only paying Elizabeth Tudor back for beheading his mother Mary, so he let us off with but a warning.”

“But that didn’t stop you from--adventuring, did it?” said Jupiter with a wink.

“We did place a wee bit more emphasis on the gold ships of Spain after that. And actually, it paid rather better. But enough about me. Young Minerva, I believe you have been having some adventures of your own in this very place.”

“What do you mean?” asked her father.

“I mean, we ghosts were watching when your daughter entered the cave with her friends.”

Minerva held her breath. Would Da notice Rowdie’s use of the word ‘friends’? She had told the Macnairs only she and Petey had explored the cave, not Gig.

“You needs must know that the young varlet who tried to steal a wand out of the Crypt a fortnight ago returned recently to make the attempt again.”

Minerva was shocked into reluctant speech. “You mean Petey? Petey came back?”

“He can’t have done that,” said Jupiter.

“Why not, Da?”

“Because that hole you found--the one you entered by--Duncan Macnair magically sealed it after he finished his search.” He strode over to the corner and gestured. Minerva saw a faintly glowing mass, plugging up the hole.

“That means�”he never left here.” Horrified, she thought back to the story she'd heard of the man who had wandered for days in a black, endless cavern, catching bats and eating them raw, sucking rocks for moisture, wearing his knife down to its hilt scratching at cracks in the rock, finally going mad with despair. Petey must be rotting somewhere in the Crypt, starved to death.

“I know not his fate,” said Rowdie, “I only know he returned to the tombs two nights ago and tried to steal the wand of our progenitor Auld Fearghas...”

How could Petey do such a thing? Why would he? And where would he get the courage? Minerva’s last memory of him had been a face in utter terror. What power on earth could have persuaded him to go back?

“…and I ken that he has been punished for it and lies in yon chamber even as we speak.”

And with that, Ralph “Rowdie” Flynn drew his claymore and saluted the new owner of his wand. “Fare thee well, brave youth! May your end be braver than your friend’s.” And the glass went dark.

Minerva and her father stood stunned, then, as one, they ran for the Crypt, not stopping, even when Minerva accidentally snagged a shelf full of scrolls with the sleeve of her robe and sent them scattering about the Library floor. Jupiter did curtail his long strides somewhat so that she could keep up and waited at each door, so that they were never more than a room apart. She was surprised he didn't just gather her up and carry her over his shoulder the rest of the way.

Now in the Crypt, he led her to the center, to Auld Fearhas's tomb, marked with a thick, unadorned monolith of obsidian. At its foot, she saw a great wad of plaid kilting wool, and protruding from it a foot�”no--two feet.

The sett was clan Macnair’s, gray and green with a thin yellow stripe. It could only be Petey.

~*~

After ascertaining that he was not dead, Jupiter had carried him out into the fresh air, and he revived almost immediately. Jupiter Accio-ed a bit water and a stale bannock to hold Petey until they got back home. He was ravenous, though still very frightened. In fact, he hadn’t recognized them at first and cried out at Jupiter McGonagall’s fierce, sweating face and bristling beard. The food calmed him down a bit, but he still couldn’t bring himself to speak. Jupiter Summoned the family carpet to the Crypt entrance and sent the children on ahead to the Keep. He said he wanted to make sure nothing else was disturbed in the Crypt�”and probably to make peace with its denizens.

In the warm kitchen, Goodie fed Petey hot soup and fresh bread. When the color was back in his cheeks, and, quickly, before Da got back, Minerva filled him in on the story she’d told Lord Macnair. He nodded.

“How long was I in�”was I missing?” He passed his hand over his face, like he was sweating, though he wasn’t.

“Over a week. Petey, we were so worried.”

“A week…”

“How did you last that long, Petey? I mean, did you make food�”with your wand?”

“No, I…don’t know how to do that.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, concentrating. “I remember I left you and Gig in the flag room, and I went in where all those old tombs are. I never saw so many neat wands. But then I started picking them up, and this awful cloudy gas came rising out of the ground. Cold too, colder and thicker than the mist off Loch Tay. Then they were all around me, ghosts and banshees and such, wailing and muttering horrible threats. I mean those things were so creepy. I thought I was cursed, I did. I’m sorry ‘Nerva, I don’t know what happened to me. I went off my rocker I think. I started running like a scaredy-cat and just kept on running. I didn’t even see you. Then I hit something. A wall I think. I didn’t see it…”

“I think Giggie heard you later�”groaning�”when we passed through.”

“However did you do it? I mean, the place was black as pitch.”

“We managed,” said Minerva grimly.

“When I woke up, my face was sticky and my head hurt and there were these two people staring at me. One was a little runt of a thing, like a goblin, only not so ugly. It looked sort of familiar�”I don’t know�”like a picture I've seen or something. And the other was a man�”a wizard. He had gray hair and a beard. And he had my wand. They took me down this hole�”that one we had to go round�”you remember? It’s really deep. And they gave me some food and water. The little runty fellow didn’t speak English so good, but he told the greatest stories and he had a funny laugh. It was sort of comforting, you know.” Petey looked like he was on the verge of tears. After a moment he went on.

“Later for a while, they told me I had to be quiet. There were strangers in the cave, they said, evil monsters who were going to hurt us. Well, I knew that. The place was full of ghosts and banshees after all. The wizard--he told me his name, but I can’t remember--put a glamour over us so that we looked like part of a wall. We fooled them good.” Then Petey frowned. “But then they wanted me to go back in the Crypt. Something about I was the only one who could do it. See, I had told them about us, what we were doing in the cave, and what we found. That wizard fellow was most interested in the wands. He wanted me to go in and take the one right in the center. He said it was the best one of all and it would make me really powerful. He couldn’t do it himself…the curse you know. But I’m a McNair…But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

He bowed his head, and covered his face with his hands. It seemed for a long while as if he wouldn’t ever start up again. Minerva sat as still as a stone. This would be her one chance to hear the whole story. Soon Milady and his Lordship would come and take Petey away. It was likely they’d forbid him to ever see her again. But she silenced the urge to hurry him along. He was tired and ashamed. She knew the feeling. Her patience was rewarded, as he cleared his throat.

“Then the little guy started talking in that way of his and I don’t know how but he convinced me to do it. I tell you, it took him a long time. I just…” Again the hesitation, a welling of moisture at the corners of his eyes. “…didn’t want to. But the more he talked the more it sounded like the easiest, funnest thing in the world. I don’t know how I did it, but finally I went back in the Crypt. And all the time I was in there, that wizard guy was telling me through the door what to do, where to go.”

“How did he talk?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he have an accent or anything?”

“No, it sounded normal, not exactly Scots, but not London either. The little guy, he had a really thick accent, sounding his double-yous like vees, like he was Russian or something. But�”oh�”his voice. It made me feel so good�”all warm inside, you ken?” He paused again, remembering that voice. Minerva shuddered. Best not mention the insidious side of the creature and its true intent. “So what happened next?”

“So I made it to the center, even though my knees were shaking so I had to concentrate on just putting one foot in front of the other, you ken? There was this great black stone and a thick crooked wand on a shelf . I touched it and that mist came up out of the ground again. I felt this cold come over me. Worse, much worse than before. And then I heard a voice inside my head. It was a different language�”Gaelic I think�”and it was mad�”worse than my Da when he catches me playing with his stuff. But it didn’t shout or anything. I just felt this queer vibration pass through my body. Then I just dropped down like my legs�”no, my whole body-- turned to jelly and…and I don’t remember any more. Until you came.”

Just then Da came in the door. “All right now, Petey? I’ve sent word to your parents. They’ll be here directly.” He stared hard at Petey, but Petey just looked down. Minerva could see he had his eyes squeezed tight shut.

Lord and Lady Macnair arrived almost immediately after, with fur-lined robes hastily thrown over their bed clothes. They brought with them their personal Healer, who examined Petey from top to toe and pronounced him fit to travel. They whisked him away in a carriage pulled by winged horses without a word of thanks. Minerva’s last glimpse of his face showed him sitting, wan and silent, propped up between his parents with pillows at his back and a lap-robe over his knees.

~*~

Word would go out by owl next day of the miraculous discovery to all the mages of the area. Petey Macnair, youngest son of the Wizard-Thane of Perth had been found not far from where he had been last seen. Found by the girl who had been with him when he disappeared, a highly suspicious circumstance indeed.

No one was allowed to visit him, but family and neighbors sent daily gifts of fruit and flowers and toys with notes wishing the poor child well. They enclosed recipes for favorite nostrums, charms or periapts to speed his recovery. Minerva longed to see Petey, to know how he was doing, but she knew that his mother’s ire and distrust still ran deep against both her and Gig. So she was surprised to learn through Magnus that the Gwynns had been invited to a celebration of Petey’s return to strength and health, since she and Da had not heard word one about it. She longed to talk to Gig, but she was out visiting Gwynn relatives all week and Minerva hadn’t even had a chance to tell her about Petey’s confession.

14. MINERVA’S VIGIL

Her father shrugged off the insult (an oversight, he called it) and went back to his work. It was just as well as far as Minerva was concerned. The Macnairs' party was set for the full moon, and on that night she was going to be locked away in the hay barn, waiting to see if she would transform into a werewolf. She was adamant about this, though Goodie continued to scoff and tried every five minutes or so to talk her out of it.

“But we can’t be sure, Goodie, and I’d never forgive myself if we didn’t lock me up and I ended up attacking someone.” So Goodie just rolled her eyes and got on with the preparations.

The big night came, and the old nurse escorted Minerva out across the fields to the barn, waving a burning oak branch and mumbling favorable enchantments. Goodie had made the place as comfortable as she could. The floor was strewn with fragrant herbs. There was a blanket and fleece spread over a hay pile, and a basket of treats and a flask of pumpkinade nearby. Minerva herself thought this a fruitless exercise. If she indeed turned into a werewolf, it would make a mess of the bed and the picnic, which would only have to be cleaned up the next day.

The great room echoed hollowly with the sounds of Goodie triple-locking the doors and Minerva’s own footsteps on the raised planking of the floor. She’d brought only one book with her. She had thought of reading some of the texts she’d been assigned for school to beguile the time before the Change. But then she thought what might happen to all that expensive binding if the Wolf did indeed take over her body. So she searched some boxes in the undercroft of the Keep and dug out a stained and backless copy of Adventures in Transfiguration by someone whose last name she could just make out as beginning with a D. It was clearly intended for Vanishment, along with a lot of other accumulated trash, so Minerva felt no qualms in sacrificing it to raging claws and fangs. She settled herself back on the fleece with her book, a gingersnap, and the pumpkinade.

While reading she kept an eye on the open haying doors high up in the loft, whence she would get her first glimpse of the moon. It was inaccessible without a ladder, and Goodie had removed that earlier in the day with a Leviosa Charm. This made her think briefly again of Petey. She was glad he was better. He had looked near death when Da carried him out of the Crypt and considerably thinner than she remembered him.

The book was an engrossing read, even though the vocabulary was quite advanced. Minerva knew nothing at all of Transfiguration, but she had once witnessed her Aunt Donnie turning her pet raven into a writing desk and back again when she needed to send an urgent letter. She found the writer organized his points so well that the theory seemed no mystery at all, but eminently logical and easy to follow. After reading the Dedication, which was addressed, curiously enough, to the entire Puddlemere United Quidditch team: ...for insights into the transformative effects of Bludgers on the human skull, she skipped to the chapter on human Transfiguration, which she fully expected she would be experiencing in a few hours. D wrote:

Human transformation is a difficult and risky business and should not be attempted without first practising a bit on lesser life-forms--although said life-forms will likely object if they have the wit to do so.

There are five kinds of human Transfiguration:

1) Self-Transfiguration, where a mage changes himself into an animal or object.

2) Involuntary Transfiguration, where one mage changes another into an animal or object, often without said mage’s co-operation. (We can do it to Muggles too, but the Ministry of Magic would be a bit unhappy if we did.)

3) Lycanthropy, which is a form of Involuntary Transfiguration, where a person changes spontaneously into a vicious rabid creature under an impersonal magical stimulus, usually the full moon. The most common form is that of a werewolf, although wererats and other creatures (in one documented case, a wererabbit or ‘wabbit’) are known to exist. It is an incurable condition inflicted through the bite of another Lycanthrope while in his animal form.

3) Animagery, wherein a mage is able to change himself into a single animal form, usually effected by the learning of an exceedingly complex spell, and

4) Metamorphmagic, an inherited trait, where the user can change parts of his face and figure, such as height (though no more than a few inches either way), hair-colouring, nose shape, etc., but can never deviate completely from human form.

A major difference among these transformations lies in the mental state of the transformed individual. A Lycanthrope’s mind is literally taken over by his beastly persona. He cannot make human judgements while in animal form, and cannot control his behaviour, however appalling it might be. The same goes for a person who has been Transfigured. He loses the capacity for rational judgement and behaviour and thinks (if such can be called thinking) like the creature he has been turned into. Animagi retain their mental faculties, though the characteristics of their ‘animal’ will colour their personalities for the duration of the episode. Metamorphs lose none of their mental capacity or persona (although they tend to have rather flamboyant personalities to begin with and are able to easily ‘act’ a role consistent with their appearance.)

A word needs to be said about wand use and free will in effecting these changes. Of course, a Lycanthrope changes automatically into his animal form at the full moon with absolutely no say in the matter. Metamorphs, and it is believed, some Animagi, can change by mere thought. The other transformations in general require a wand. (CAUTION: There is an inherent danger in Self-Transfiguration. I wonder if you see it, dear Reader. If you change yourself into an inanimate object or a creature that is physiologically or mentally incapable of wielding a wand�”Horklumps come to mind�”and if there is not another mage present to change you back, well, you are stuck. You can’t change back. That’s all there is to it.)

At the bottom of the page there was a footnote to this:

For a cogent object lesson, see my monograph: Natural Disaster: The Hairy McBoon.

Minerva knew well who the McBoons were, a quarrelsome family of mages who had either changed themselves or had been changed by some other mage into Quintapeds, fierce five-footed creatures of no brain whatsoever. They dwelt on the Isle of Drear to the north�”a favorite locale in Jacko Gwynn’s stories. She shuddered and continued to read:

Both Self- and Involuntary Transfiguration and Lycanthropy involve some pain in the transforming process, as the victim’s bones are elongated or shortened, bent and twisted, and the skin and musculature stretched to fit over its new framework. The simultaneous casting of a Narcosis Spell seems to help in the first two instances, but nothing short of being Stunned into oblivion appears to relieve agonies of the nascent Lycanthrope. It has been reported by at least one Animagus that they feel little pain during the change, but since such persons are secretive about their talent, meaningful data are difficult to come by. The main discomfort for a Metamorph is in straining to alter a small portion of his anatomy while holding adjacent features unchanged. This has been known to cause unwanted side-effects, such as nose-bleeds, blood-shot eyes, and haemorrhoids. (I understand that Sleakeasy’s All-Purpose Ointment helps greatly in relieving that last condition.)

There are also artefacts and potions that can effect physical changes. Glamours, which are actually a kind of all-encompassing mask or camouflage placed over the physical form, are not considered true Transfigurations and, although very useful, are not treated in this book.

She read until it got too dark to see, then got up and took off her kilt and plaid. It couldn’t be too much longer and there was no need to ruin a perfectly good outfit. She found a place to hide Adventures in Transfiguration from the Beast; she had grown rather fond of the book and its author. She lay back, her hands behind her head, waiting for a splash of moonlight to touch her bare skin, willing herself to relax, trying to quell her racing heart. She was mortally afraid of the Change if it be to a werewolf because that would be painful as the book said, but worse still, it would mean leaving her family, and being hunted, or at least hated, for all her life. And the idea of being out of control of her actions once a month and possibly attacking an innocent person was too horrific to contemplate. But as she strained to remember her transformation, it came back to her as a not unpleasant experience… certainly a life saver…and exciting even…except for that sick hunger…

The moon rose and its light crept towards her down the walls of the old barn. As the light bathed her, she waited for the heightening of senses that signaled the Change. But none came, though she stood up, and removed even her shift and trews. She turned about and about, her face staring up into the face of the full moon. She was relieved, but at the same time disappointed, and most of all, puzzled. What had really happened in the alder spinney? Had it all been, as Goodie said, only a dream? She lay back down, covering herself with the fleece, and went to sleep, vaguely unsatisfied.

~*~

The next morning she dressed quickly, arranging her kilt on the ground in the customary pleating. She rolled herself into it, buckled the skirt into place and pinned the sash just in time to hear the barn doors unlocked and opening. Gig burst in, in front of Goodie, full of first-hand news of the McNair party and eager to hear about Minerva’s vigil.

Goodie invited Gig to breakfast, and after Minerva described her evening in about two sentences, she and Goodie sat back and munched toad-in-the-hole and Selkirk bannocks and drank tansy tea as Gig took stage with her own account.

It was quite a decent affair with mages from all over the county and even a few Hogwarts teachers and notables from the Ministry of Magic. Goodie questioned her closely about the table. Was the bread fresh and hot? What of the fish? Was it properly cleaned and boned? Stuffed with Dungeness crab was it? Oh, the Thane surely paid a pretty penny for that. And the haggis? The McNair cook’s recipe was a closely guarded secret. Was it as good as everyone said? As to the potables, was the Brose properly strained or did it seem a rush job? Gig was too young to have sampled it herself, but she described the silky froth of the brew as it was poured out, and Goodie was satisfied that the McNairs had done proper homage to the stomachs of their friends and neighbors.

But, oh, said Giggie, they had the wonderfullest entertainment: all kinds of fireworks (‘wire firks’), dancing fwoopers (‘fwancing doopers’) and an exhibition of troll bloodball, a sport Lord McNair hoped to introduce as an entertainment at Quidditch matches.

Throughout this exchange, Minerva sat, patiently waiting for Gig to tell them about the most important part: how Petey looked, what he said, whether he had gotten back to being the same obnoxious pest they all knew and loathed--and missed. Finally, after Gig completed a description of the decorations: festoons of curling undularia and trailing arbutus, and the many fabulous desserts--Tipsy Laird, creamed scones, and chocolate gateau among them--she could bear it no longer.

“Gig,” she whispered, while Goodie was accioing dishes to the sink and leftovers to the buttery. “How was Petey?”

“What?”

“How did he act? Did he seem--recovered?”

“I hardly saw him, ‘Nerva. He was all right I suppose.”

Hardly saw him. That was most unlike Petey, who loved being the center of attention and usually ran around at parties being that center in as many places as he could manage at one time.

“When you did see him, what was he doing?”

“Well, when we came in, he was there with Milady and the Lord, saying hello to everyone. And later they went up on the gallery and we all toasted him…”

“Did you talk to him at all?”

“He only head sello when we first came in.”

This only troubled Minerva the more.

“Did he say�”is he going to be able to go back to school?”

“I non’t doe. Why shouldn’t he?”

Minerva told her about Petey’s revelation. Gig’s eyes got rounder and rounder. “Oh, ‘Nerva, you didna kill the Erkling at all. But who was the other man?”

They looked at each other.

“That knapsack,” said Minerva.

“The stindle and baff,” said Gig.

“Yer chores, Minerva,” said Goodie, looming over them.

~*~

They met later that day at a little-used calving shed at the edge of the McGonagall fief. They tackled the bindle first. It contained a raggy shirt, a cape, a wooden bowl and a hunk of that stale gray bread, spotted with mold. No clues there�”except that its contents probably belonged to the Erkling. The knife yielded little more. It was double-edged and one side of the cross-guard was longer than the other and had a hole in it, perhaps for attachment to a belt-hook. Gig opined that one might thread a rope through it and swing the blade around one's head in a circle, perfect for fending off a horde of bloodthirsty trolls. There were some letters and numbers on the blade--G.R. 11 14 WILKINSON--but neither of them knew anyone of that name.

The bindlestick and staff bore no distinguishing marks either, although the staff, they decided, was much longer than would have been appropriate for the elf. Probably it belonged to the wizard. That left the knapsack. Under a coating of dust, it still looked to be brownish, and had two straps criss-crossed over the flap. Inside was a hooded cape and, at the bottom, some crumpled Muggle-type paper and three small vials. The vials were empty. Gig wanted to try the cape on, but Minerva forestalled her. Her Aunt Gerry had once been injured by enchanted clothing, a pair of gloves sent to her anonymously in the mail. When she put them on, they started to shrink and bent her fingers painfully backwards. Bobbie managed to save her from permanent damage by doing a quick Skinning Charm, such as they used when helping the twins dress a sheep carcass. They never did find out who sent it, although they suspected Gerry’s estranged husband, Arestor Filch, who was angry that she had refused to subsidize one of his Muggle-baiting schemes.

The papers they unfolded and smoothed carefully. Most looked like drawings of scenery: rocks and ferns, and several of a big tree. Some were inside paper pouches that Gig said were called envy-lopes. They were supposed to protect the contents while they went through the complicated Muggle postal system. The writing on one caught Minerva's eye:

Mrs. William Wallace
Bridge of Tilt
Blair Atholl
Perthshire

“That’s�”that’s my grandma’s name, my mother’s mum,” she breathed. What could a letter addressed to her be doing inside a magic-user’s backpack? Inside was a single sheet of paper in the same handwriting, well-formed and unrushed:

My own Gladys,

We’re still trying to clean up this mess. The Heinies are some miles away yet, in the woods somewhere and tomorrow we're going to root them out--for good, I hope. For now, we're dug in outside a little town.

I've bought something. At least, there was this old man offering some paintings to the troops. He looked to be very down on his luck--not surprising really, given the state of things. He didn't mind that I only had a few coins on me, and English coins at that. So now I have a real French painting for you. Thought you might be tired of my amateurish drawings. It’s very small, just fits in my kit, but it’s pretty for all that. A farm house with a tree by the door. And in the shade of the tree, a chair. It’s called La Chaise Vide. The fellow actually spoke a little English. As far as I could make out, he said the chair will always be empty because its owner, who was a soldier, went missing in the war. I told him if I had painted it, I’d have added a big black dog like our Tessie sitting there waiting faithfully. I got the feeling there was something personal to it, like he had lost someone, a son perhaps, though he didn't say. I hope it survives tomorrow's 'meeting.'

I’ve made a few sketches of our area. Maybe when I get back I can do them up in oils. This is beautiful country, despite the mortar damage. Anyway, you needn’t fear that I’m being morbid because I have a good feeling about tomorrow. I think we’re going to win this battle, and with it, the War, and I’ll soon be back home with you.

How do I know that? last evening I came across some chaps gathered around a fire, some of those fellows as taught Iffie up at the school. I know you don’t feel kindly towards such folk in general, but I tell you, it reassured me to know they were there on our side. Though, who knows? Kaiser Willy may have some 'allies' of his own doing the evil eye on our boys. But the way things have been going lately, I’d have to say our juju’s a bit better than theirs.

You might wonder how I recognized those lads. Most of them were wearing robes of course. But one of them, it was funny, like he’d gone to a jumble sale and just put on whatever came to hand, every color of the rainbow and nearly every pattern�”stripes, plaids, polka-dots, you name it. He looked like a crazy quilt your Canadian relatives sent us once.

Now the leader, a tall fellow with long hair and a fine auburn beard was dressed in a nice suit, even though it was a rather unusual shade of green. I went on up and talked to him. I'd seen him with some of our officers earlier in the day, so I guess they have some official part in this fight. He had a funny name. It sounded like Dumb-bell or Door-bell or something like that. I told them about Iffie, and one of the fellows actually knew her. He had been a teacher at the school when she was there, though she wasn’t in any of his classes. We had a nice chat about the war, and when I asked them if they’d be joining us for the battle, they all laughed, and Crazy Quilt said that they had a particular friend of Kaiser Willy’s that they were hoping to pick up. We’ll see if they get their man. I’m sure I’ll get mine.

Yesterday they sent us out to scout the terrain and make some maps. I did a little sketching while I was out there. Some very interesting trees and flora, especially one enormous lightning-struck oak, parts of it still alive but with lots of roots showing and knot-holes and such. Spooky you might say.

Got to go now. Lights out time. Give my love to Iffie and her young man.

Your own,

Bill

“That’s funny,” said Minerva, when she’d read it out loud to Gig. “The letter is in blue ink, but there are underlinings in green.”

“Which parts?”

Minerva showed her. “Something about a tree--and the name of a wizard. I wonder...”

“Who’s Bill?”

“Who’s�”oh, my grandfather.”

“The Muggle one?”

“Yes, my mother’s Muggle-born. I think I told you.”

“And your grandma doesn’t much care for fagical molk.”

“No, ---um�”I think we make her uncomfortable.”

“Is she jealous? Of your ma?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I’ve only met her once or twice, when I was small. She was always nice to me.”

Yes, she thought afterward. Grandma Wallace liked children. But there was something between her and Ma. Of course, it must be scary to find out your own child can move heavy objects around with just a word. If Minerva had to put Grandma Wallace on a scale of liking (with Ma and Da and Gig and Aunt Donnie at the top and Aunt Charlamaine and her children at the bottom) she’d fall somewhere between Petey and maybe aunt Gerry and her little boy Argus. She never knew Grandpa Wallace. He had died before she was born. Some people whispered, Aunt Charlamaine among them, that it was a spell gone wrong as caused his death. But Da and Ma never talked about it.

~*~

Gig took the cape they found to Jacko, and he did some tests that showed it did have some mild and highly practical magical properties. It was self-heating, water-repellant, self-hanging, self-cleaning, and wrinkle-resistant, which meant it would keep you warm and dry, and itself neat and tidy, and it would hang itself up on the nearest hook if you dropped it on the floor. Minerva let Gig keep it, as she was clearly dying to.

“Thanks, ‘Nerva.” Gig waltzed about in her new cape, then stopped. “Oh, I forgot. I have some bad news.”

“What?”

“Petey won’t be coming back to Hogwarts. The Laird is sending him to a place called ‘Storm Drain’ or ‘Dorm Strain’�”something like that.”

15. HOGWARTS

Minerva arrived at school by Floo that first Sunday evening along with her friends�”Gig, Dugald, Raymie Sykes, Magnus MacDonald, and Susannah Yorke, and various neighbors and distant relatives--Scrimgeours, Broadmoors, Dearborns, Kirkes, McKinnons, Macnairs. For all the Perthites it would have been taking the long way round to use the Hogwarts Express, but they didn’t begrudge the southrons that exciting trip.

They were greeted by two tall figures�”a stern-looking witch and wizard, dressed to the nines in high-collared black robes with sleeves slashed in the Elizabethan style like cousin Rowdie’s doublet, showing insets of vermilion and green, and starched lace at the cuffs. Minerva thought at first that they must be teachers, but then she heard Magnus address the wizard familiarly as ‘Con’, and realized this sobersides in the fancy get-up was Petey Macnair’s oldest brother Conall. His underrobe was of Slytherin green, and, Magnus explained in a whisper as they moved slowly down a winding stone stairway, he was Head Boy for the whole year, whatever that was. The girl was Cordelia Bones of Ravenclaw--apparently there was also a brainy branch of Boneses--and she was Head Girl. Minerva was impressed by their bearing if not their titles. They looked stylish and superior in their textured bombazine and plushy velvet, much like her ancestors in the portrait gallery back home.

As their guides led them along the corridors, Minerva wondered briefly if Miss Bones was Conall’s girlfriend. He seemed such a somber git at home, all study and no fun. All the same, she wouldn’t have recognized Con MacNair in this elegant get-up, strutting through galleries and hallways, commanding doors to open and close, as if the place belonged to him.

Minerva was immediately overwhelmed by her new surroundings. Hogwarts Castle with its gray stone walls and winding stairways was not unlike Connghaill Keep. But it had many more levels, chock full of statuary and paintings, rows of locked doors, and dark side passages. Her jaw dropped as she took in a tapestry of a Unicorn, a Gorgon, and a Manticore that covered an entire wall. And a group of ghosts saluted the students as they passed. She wondered if one of them was Rowdie’s friend, poor Sir Nicholas what’s-his-face.

But she buried her awe when she heard her name mentioned in a heated discussion, going on among the older students ahead of her. She recognized Conall Macnair’s brother Walden talking with his classmates and quickened her pace to stay within earshot.

“…have to keep an eye on her. She’s the reason my stupid brother’s been sent off to Durmstrang.”

“Petey’s at Durmstrang? They’re all about the Dark Arts, aren’t they?”

“Maybe, but I got the feeling my Dad just didn’t want him hanging around that conniving wench and her idiot friend Giggles�”or whatever her name is.”

They all laughed at this.

“Hey Waldo, how is the old man?”

“Mind your manners, Scrimgeour.”

“Sorry, I mean�”your father, the Thane. Has he acquired any more interesting creatures lately?”

“Naw, naw, not since that last trip to Tibet. But he’s perfected a new method of bringing them in. You know they’ve tightened up the import and collection laws. Only creatures smaller than a garden gnome allowed in. And there’s a ‘Dangerous Species list’ now. No importation of those, whatso-bloody-ever.”

“A mort inconvenient for your Dad, hey Waldo?”

“Nah. You know the Laird. Close a door, he opens a portal. He’s experimenting with a form of Shrivel-Drying to bring them in.”

“Like shrinking heads, is it?”

“Aye, straight out of Africa.”

“I heard that only works on itty-bitty beasties.”

“If you want them alive. But Dad mostly just wants to stuff the heads and such. With the Shrivelling Potion, he could smuggle in fifty Erumpents at one go, in his sporran. And the interesting thing is, every so often, one of them makes it through the process�”” he paused for effect “�”alive!”

The reaction�”gasps and gawks--was impressive.

“But how does he get them back up to size? Engorgement Charm?”

“Oh, it’s much simpler than that…”

At that moment, someone grabbed Minerva’s arm from behind. It was Magnus McDonald. He pulled her to the side.

“I know what you’re doing, Minerva.”

“And just what is that?”

“Spying on the Slytherins, trying to find out where Durmstrang is. But nobody knows, not even Old Dippy. It’s a closely guarded secret. And you don’t want Waldo catching you poking your nose into his family’s business. He’ll give you a raft of detentions�”or worse.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should be. He’s a Prefect.”

“So what?”

“Don’t you know what that is? It’s like a being a junior Hit-Wizard.”

“For the Ministry?”

“No, for the school. But he can do almost the same things�”like order you around, make you do stuff�”and have you punished if you put a toe out of line.”

“How’d he get that job? Probably the Laird…”

“Not this time. Word is he got the honor by default. The other chaps in his year are even dumber than he is: Dung Fletcher…Warty Harris…Will something-or-other. They’re all within an ace of flunking out. But no matter--you just watch your step if you don’t want Black Waldo after you.”

They started walking again to catch up with their friends. “Magnus, why is he…Waldo…Why is he so nasty all the time? I mean…I heard he likes to hurt things...animals and such.”

“Well, you’d be a bit out of sorts, wouldn’t you, if your father was always throwing your genius older brother up to you and your mother was always taking up for the baby. Petey gets away with murder all the time. But not Waldo. So watch yourself, okay?”

Minerva shrugged and tagged along behind a group of older students, who were boasting about all the forbidden magic they’d gotten away with over the summer.

~*~

After what seemed an endless trek through curving passageways and hidden doors, down steep steps, past all too many confusing forks and turns, they arrived at the Dining Hall. Like the Great Hall at Connghaill, it looked to be used mostly for eating and meetings and the occasional celebration with its long tables and dais. But this place had banners and pennants hanging about the walls, windows of colored glass, and gargoyles holding up the roof. And it was lit by magic---floating candles and a ceiling that mimicked the star-flecked sky outside with an elegant crystal chandelier at its center. The Keep hall had only clerestory windows and sconced torches. Minerva, proud daughter of a Highland Lord, felt oppressed and small under its heady grandeur.

Petey had long ago warned her about the Sorting Ceremony. Before they could start dinner that night, all the First Years had to stand up in front of the whole assembly. They placed a moldy old hat on your head and it whispered insults at you for a while. Then it shouted out which House you were in. And, oh yes, you always got Sorted into your parents’ House.

But as each candidate had the Hat placed on his or her head, Minerva didn’t see anything like anger or disgust on any of their faces, mostly fear at first, then pleasurable surprise. She wondered what the Hat could have said to Petey to set him off. Maybe he didn’t like it that the Hat put him in Slytherin. Or maybe he was just trying to get her goat. That would be just like Petey.

The major surprise of the evening was Dugald Macmillan being chosen for Gryffindor. All the Macmillans ever born had been Sorted into Hufflepuff. Dugald seemed a clone of his father�”beefy and taciturn and stubborn and deliberate�”a perfect Badger. Gryffindors were supposed to be brave and resourceful. She guessed goal-tending for a bunch of Quidditch-crazy kids all summer qualified as courage of a sort. It did take a while for the Hat to place him, as if it and Dugald were having some kind of silent argument. Dugald seemed not much concerned as he took his place at the Gryffindor table, although the usual flush of embarrassment played about his cheeks and neck.

Minerva herself had a bit of a scare with the Hat. It paused for a long time over her, whispering about her being not what she seemed. She was terrified that she would end up in Slytherin with the Flynts and Scrimgeours and Macnairs. It was bad enough that lot were blaming her for Petey’s trouble. She didn’t need to be hearing about it day and night. So she sent up a heartfelt plea to be placed anywhere but Slytherin, and in the end, the Sorting Hat put her in Gryffindor. McGonagalls always got placed either there or in Ravenclaw, so she was relieved for her family’s sake as well.

~*~

She and Susannah Yorke were in the same dorm, along with three southrons: Hildy Bagshot, Mina Grubbly, and Poppy Pomfrey. Mina and Suze each brought a pet. Suze introduced her cat Tyger, a large lynx-like fellow, who looked extremely well fed and acted as though he deserved it.

“I raised him from a kitten," said Suze in answer to questions, "He’s part Manx and part Kneazle.” Minerva wanted no part of him. She’d always been afraid of felines, ever since she’d tried to get between a mother cat and her litter. The poor kittens had been mewing piteously, and it seemed to the four-year-old witchling that their mother was biting them. So Minerva tried to rescue them. The mother cat took umbrage--and quite a bit of Minerva’s skin. So she was mortally afraid of cats, though she still had a soft spot for their young.

Mina had a great horned owl named Bubo, an import from the Americas. He kept flapping his wings, showing off his impressive wingspan. Bubo looked strong enough to be able to make off with Tyger, and Minerva half hoped he might.

Poppy, who seemed to be a bit of a health nut, announced that she would have to check both pets for Tikkles, Flees, and Chizpurfles, the most common magical parasites. She was undaunted by either the cat's sharp claws or the owl's snapping beak and examined them both--every feather and tuft--with a Dragon's Eye Magnifier and an Acromntula Leg Comb from a little black bag she called her Healer's kit. Finally, in spite of much growling and hissing and hooting and flapping from her patients, she was able to pronounce them both safe to share the dorm with her and her new friends.

"I knew Tyger would be clean," said Suze. "He licks himself all the time."

"That doesn't always get them," said Mina. "I had a pet Kneazle once. He brought all kinds of vermin into the house in his fur. That's how we got Bundimuns."

"What are they?" asked Minerva.

"A scurfy, green fungus that smells like vomit," said Poppy. "They secrete this awful slimy ooze that can do terrible things to your skin. And if you inhale that stink..."

"Aw,that's just old hags tales, Poppy," said Mina. "They're not so bad, really, except to wood. They're death on houses."

"But aren't they related to the German Grinde that attack oak trees? I heard they're really dangerous." asked Poppy.

"No, the Grinde are just petty parasites. They cause a kind of scaley flaking of the bark, but it doesn't ever kill the tree. Now Bundimuns can do really heavy damage, especially if they get inside a house. They can rot the foundation and the joists and the rafters down to so much pulp."

"Oh, no," said Minerva. "Did your house just turn to--mush?"

"Hardly. My Dad caught the ones Woozer brought in before they could do much damage."

"How do you know it was your Kneazle brought them in?" asked Suze.

"We found some of their slime in his sleeping-basket. And you know what? After Dad caught them all, he let me have one to dissect."

"Ick!" shouted Suze.

"Sick," murmured Poppy.

"What would you want to do that for?" asked Minerva.

"To find out what they're made of. I want to be a magizoologist when I finish school."

"Is that why you've got that picture of Newt Scamander there on your nightstand?" This came from Hildy Bagshot, who was sprawled out on her bed, paging through a huge book. Minerva had thought she was not listening.

"Wow," said Mina, "You recognized him. I didn't think anyone would..."

"There's a picture of him in my favorite history book." She lifted another thick tome out of her knapsack and leafed through it. "Here. See? That's him in Scotland studying Quintapeds."

"I know about those," said Minerva, crowding around with the rest of the girls. She had been feeling a little dull in the face of Mina's expertise. "That must be the Isle of Drear."

"That's right," said Suze. "We've heard lots of stories about them. They're fierce and blood-thirsty. Nobody ever visits the Isle of Drear and comes back alive. That Salamander fellow must be awfully brave."

"Scamander," corrected Mina. "He's been all over the world, updating his book. It's the same one Signora Cavallo-Grifone uses in Creature Care. I just can't wait until we get that class, but it's not until Second Year." She sat on her bed and sighed.

"You're from Scotland, aren't you, Suzannah?" said Hildy. "You and Minerva."

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Your accent." Minerva and Suze looked at each other. What accent, their eyes seemed to say. "The way you roll your R's." Hildy explained. "It's quite charming actually. I'll have to pick your brains when I start writing about famous Caledonian wizards."

"What?" said Suze. "Do we have homework already?"

"Don't get upset," said Hildy. "It's for this book I'm writing--a history book. It's going to include all the important events in British wizarding history from the very beginnings of magic, on up to the present day."

"A book?" Suze giggled. "But you're only--what? Eleven?"

"I'm twelve actually."

"But still..."

"But there's a lot to cover. All the more reason to get an early start, as my father would say. He's a historian too. Minerva, I believe you might be related to a famous Irish wizard--Fearghas mac...mac..."

"Um...well..." Minerva was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable with this know-it-all and didn't want to give her any encouragement.

"mac Bearach...That's right isn't it? Sech...sech clenni Conn’ghaill," Hildy finished triumphantly.

"That's right," said Minerva, dumb-founded. This southron not only knew her ancestor's name, but pronounced the Gaelic perfectly.

"That's excellent. I'll have some questions to ask you when I get to that chapter--if you don't mind, of course."

"No," said Minerva. "I don't mind." But she went to bed that night feeling a little discomfited that Mina and Hildy--and, it seemed, Poppy too, with her little black bag and her preoccupation with hygiene-- already knew so much, and even had plans for their futures in the wizarding world. It didn't help that Suze didn't. Susannah Yorke was the most unambitious girl Minerva had ever met. But she--Minerva--wasn't much better. What did she know of magic, except for her Quidditch playing. And that hardly qualified anyway. Even the thought that her ancestor Auld Fearghas was famous enough to be known to the budding historian Hildy Bagshot was small comfort. And she'd feel even worse if she found out that Hildy knew more than she did about her own family tree.

16. FIRST DAYS

Minerva became a different person her first days in school. She couldn't explain why she felt so strange, so unsure of herself. Hogwarts was, after all, just another castle. It did have more rooms and stairs and hallways and tunnels and niches and cubbies than the Keep, but it should still be easy enough to learn one's way around. She became less sure of this, however, her first night in Gryffindor Tower when she asked prefect Robbie MacDonald how to get to the girls' toilet.

"The bathroom is on the sixth floor, so you've got to go down those stairs at the end of the hall--the ones we came up earlier--to the fifth floor--now, mind the disappearing riser--"

"Hold on. I thought you said the bathroom was on the sixth floor."

"It is, but those stairs," he pointed, "don't go to the sixth floor. As I said, you have to go down them, and take a left at the statue of Boris the Bewildered, and go past the prefects' bathroom--"

"The prefects' bathroom? Why can't I just use that one?"

"Because...," he thought a minute. "...you're not a Prefect, that's why. And anyway, the door's invisible, and you have to have a password...a secret password..."

"Okay, forget it. So I have to go by Boris what's-his-face's statue. Then what?"

"You make another left after you pass this giggling suit of armor. But be careful. If you run into one that has the hiccups, you've gone too far. I remember the first time I was down there..."

Uh--oh, he's starting to go off on a tangent, just like his brother Magnus. Minerva rolled her eyes. "Listen, Robbie, I. really need to go..."

He gulped and looked at her for a few seconds. "Oh. Right." He blushed. And suddenly Minerva remembered. It was Robbie who had discovered her, half naked, after her night out on the mountainside. She hoped he would finish quickly before she started blushing too. "Now here's the tricky part," he continued. "You have to run down the next corridor really fast, unless you know a good Waddiwasi."

"A what? Uh--why?"

"Well, there's this gauntlet of Spore-Spitting Bundimuns growing on the walls that Mr. Ogg hasn't figured out how to get rid of. Not dangerous or anything, but spot-on good shots. And right after those, you make a left...then you follow this long carpet that tells the story of the origins of Hogwarts..."

"You mean it has pictures woven into it?" Hildy would want to know about that.

"Well yes, but it also talks, tells the story. Each bit is in a different language. But the lucky thing is it can't start the lecture unless you actually walk on it. So mind you stay to one side, because it's that boring, especially the parts in Troll. When you get to the end of the carpet you go left..."

"Hold on, four lefts? That's going in a circle, isn't it?"

"Actually it's more of a spiral, but then finally you're at the stairs that take you up to the sixth floor. After that it's straight ahead, third door on your right."

On the way to the toilet, Minerva thought about things. The way Robbie had looked at her, even if only for a few seconds, was oddly embarrassing. She hoped he wasn't the blabbermouth his brother was. And the layout of the castle was all too confusing, not to say inefficient. If she had been running the place, things would have been very different.

~*~

The Hogwarts corridors seemed to be busy at all hours with students, teachers, owls, house elves, ghosts, visitors, all looking like they knew exactly where they needed to be and at precisely what time. Here they dressed so differently from the folks in the glen. Everyone--except for the owls and elves...and the ghosts--wore those black wizarding robes and hats, all the time, not just for class where they were required. You would have thought that there would be at least some stole or emblem in the house colors that students would be eager to show off. It would certainly make it easier to recognize people and gauge their allegiances. It had been heartening to pick out the Slythering green in Conall Macnair's dress robes that first evening, but then Cordelia Bones was wearing maroon--not one of the Ravenclaw colors. (Hildy, of course, had pointed this out to the whole table during the Sorting.) Where was the Head Girl's pride?

Minerva sighed as she put on her own robes the first day of classes. Already she was missing the private daily ceremony of donning her kilt and plaid in the mornings: laying out the long woolen cloth on her bed, pinching it into the familiar pleats, rolling herself into it, buckling it into place, and throwing the remainder over her shoulder to be anchored with a brooch. Most Scotswomen--especially Muggles--wore only a neck scarf or sash to honor their clan, and occasionally a long tartan skirt, but Minerva loved the kilt and its stormy history, and, as scion of a proud Highland lord, insisted on her right to wear it. But, school rules being what they were, she settled now for a scarf about the neck, blousing it well out over her collar for all to see.

It was depressing to walk the corridors and see no break in the sea of black, not a tartan in sight, besides her own. So when she caught a glimpse of plaid in the crowd, she felt a thrill. Some proud Scot was flaunting the Black Watch pattern in a voluminous hooded cape. But then the wearer uncovered her head with a familiar gesture of impatience. Aunt Charlamaine it was, steaming up the hallway with a group of stern-looking witches in her wake, the sett of her cloak, proclaiming her link by marriage to clan Campbell. The sight of her formidable aunt coming for her unnerved Minerva. She thought to sink down behind her friends and hide. Then she heard a teacher say, "Look there, Mordicus, it's the PLAGUE folks come to sit in on Muggle Studies."

"What's that you say? A plague of Mokes? In my classroom?"

"Not a real plague. It's an acronym. You know...They're all the rage in the Mundane World just now. PLAGUE stands for some self-righteous cause or other."

"'Planned Learning and Games for Underage Elves' perhaps?" The teacher named Mordicus chuckled.

"That sounds about right. Or 'Post-Levitational Aphasias Generating Unpredictable Enchantments'. No, that was my last paper for the Healers' Conference." Both teachers laughed at this. "They are harmless enough, I'm sure. By the way, did you see Viridian's latest article on the theory of horcruxes? The man's a menace... "

That was a relief. Aunt Charlamaine was out bullying some other poor creatures for a change, and didn't even notice her niece as she charged on by with the rest of the PLAGUE.

~*~

Minerva turned that teachers' conversation over in her mind as the crowd of students pushed her on towards her first class. She had never been shy with the adults of her clan and septs, except for the Campbells, who always managed to make her feel small and foolish, no matter what the topic of conversation. It had been a relief to escape to Hogwarts, as it seemed that Cuthbert Campbell was showing up at the Keep more and more, often with his mother at his back. Surprisingly, she now found herself once again subdued and hesitant--the way Cuthbert and Charlamaine always made her feel, but now it was her teachers who induced this feeling. They seemed distant and cold, these great gray heads, with their arcane knowledge and incomprehensible jokes.

Her first-ever class, Potions, was two flights below ground in a damp, ill-lit dungeon. As she took her seat around a table with her friends, she made note of its poor ventilation. Another example of bad planning. Goodie Gudgeon always said potions should be brewed in a room with a window or two open, to dilute the magical mischief the fumes could wreak on a witch's liver and lights. But her brief feeling of superiority drained away quickly as a tall woman appeared behind the lectern and introduced herself as their Potions mistress. Madam Mandra Gora, seemed quite suited to the shadowy, closed-in environment she inhabited. She had odd golden skin that looked as if it had never seen the sun and blue-black hair in a page-boy bob. Her fingernails were long and lacquered and they curled inward at the tips. Everything about her, from her scent to her manner of dress was decidedly foreign and forbidding. No potion would dare try to poison her.

Her robe was black of course, but in a glossy, clinging fabric. High-necked, it covered every inch of her skin except for her head and hands. The sleeves were tight and buttoned from elbow to wrist. Her name, like her appearance, seemed like something Jacko Gwynn might make up for one of his stories, of a beautiful but treacherous witch with a dark past and a darker future. But it became apparent that Madam Gora's skill at least was genuine, as she started them off making an infusion of mint and monkey puzzle that she called Aqua Stimulata.

“It izzz used mossstly to open the mind and enhance conccccentration." Her husky voice seemed to caress the words. "Potionzzz that ssstimulate the intellect work bessst when breathed in. So I exssspect you will all be wide-awake for the rrressst of your classezzz.” Her delivery was hypnotic and Minerva struggled to follow her next words. "Kindly pair up...read...instructionzzz...page five...manual."

When she came to her senses, Mina and Hildy were already huddled together, and Raymie was just claiming Suze as a partner. She looked about, bewildered. Dugald Macmillan was all the way at the other end of the room sitting with a group of Ravenclaws, who shared the class with Gryffindor. Thankfully, a fat, ruddy boy asked her to join him. "Kenny Whisp," she thought she heard him say. She remembered him from the Sorting. He was a Gryffindor too. Minerva moved over to his table and read out the instructions while he set up the apparatus.

“Seethe one pint of pure spring water in an iron cauldron over a normal flame. Choose six perfect, unbruised spearmint leaves and scatter them whole on the water, taking care that they do not touch the sides of the cauldron. What’s a normal flame?” she wondered.

“I’ve no idea. Why don’t you ask?”

Minerva looked at her partner as if he’d just ordered her to drink poison. He shrugged and raised his hand.

“An excellent question, Mister Whisssp,” said Madam Gora. “There are many colorzzz of magical flamezzz. Can anyone name one?”

“Saint Elmo’zzz fire!” Raymie called out. Madam Gora fixed him with a sharp stare.

“A non-magical phenomenon. Petty and predictable. As is your attempt at wit, Mister Sykes.”

Hildy Bagshot raised her hand. “Please, ma'am, Floo Fire is magical. It is the primary means of transport in the Wizarding World. It can be made by throwing a pinch of Floo powder into a hearth fire in any magical household. It was invented in 1261 B.C.E. by Caractacus Flooble, who is also known for his Never-Miss Fireballs and his...”

“Thank-you, Miss Bagshot," interrupted Madam Gora smoothly. "Any other suggestions?” She scanned the classroom out of slitted green eyes. There were no volunteers. “Missssster…Macmillan?” She looked directly at Dugald. It seemed she had already committed the students' names and faces to memory.

“Um…well…there’s the Goblet of Fire…”

“Interesting, but not germane to this discussion. Anything else?”

“…um…I don't know...erm...Dragon Breath?”

“Explicate, please.” Madam Gora walked towards him, her eyes gleaming.

“Uh… the Opal-Eyed Dragon makes a bright red flame which is used for drying some magical seeds…and…”

“And?”

Dugald looked around, perhaps hoping to see another raised hand. He was blushing furiously now. “…and the Swedish Short-Snout’s is blue…and very hot...I think,” he mumbled.

“Very, verrry good,” nodded Madam Gora, “Dragon Fire is most potent and necessary to our art, though not for use by first years. And as Mister Macmillan says, the flame of the Opal-Eye is hot, so hot that it can turn a victim to ash in seconds. Also, such a flame can be conjured and preserved in a jar. But that is very advanced magic. For our purpose today, the common yellow flame will do. I believe it is a first-year spell, but I shall leave it to our Miss Trumulo to decide whether to teach it. In the mean time, I shall come around and conjure it for you when you are ready.”

~*~

After class, as they walked down the hallway to Magical Defense, Raymie teased Dugald. “Woo, woo, Dug, nice one. Three answerzzzz to one quesssstion. You’ll be old Gory’s pet soon enough. But don’t strain your brain, lad. Makes the rest of us look bad.”

“Well, you volunteered quickly enough,” retorted Dugald, his head low, his hands deep in his pockets.

“I know, but the Sykeses, unlike the Macmillans, have a reputation to keep up. Jockie got five N.E.W.T.s, did you know?”

“No, I didn't. And what do you mean by that anyway? You think my family's stupid or something?”

“Well, let’s just say, a Macmillan's better off using his noggin to stop a Quaffle than to remember the Twelve Uses of Dragon's Blood. And say, how'd you know what 'explicate' means anyway? I thought it was like spitting or something.”

"That's 'expectorate', Raymie," Dugald muttered.

There were titters about them. Dugald’s face was red again, but not from embarrassment, Minerva thought. There was a tightening in his neck muscles and a whiteness about his nostrils that signaled some deeper emotion, something she’d seen in her father a very few times. But he did not say anything more; he only looked straight ahead as if concentrating on not running into the oncoming hordes of students. At that moment, she noticed that he too was wearing a tartan scarf--in the Macmillan sett--tucked into his collar.

~*~

The Aqua Stimulata from Potions Class did help the first years stay awake in Magical Defense. They needed it. Their teacher, Professor Merrythought, was a forlorn, elderly woman who looked very like her name, a wishbone, with a V-shaped face, a long chin and long narrow ears. But she was not merry--far from it. She kept a trio of Augureys on a perch in her classroom and they echoed her weak, mournful voice, as she whined her lecture. The first spell she taught was a Crying Hex.

Minerva and her friends were met at the classroom door by Robbie MacDonald who had been assigned to escort them to Herbology. It was in a greenhouse somewhere outside, so they were all glad of his help. A group of owls whizzed past them and Robbie said that they were probably latecomers who had missed the breakfast post, heading for the Owl Tower to rest up a bit. They were not allowed to interrupt classes with a delivery.

Minerva was happy to hear that Hogwarts had an Owlery, just like Connghaill Keep, and she followed the owls' flight as they disappeared into the confusion of bastions and buttresses, balusters and belfreys that made up Hogwarts. There seemed to be so very many towers, some teeteringly tall, others squat and half-hidden. She'd already become acquainted with quite a few of them inside the castle, but she'd be hard-pressed to identify them from the outside--narrow, round towers enclosing tight iron spirals of steps, large square ones with multiple criss-crossing staircases. And she'd heard that some of those stairs moved around and reattached themselves to different landings when you weren't looking.

At the Keep, there were only two flights of stairs, and those were firmly attached to their entry and exit points: the Grand Staircase that joined the Great Hall to the Gallery level and the winding stone steps in the northeast tower that went all the way to the roof. And, oh yes, there were wooden stairs from the kitchen down to the buttery in the undercroft and ladders to the tops of the other towers that could be accessed from the roof, but that was all. A sensible plan and easy to follow. In fact, Connghaill Keep, whose floorplan resembled a big H, had only four towers, one in each corner, forming the tines of the H with the Keep proper its crossbar. And there were only three levels�”well, five if you counted the undercroft and the roof. Again, unlike Hogwarts, logical and practical.

It was a comfort to Minerva that their Herbology professor, Jicama Leek, seemed very pragmatic and down-to-earth, a little like Goodie Gudgeon. She was a generously padded witch, substantial both in body and voice, with skin as black as well-aged peat and, as Raymie observed later, a bum you could balance your books on. She smelled strongly of curry and cloves, spices familiar to Goodie's kitchen. As she told them all in her lilting baritone, she came from across the ocean, from a place called Trinidad. Her robes were black--and red and gold and blue and green.

Before their eyes she transformed the greenhouse into a segment of her island home: a glassy lagoon and a swamp thick with mangrove trees. She gave the class tour, introducing them to its flora, including a tree with leaves that exuded acid and a plant whose fruit looked like green grapes, but was crunchy and filled with a purplish-red sap.

“It is especially useful in preventing hallucinations,” she said, popping a grape into her mouth.

Minerva had a notion to ask Professor Leek the name of that plant and whether it might help cure mental disturbances, but she was suddenly intimidated by this very exotic personage,in her brightly colored robes, staring at the class grinning and chewing and reminding Minerva less and less of her old nurse. With that vermilion juice staining her large, yellow teeth Professor Leek looked almost ferocious.

~*~

After lunch, Minerva was able to relax a bit. The Charms teacher, Miss Trumulo, was young and blonde and petite, and her inexperience was obvious, even to a first year. She stammered while calling the roll, and kept dropping her wand. A boy like Raymie Sykes might have taken this as a cue to make mischief. But Minerva looked over at him, and saw a look of rapt attention on his face. The last time she'd seen such a look was when Petey Macnair had promised Raymie a ride on his new broomstick. But Miss Trumulo could be nowhere near as fascinating as a Comet 160. She wondered if Raymie was getting sick.

Miss Trumulo became more composed when she introduced the class to her twin Puffskeins, Bubbles and Fluffy. The girls squealed with delight as she carried the small pink fur balls down the aisles, allowing students to pet and cuddle them as they liked. Minerva had never owned one, but she’d heard they were common household pets in the cities. Mina Grubbly whispered that they were much akin to Tribbles, though with several important differences, the first of which was coloration...

At this point Raymie gave out a loud, elaborate groan. Mina had already regaled the Grydffindors with her animal expertise at breakfast, recounting in mind-numbing detail the differences between Crups and Muggle canines. Other expressions of protest followed his in short order, but it did nothing to curtail the lecture.

Mina was happily distracted from her topic as the gentle Miss Trumulo, oblivious to her competition, announced that she was going to demonstrate much of the first term syllabus--as well as some more advanced Charms-- on the two Puffskeins. She Levitated Bubbles and opened his cage door with a command that sounded a little like Da’s Gonagalohomora. Then she Flew him into it without touching him or the cage. She accio-ed Fluffy to her (Minerva recognized this charm, as Goodie used it a lot in the kitchen) and enlarged him to the size of a Quaffle. Everyone gasped, expecting the poor creature might burst or at least squeal in pain at having its skin stretched so, but it just bounced about a bit and made that fluttery sound of contentment the species is known for.

Their teacher stuck her wand tip into what Minerva supposed was its mouth. Then she shouted “Transparencia!” Everyone gasped again. This had the effect of illuminating his little insides. “Isn’t it amazing?” said Miss Trumulo, “They have no bones at all�”no ribs--nothing.”

And it was true. The charm allowed the class to see right through Fluffy’s skin and fur to what looked like a large roll of Spello-tape. Only it wasn’t tape. Their teacher muttered another cant and the roll started to unreel very fast. Out of the little fellow’s mouth shot a long red ribbon. "That must be his tongue," whispered Mina. And it kept on coming, curling about, up and down the aisles until it was at least three times the length of the room.

“That must be how they capture our bogies,” said Raymie.

“How's that?” asked his teacher.

Raymie put his hand to his mouth and blushed puce. Minerva was sure he was sick.

Mina Grubbly answered for him. “Didn’t you know, Miss Trumulo? After everyone in the family goes to bed, Puffskeins use their tongues to scavenge food from all over the house without ever leaving their cages. Wizard bogies are a special treat for them.”

“Oh,” said Miss Trumulo, “That must be why I never feel stuffed up in the mornings.” And she laughed along with the class, as they watched Fluffy suck his super-long tongue back inside him with a whoosh.

She reduced him to normal size and returned him to his cage. Over the Puffskeins’ happy humming, she served up a duplicate of the lecture Minerva’s father had given her on Underage Magic and the Statute of Secrecy. Only Miss Trumulo went further and told them about the possible consequences, which included fines, wand confiscation, prison, and, for the incorrigible, banishment from the Magicosm.

“But how do they even know if you’ve broken the Statute?” asked Suze Yorke.

“There are witches and wizards who can feel magic being done, even from very far away. If they sense an illegal hex or a spell being used in a restricted area, like a Muggle town..."

Or a Quidditch pitch full of students, thought Minerva.

"...they are required to report it to the local authorities, who will of course relay the information to the Improper Use of Magic Office in London.”

“What do you want to bet,” whispered Raymie to Minerva and Suze, “that Laird Macnair is in charge of sending those reports in from Perthshire.” He must be feeling better, Minerva decided.

Hildy raised her hand. "Isn't there a charm that can be used to tell what spell a wand last performed?"

“That's true," said Miss Trumulo. "It's called Prior Incantato. Hit Wizards and Aurors use it with mages they suspect of doing Dark Magic. Like Bathilda said, it forces a wand to give back a ghost of the spell it performed most recently. So, for example, if one of those magic-sensing mages reported a Hover Charm in a student’s bedroom, they could take the student’s wand and…”

“...make it rat on him,” called out Raymie Sykes. He still looked a bit red in the face, but was definitely back in form.

“Something like that, Raymond."

Raymie seemed to take encouragement from her reply. "Miss Trumulo, could you demonstrate it? The Free-Your-Ink-and-Otto spell?"

"The Free--? Oh. If I had a wand here that had been used, for even one spell, I could, but of course all yours are brand new.”

"You could use your own," said Mina. "And do the casting with one of ours."

Miss Trumulo was still working on the logic of this when Raymie interrupted.

“Oh, Miss Trumulo, Minerva’s isn’t new. She’s got a hand-me-down.”

Minerva bristled and hissed at him. “’Tis not, Raymie. It’s a-�”an heirloom.”

“Oh, Minerva, did you inherit your wand? How exciting!” Miss Trumulo gushed. “I heard that that custom was still practiced in some families.”

“Yeah,” muttered Raymie, “Cheap, chintzy families.”

“Would you mind if we use it for a little demonstration?”

Minerva brightened, and she marched forward, through a buzz of discussion, proudly holding up Rowdie’s wand. She wondered: what was the last spell he’d performed? Probably something very brave or dangerous.

Miss Trumulo propped it up against a book on her table, and touched her own wand to it. “Now watch carefully. When I say the words of the incantation you’ll see some grayish smoke come right out of the end of Minerva’s wand. It'll form into a ghost of the wand's last spell. See if you can tell which one it was.”

Everyone got very quiet as she said the words “Prior incantato.” And then they waited. And waited. And waited.

“That’s odd,” said Miss Trumulo, after an embarrassed moment. “It’s always worked before.”

“But it did work,” said Raymie, into the silence. “Didn’t you see? It’s an Invisibility Spell.”

There was laughter at his joke, but Miss Trumulo shushed them and tried again, much louder this time. And something did happen. A weak puff of smoke rose in a curve out of the tip of Rowdie’s wand, and hovered like a question mark over the desk.

“What’s that?” whispered several voices.

“Oh,” said Miss Trumulo, “It looks like�”a botched spell.”

Just then, the bell for the end of classes rang out.

Minerva left the room in some agitation. She was embarrassed at her wand’s failure, but the implications in the phrase “botched spell” disturbed her far more. However, there was no time to think about it. She had a most important after-school engagement.

17. TRYOUTS

"Magnus, who's that scrawny witchling up there?"

"That’s Minerva McGonagall, Stephen. She's first-year."

"Doesn't she know first years never make the team?"

"Try telling her that. She's got a head as hard as a Bludger. Make that two Bludgers."

They watched a few minutes as she dipped and darted about the pitch on her slender broom. It was the first night of tryouts and she the first to take to the air.

“What kind of sweep is that?" asked Stephen. "It's way too small for an Oakshaft. Handles more like a Moontrimmer, I'd say.”

“I heard her dad made it. He was a pro, long time ago.”

“I remember hearing about a Bobbie McGonagall�”played for Montrose...”

“That’s his sister�”Minerva’s aunt. She's named after Robbie ‘Ironpate’ McPherson�”the great Creaothceann player. He’s one of my idols, you know.”

Stephen knew. Magnus had more idols than a Babylonian king, most of them sports stars. “What about her father, the one who made that fag?”

“That's Jupiter McGonagall. Word has it his old man was so surprised after six girls in a row, that he didn’t even have a name ready. Just shouted “Jumping Jupiter!’ And it stuck.”

“You don’t say.”

“Minerva's father was a Beater for the Magpies about twenty years ago. Originated a move called The Hurdle."

“Never heard of that one.”

Magnus's eyes lit up. “Oh, it’s the best! The Beater goes full out, pretends he’s going to ram the ball-carrier. But then, at the last second, he jumps up over the Chaser. His broom slips underneath, and he lands on it again on the other side.”

“And he knocks the Quaffle away while he’s at it.”

“Naw, that’d be illegal. But it does cause a lot of fumbles."

"Yes," said Stephen, "I guess if I saw a bloke of fifteen stone or more coming at me like that, I'd probably drop the ball.” And piss myself, he thought.

“You could try it with the team," said Magnus, "if we get any good Beaters. I'd be willing to teach them."

Stephen tried to sound non-committal. "It’d be a crowd pleaser if nothing else.”

Magnus rambled on. He never needed much encouragement to talk. “He’s an inventor too, is Laird McGonagall. Always tinkering with brooms and carpets and such. Word is he helped Horton and Keitch develop that new braking charm for the Comet 140.”

“Oh, really?" Stephen was starting to get irritated with Magnus's braggadocio. "Well that broom--” he motioned to the witchling, who was now engaged in a complicated series of loops and dives�”“that broom is razor-thin. Don’t see how it could hold up under the conditions we play in.”

“Aye, like last winter against Ravenclaw. Never saw such a blow.”

More fliers now entered the pitch, calling out to each other, careering about, looping and feinting, chasing imaginary Quaffles and Snitches, dodging imaginary Bludgers. A few of the oldest were playing keepie-uppie, juggling a Quaffle among them, bouncing it off heads, chests, knees, and feet.

It had been a good idea, having tryouts the first day of school. Everyone was in top form, unencumbered as yet by other obligations--like homework--and raring to play. The boy named Stephen smiled to himself and called the session officially to order with a blast of his whistle. The dozen or so hopefuls plunged to the ground.

"Welcome, all," he said. “I'm Stephen Bechtel, captain of the Gryffindor House team. Most of our players last year were Seventh Years, so we have a handsome lot of vacancies for the team.”

Nervous titters and nudges within the group.

“Except for the Seeker. That's me."

“Well, that lets me out,” said one brawny fellow, to shouts of laughter.

"We'll start with some warm-ups, throwing the ball around and such, then do some Beating and maneuvers. I expect everyone to participate in everything regardless of your position. Let me emphasize that tonight's session is just a first look. No one will be cut outright. Unless of course you can't stay on your broom." More titters and nudges and shy glances sizing up the competition.

Stephen divided them into pairs for passing practice. It became obvious fairly soon that everyone was competent enough for that�”except perhaps for Magnus. Stephen remembered his tryout last year. Magnus didn’t seem to have learned much since then. He still couldn’t throw straight, although his arms were considerably stronger. This was bad luck for his passing-partner who had to chase the ball all the way to the Forbidden Forest on one of his mis-throws. But Stephen decided to reserve judgment. Anyone could have a bad start.

Next, he lined everyone up. “When it’s your turn I want you to fly towards the goal. Polly here is going to arc the Quaffle high over your head so you can see it as it goes past and catch it on the fly. It's not that easy, but just see what you can do.” He demonstrated, throwing the Quaffle past a large girl, who chased it and caught it over her shoulder easily, without braking.

“Good job, McLaggen,” called Stephen. He turned back to the candidates. “Impressive, eh? Well, Polly’s been a Chaser for a long time. Now you must try not to look around before the ball is thrown. You want to sense it. When you see it overhead, you’ll know to start. Let your fag’s inbuilt accelerator take care of catching up."

Stephen smiled as he watched the newer players trying to carry out his instructions. Polly McLaggen had an inborn sense of timing and could lead a Chaser perfectly towards the goal, allowing him to catch the ball without having to double back. Still, only the most adept receivers would have the sense to divine the ball's direction as it soared overhead and get a good jump on it. He was surprised that one of the best was the skinny first year, McGonagall. Magnus, on the other hand, just couldn’t get the hang of it. His first time out, he started too fast and completely misjudged the angle of the ball. He was nowhere near it when it came down.

“MacDonald,” Stephen shouted encouragingly, “you’re trying too hard. Relax.”

His second time up, Magnus got the angle perfectly but lost track of it somewhere in mid-sprint and it hit him right on the back of the head. There was a collective sigh from his mates. No one tried harder at sports than Magnus, and no one was worse at them.

Now Stephen split the group into two lines facing each other about fifty feet apart, and they all took turns batting Bludgers back and forth. Stephen soon saw that there were five kids--three boys and two girls--who had the natural power and reflexes to Beat for the team though none was particularly accurate--yet. And none of them was Magnus. He took a Bludger to the face and two to the ribs before the exercise was over.

“This is fun, hey fellas?” he nasaled at one point. His mates, including McGonagall, looked at him sympathetically, but there was not a trace of anger or sarcasm on his eager face as he wiped the blood and snot off his cheeks.

Then they all went to ground and took a short rest while Stephen explained some basic moves, drawing diagrams in the air with his wand. He couldn’t help noticing the sparkling eyes and slightly twitching frame of the first year. Too bad she was so young.

“The Weave is a maneuver our Chasers use a lot. To practice it, I'll have you form three lines. The person in the center starts with the ball and passes it ahead of one of his mates. Then he immediately flies behind the person he’s just passed to. The person who has the ball passes it to the third person and flies behind him, the third passes it to the first, flies behind him and so forth, all the while progressing down the field towards the goal.”

McGonagall had a question. “So you're saying we always cut behind the person we just threw the ball to.”

“That’s the general idea,” said Stephen.

Once again, she caught on quickly, and her passes were much stronger than Stephen would have guessed. At the other end of the ability spectrum, Magnus MacDonald seemed to have no proper sense of direction and repeatedly fouled up his partners in the Weave by cutting into the path of the ball or throwing it into their backs. When he hit one of his mates in the head and knocked her off her broom, Stephen mentally re-christened him ‘Mangle-us.’

~*~

That night, despite all the exercise and fresh air, Minerva had trouble falling asleep. Something was sticking in the back of her mind, some unanswered question or unfinished task.

She got up to pour herself a glass of water from the bedside pitcher, but it was empty. She knew what that was about. Suze Yorke was in the habit of filling Tyger’s dish from anyone’s pitcher but her own. Minerva was suddenly twice as thirsty and very angry. She wished she knew the Aguamenti Spell Goodie used to fill the bath tub. She’d charm herself a jugful--no�”two jugs full of water--and pour one over Suze’s head. Fuming, she took her cup and made the trek down to the dorm toilet.

Dodging those bloody Bundimun spores helped to clear her head somewhat. A spell�”that was what was troubling her�”specifically the messed-up spell Miss Trumulo's Free-or-something charm had revealed as the last one Rowdie Flynn’s wand had ever performed. There had to be a simple explanation for it. She knew that Rowdie had quit the Magicosm while yet a young wizard. Had it been because of the botched spell? She worried that Miss Trumulo had accidentally revealed some serious magical defect in her favorite relative. She wouldn’t think less of him for it�”well, not much less�”but she had to know the truth.

One person near to hand who might have a clue about it was Rowdie’s schoolmate, Sir Nicholas. She determined to find him and have the question out with him. She knew all the ghosts put in an appearance at the Great Hall at dinnertime. However, she was saved the trouble of waiting until then because, as she crossed the common room on her way back to bed, there was Sir Nick, sitting a few inches above a sofa by the fireplace, looking very glum.

“Hello, Sir Nicholas.”

“Who’s that?”

“Minerva McGonagall, Sir. I’m first-year.”

“Oh yes, I saw you trying out for the team this evening. Nice moves, young lady. Pity, really.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh nothing, but I do understand, believe me. I myself have been the victim of a number of unfair judgments--in both life and death.”

Minerva was not following this very well, though she did know about one particularly grievous miscarriage of justice,the one that had resulted in Sir Nick’s death. So she just said, “Is anything wrong?”

“No, nothing… I’ve merely been rejected…yet again…as you most likely will be…oh never mind…”

Minerva remained silent. She realized now that he was talking about her chances of making the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He was wrong, of course--he had to be--but she wouldn’t argue the point with him. She waited patiently, and concentrated on not getting too close to his ghostly frame. She was already cold, and the guttering fire was not much help.

After a moment, he continued. “Well, if you must know, over the past year, I’ve been applying for membership in a few of the more prominent Spiritual Institutions..."

"Really? Which ones?"

"Oh, merely The Who’s Who of Agonizing Death-Throes… Most Haunted List…Exalted Order of Severed Windpipes...The Necrotic Knights..." His voice broke over the last words, and he sniffed and rubbed his nose. "My Five-Hundredth Death Day is coming up shortly..."

She resisted the impulse to pat his arm. "Oh, that's nice. When is it to be?"

"Nineteen ninety-two. I thought my age...and rank...and family name would afford me a place in at least one of those groups. But look at this! ” He threw four pieces of parchment onto the coals, one after another. “Rejection upon rejection...” Cold blue flames flared up about them. Minerva shivered a bit at the frigid miasma the insubstantial missives generated, but even more so at the unexpected vehemence of Sir Nick's next words. “Oh yes, and I received an offer to be placed on the Alternatives' List for the British Brothers in Blood…AND... an invitation to join The Severed Head Society’s WITCHES' AUXILIARY!!” He fed two more letters to the coals. “I could weep! I mean I wish I could weep�”but sadly�”no tear ducts. It’s so frustrating.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Sir Nicholas. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I'm afraid not. Unless you have a ducal lineage or influence with the Beyond. But thank-you anyway.”

“I do have some�”uh�”friends who are ghosts.”

“Hmh�”doesn’t everybody,” he muttered. "Much good it does one..."

“Well, one in particular is someone you know--er--knew. Ralph Guthrie Flynn. He’s in a portrait in our Gallery.”

“Ah, portraits�”a treasured link with the Beyond. Little Rowdie Flynn, you say? Is he a relative? Oh, silly me, you’re a McGonagall, so of course he is.” He stared into her eyes. “You don’t look much like him. Yet I do see a certain quality of determination about your eyes and chin, and young Ralph was nothing if not determined.”

Minerva was feeling quite determined--and cold--by now, and she blurted, “I was wondering, Sir Nicholas. Could you tell me a bit about your years together at Hogwarts?”

Surprisingly Sir Nicholas did not find this impertinent. “Those golden days," he sighed. His troubles seemed to be dissolving in a wash of nostalgia. "Certainly. What do you wish to know?”

“Um�”was he a good student?”

“What a question! Of course he...all Gryffindors are...um...well...to tell the truth, I don’t really know.”

Minerva bit her lip. It sounded like she also was about to have some bad news.

The ghost sensed her distress and hastened to add, “You see, he was my junior by a good bit�”closer to my sister’s age actually. We never had any classes together, so I can’t rightly say…”

“But you knew him.”

“Indeed. How could one forget Rowdie Flynn? Always getting into fights. He so loved a good skirmish.”

“Then he did some dueling. Wizard’s duels, I mean.”

“It’s interesting your saying that. Rowdie actually preferred fistisleeves. No�”fisticuffs. I believe that’s the Muggle term. He liked to get in close and slug it out with an adversary. He bloodied any number of noses in the year I knew him. But, of course, that was natural. First years don’t learn a great many spells that are useful in combat, except perhaps Stunners and Accios...and the good all-purpose Expelliarmus. And, of course, I reached my majority at the end of that year...”

“Did you never see him after that?”

“He visited my sister once or twice while they were still at school. I understand he didn’t get on with his father very well. I only saw him a few times after I left Hogwarts.”

“I heard he left the Magicosm�”gave up his wand and all. Do you know how that happened?”

“Sadly I was out of the country at the time. Otherwise I might have given him better counsel. He always was, as I say, a hot-blooded chap. How does he look now? Old and hoary like me, I’d imagine.”

“You don’t look so old, Sir Nicholas.”

“I suppose not. I was only ninety when I�”you know�”got the ax.”

Mineva frowned. “But cousin Rowdie doesn’t look old at all. No older than Da--my father. Fiftyish, I’d say.”

“So he died young? But that’s impossible, if all I heard is true…”

“What did you hear?”

“You know what happens when you die?”

Minerva was caught off-guard by the sudden change of subject. “Um--well--"

"You get a Choice: whether to stay in this world as a ghost or continue on into whatever it is comes next. Well, before that happens, you are given time, if you wish it, to visit some of your old haunts. Apt word, that. You know what I mean: home, school, your auntie's farm, the local pub... It helps in making The Choice, you see. Some�”like myself�” take up residence in one of those places. I did have some of my happiest times here at Hogwarts.” He sighed again and gazed into the dying fire.

Minerva didn’t want to interrupt his thoughts, but her feet were freezing now. “And my cousin--Rowdie. Did he come back to Hogwarts�”when he died?”

“That’s the odd thing. The Bloody Baron makes side-bets on which students will last the longest in a given year. He gave very long odds on Rowdie Flynn, what with his excessively chivalrous temperament and his tendency to rush headlong into battle. But after two centuries or so most of our contemporaries had been crossed off the Baron's list, but not Rowdie. And then I heard�”I was away at the time, trying out for The Headless Hunt�”that his ghost had visited the school, and then he went on into the Beyond. I never did get to see him. If that were true, he would have been at least two hundred years old.”

“But don’t ghosts keep on looking just the way they did when they died?”

“We can clean ourselves up a bit if the end was particularly gruesome. I was allowed this especially thick ruff to help keep my head on...and why the Bloody Baron didn’t trouble to cover up some of his ghastly wounds is beyond me... But I digress. To answer your question: yes, our appearance to you mortals is essentially the same as the way we looked when we died. So I don't see how your cousin could look 'fiftyish,' as you say, having lived nearly two centuries!”

“Well, I'm not surprised Rowdie lasted so long. I'm sure he was very good with Muggle weapons. And perhaps he carried some kind of powerful Luck Amulet...and used a Wrinkle-Removing Potion to keep himself young-looking.”

“Perhaps. Although he’s the last person I’d have thought would be concerned about his age...or his looks." A clock on the mantel struck one. "Dear me, look at the time. I have an appointment with the Grand Gobbet of the Sons of Exsanguination at four. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance, Miss McGonagall.” And he hurried off through the nearest wall, leaving Minerva more puzzled than ever about her cousin's fate.

18.GOOD NEWS AND BETTER NEWS

Minerva’s other classes were so boring. The Transfiguration teacher, Doctor Tofty, was old to the point of petrification and nowhere near as interesting as the writer of Adventures in Transfiguration. The class barely endured his first rambling lecture, which consisted of a list of the topics they would be studying that year, laced with complaints about the school plumbing, the lamentable lack of dedication in the current wave of students, and his unsuccessful attempts to have Windsor ties and mortarboards made a part of the school uniform . There was nothing, not even a demonstration, to liven things up.

Likewise Professor Binns, her History teacher, who was also the head of Gryffindor House. He was just as ancient, though a tad more focussed. Twin fossils, Petey had called them. But Professor Binns was Giggie Gwynn’s favorite. Yes, he was long-winded and tended to make the most savage goblin uprising sound like a recipe for oatmeal, but he was also an unbeatable source of magical trivia. And Gig had a knack for taking apparently unrelated facts from his long-winded lectures and enlarging them into tales of romance and intrigue.

"Oh come on, Minerva," she said at dinner one night, as Minerva complained that even the history of Quidditch was beginning to sound uninteresting. "What was Binns talking about?"

"Let's see...it was about how the Golden Snitch was introduced into the game. This big-wig warlock...What's-his-name..."

"Berberus Bragge."

"That's it. Berberus Bragge...back in the I-forget-what century...it was a long time ago... brought this little bird to a Quidditch match one day..."

"I know. It's called a Gidgin Snoljit...I mean...Snoggin Gidget...no a Solden..."

"Ooh...Golden Snidget. That's it," said Minerva. "Bragge had this bird in a cage, and he got an idea to release it onto the pitch. He said he'd offer a reward to whichever one of the players could kill it during the game."

"One hundred-fifty Galleons."

"Something like that. And this witch who was at the game saved the Snidget by accioing it to her"

"Modesty Rabnott."

"Righto! How can you remember all this stuff, Gig?"

"Easy. I just retell the story to myself in an interesting way, and that makes it stick!"

"Wish I could do that."

You can. Listen. Now just picture old Bragge at that game with a dozen or so of his Council mates. They're all drunk on Wirefisky--I mean Firewhisky, and taking bets on which player will catch the Snidget."

"Right," said Minerva.

And in the mean time, Modesty Rabnott grabs the bird up and hides it in her...um...her robes. So he swaggers up to her and says,"--Gig dropped her voice to a growl--"'Madam, unhand that Snidget or else!!' And Madam Rabnott replies,"--Gig took a breath and continued, now in a higher tone--"'Or else what? You're a bartless hully--a heartless bully, Berberus Bragg. I don't know how you ever got to be head of the Wizards' Council. Shame on you, picking on a boor little pird. Go ahead. Spell me! You're so potted, you couldn't hit the sawed bride of a Basilisk!'"

She paused, possibly realizing that that last phrase did not sound quite right. "Then what?" said a voice, to both Gig's and Minerva's suprise.

They looked about, startled, and saw Dugald, Poppy Pomfrey, and Kenny Whisp across the table, listening wide-eyed to the tale. Gig recovered quickly. "Um--well--then the Breevil Agg--I mean--the evil Bragg raised his wand--and all his conies crackled coolly..."

Poppy and Kenny both laughed at this, but Dugald glared them to silence. Then he said, "Please go on, Gilliain. We promise to be quiet."

Gig blushed and corrected herself with new-found dignity."Well, as I was saying...his cronies ...cackled ...cruelly. Her voice dropped almost to a whisper, just like Jacko's always did when he came to a climactic point in a story. "And then Madam Rabnott started to get scared. These big, ugly warlocks were closing in on her on all sides. And the players started swooping about on their brooms, yelling threats and curses ..."

"Really?" This from Kenny, who was plainly enthralled.

"Yes, really. Then at the last second, one of the Beaters dove into the heart of the crowd. He kicked Bragge smartly in the face and seized Madam Rabnott, who was still clutching the little Snidget to her chest. He swung her up onto his broom and flew off before anyone could do anything about it."

Dugald hissed something that sounded like "That's the ticket." But Kenny asked, "What was his name? The Beater, I mean. This is a true story, right?"

"Of course, it is. His name was--um--Plumpton. Yes, Podrick Plumpton."

"Is he related to the Tornadoes' Roddy Plumpton?"

Gig didn't miss a beat. "Of course. He's his great-great-great-great-great uncle. On his father's side, you ken."

Kenny nodded and they all beamed at her. It came to Minerva that she'd seen that glazed-over, contented look before--they looked just like sheep. The storyteller had them in the palm of her hand.

Gig must have sensed it too, for she continued smoothly and with rising drama: "At first she feared the brawny Plumpton would try to have his way with her, and perhaps even kill the little Snidget for the reward. But no. He only asked her where she wanted to go and flew her all the way to Aberdeen without once trying for so much as a smooch on the cheek. Then he set her down in her sister Prudence's back yard. She thanked him, and he said, 'My pleasure, Madam. I may not agree with your views but...you looked so fearless and beautiful, standing up to Magus Bragge and his crowd all alone. No gentlewizard could remain unmoved by your bravery.' And with that, he took her hand and bowed over it. Then he hopped back on his broom and flew off into the sunset. Modesty Rabnott never forgot him, even while working tirelessly for the welfare of Golden Snidgets everywhere. The End."

They all applauded her effort and begged for more. So every night for several weeks Gig was persuaded to entertain them all at dinner with stories like these. Often the sessions continued on in the Gryffindor common room. Kenny Whisp especially seemed much taken with the ones about Quidditch figures. And Minerva noticed that Gig had much less trouble with her word order when she was off in another world like this, making up stories about warmongering warlocks, power-obsessed goblins, and hags who would hex anyone who crossed them.

But despite her friend’s best efforts to make the whole learning experience easier, Minerva still kept herself to herself those first weeks of classes. Eyes wide as saucers, she tiptoed down stony steps ,through tapestries, across galleries and courtyards, memorized routes, shortcuts, pitfalls, marking everything down in a notebook she’d gotten from her father. It was one he’d used at school long ago, one of his first inventions. It produced a new page at the front every time she finished an old one. So her most recent notes were always on top. And there were simple spells attached that would rearrange the pages by topic or chronology at a word. He called it a Notepad. Without it, she would have been completely lost.

~*~

After two weeks of practices, Stephen Bechtel made his short-list of players for the team. It had been a difficult choice, but he was pleased to have had so many qualified people to choose from. It was his first year as team captain and as a seventh year, it would also be his last�”his one and only chance to make a name for himself as a leader. So he had decided as soon as he knew he had the job that things were going to be very different under his regime. During his five years on the team they’d only brought the House Cup home once, and he was determined to make this a winning season for Gryffindor. First, before posting the list, he was going to tell each of the chosen the good news personally and make sure that they really intended to devote themselves heart and soul to the rigors of practice. No more of this “Show up when you have time” nonsense of Dewitt Jentley, last year’s captain.

And he wanted to have an active bench. Stephen knew he couldn’t promise reserves much playing time. The rules stated that no substitutions were allowed during a game. Of course there was always the possibility that a player would be injured so severely that he or she couldn’t be healed or revived by the time the next match came round. But the chances of that happening in a school Quidditch league were minuscule--especially since Magnus MacDonald would not be playing. Anyway, he hoped a few of the students who didn’t make the team would be willing to practice with those who did.

~*~

At the end of the day, he caught up with Minerva outside Charms Class. She had been unsuccessful at mastering the Leviosa Charm and was just wondering to herself if it had anything to do with the fact that it reminded her of Petey and his troubles.

“McGonagall�”there you are. Got a minute to talk?”

“Sure.”

He slipped inside an empty classroom and beckoned her to join him. Her heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t hunted her down just for the pleasure of a chat, of that she was sure. Gig had pointed out that he was good-looking in a delicate, Seekerish sort of way, and he was, of course, with his dark blond hair and blue eyes. But Minerva put that out of her mind. He was captain of Quidditch to her, nothing more. And he was surely here to tell her the good news�”or the bad. But how could she even think that? Of course she made the team. She had to.

“I wanted to thank you for trying out.” The blue eyes were boring into hers, but he was smiling.

She met his gaze steadily. “It was rather fun, actually.”

“You must understand, most people never make it their first year. I mean they’re just not fast enough or strong enough...”

Minerva had to look away. This sounded like the prelude to a letdown. She licked her lips and tried to look casual and uncaring. She thought: I won’t cry or have a fit when he says it, I’ll just laugh it off like I didn’t expect to make the team at all. Maybe there’s a reserve squad. I wouldn’t mind that. At least I’ll get to scrimmage with the team. It’ll be almost like playing out back of Macmillan’s…

“…so what I want know is, are you willing to make every practice and every game, come hell or high water?”

“I�”what did you say?”

“Weren’t you listening? I said I want you for my Chaser, with Polly and Letitia Biggs, but I need to know…”

“Be on the team? Of course! I’ll come to every practice, every game. There’s nothing I’d rather be doing!” And she suddenly had the urge to kiss him on his delicate Seekerish cheek, but restrained herself and shook his hand instead.

~*~

Stephen said she mustn’t tell anyone she’d made the team before Friday when he would publish the results on the House bulletin board. So she wandered out of the Castle down to the loch. She was in such a state of bliss she was afraid she’d shout the news to the first person she saw. Even if she could control her tongue, Gig would read her blushes and stammering and have it out of her in two ticks. So she needed to avoid the Common Room until she’d walked off that marvellous tingly feeling that was spreading in warm waves out from her chest.

She walked all the way to the entrance gates and back, then sat awhile on a rock ledge, dangling her feet and trying to read. It was a glorious autumn afternoon, but she knew the blustering winds of winter were not far off. She’d soon be riding those winds, weaving about, dodging Bludgers with Polly and Letitia, who was a fourth year and had looked during tryouts to be very, very good. In fact, Minerva had pegged them both for first string along with--she could admit it now--Miranda Goshawk, another fourth year, who flew boldly like her namesake, the raptor pursuing its prey. She smiled to herself. She--Minerva McGonagall--was deemed good enough to hold her own with the best her House could offer. She couldn’t wait to tell Da.

Her stomach had calmed down enough to tell her it was time for dinner. She willed that starched self-control that she used so often when dealing with Ma to slip over her and started back towards the Castle. Someone had come out of the great doors and was hurrying in her direction, waving and calling.

It was the caretaker, a man named Ogg. Just Ogg. No one knew if it was his first or last name. He had no hair at all on his face or arms--no eyebrows even. And he always smelled of overripe elderberries. But he was competent, and occasionally even kind, directing muddled first years to their classes, carrying sick or injured students to the infirmary. That very day he had rescued one boy wading in the loch from a pack of water demons.

"Miss M'Goniggle, innit?" he said when he reached her. " 'Edmarster says for yih t'come up t'office. Message come for yih.”

She followed him into the school. He led her up the great staircase to the second floor and down a corridor to a high-arched doorway. There was a strange-looking plant looming over it. He muttered something she couldn't quite catch as they passed through to a circular stairway. She got on the bottom step and it started to move unbidden, spiraling her upward to another door, which was open.

“Come in, please, Miss McGonagall.” It was the Headmaster, Armando Dippet. He looked much smaller than when he stood on the podium at the start-of-term banquet. He was smiling broadly.

Minerva looked about her in awe. This must be the fabled Headmaster’s Office. Petey had told her about it. It was full of portraits of old Heads, shelves of books, interesting gadgets--and toadstools. Professor Dippet was an avid collector of fungi of all kinds.

In a chair near a huge glass-topped desk sat her Head of House, Professor Binns. He was nursing a bright red drink that looked as if it had something live swimming in it. “There’s someone here to see you, Miss McGonagall--after a fashion.” Binns giggled and gestured to a large fireplace. There was a head suspended in the flames--her father's!

“Hello, Dearie. I was just telling Binns and the Headmaster about your little parody of their invitation to Hogwarts.” Minerva was shocked, not by her father’s appearance in the fire--they communicated that way all the time--but by so cavalier a revelation of a private joke.

Before she could protest, Da continued. “I’ve good news, Minerva. Your mother’s coming home.”

“Oh, Da, that’s wonderful! Can I help you go get her? Or...or at least be there when she gets home. I can help Goodie get the place ready...I…” Then she went silent, remembering that they were not alone.

“Actually, we’ve arranged for you to come back to the Keep almost immediately. Binns here says he can send you your lessons and you can stay home until Yule.”

“Oh, that’s grand…but why do I need to be home so long? Ma’s not…is she very bad off?”

“Naw, naw. It’s true her condition’s rather delicate, but she’s improved greatly. Not so much as a bad dream in the last three months. Healer Kirk wants things to be as normal as possible until the New Year. And yer Ma…I know she misses you…Well, I’ve got to go now...help Goodie with some things, you ken. You come along as soon as you can manage it. Headmaster, I hope you’ll thank all the teachers for their cooperation. I’m much in their debt.”

“No trouble at all, my dear Jupiter. We’ll supply them all with dictation pens so Minerva can have a daily accounting of her classes.”

“I’ve a supply here of my own making. I’ll send them along tonight.”

“That’ll be a boon. Save me sending a house elf over to Scrivenshafts. So you’re keeping up with your inventing? I’m glad to hear it.”

“Naw, naw, these are just copies of something I saw in the Alley. I was going to give them as Christmas presents, but I can always make more.”

“All right. And I'll arrange it with the Ministry to allow her to practice her spellwork outside of school--as long as she's properly supervised of course."

"Of course."

Well, we’ll see Minerva gets packed and on her way. When do you need her?”

“Friday’s fine. We’re expecting her mother on Saturday.”

Friday! Minerva remembered. The Quidditch team list would be posted Friday. She’d have to tell Stephen she couldn’t play. It was a bitter thought, but paled to insignificance beside the news of Ma’s recovery. She wouldn’t mention it to Da. He’d only feel guilty, or even make her stay on at school. That she couldn’t allow. Her place was at home now.

~*~

It was a long week, knowing that at the end of it she’d be going home. And the teachers seemed determined to make it all the longer. In Herbology, Mami Leek (she insisted on this title, saying it was the custom in the magical culture of her island) set them a particularly nasty practical on Wednesday. They had to make their way through a miniature rain forest populated in part with plants they had studied in their first weeks, avoiding those which were dangerous or mundane, and gathering samples of five which could be used in potions or had other magical worth. Minerva found that she could identify the plants best by their smell, and correctly picked and named dogtooth violet, tamarind, sago lily, and asafetida. She sniggered as Dugald brought back some branches from a manchineel tree and had to drop them fast when the acid in the leaves started eating through his robes.

~*~

Her dorm mates were aware of Minerva’s nervous state and Hildy Bagshot sought to distract at least one of their teachers. “Excuse me, Miss Trumulo,” she said in her most adult voice, “just what is the difference in all the teachers' titles? I mean why do we say Doctor Tofty, but Madam Mossbane, and Professor Merrythought?”

Vivi Trumulo (it was hard to think of her as ‘Madam’ or ‘Professor’) had begged them to call her ‘Miss’, as she was only a few years out of school herself. “That’s an excellent question, even though it is not, strictly speaking, a Charms question. Basically, a Master or Mistress is a mage who has served an apprenticeship and has some years of practice as a journeymage in a craft--like pharmagicology or wand-making.”

“Like my mum,” piped up Raymie Sykes. “She’s a Mistress of Warding.”

“Oh, yes. Didn’t she do some of the new defensive spellwork on the high security vaults at Gringotts?”

“Yes, she’s the first witch in ages to be allowed down there.”

“That certainly speaks well of your mum. Goblins don’t just trust any human.”

“Dad says it’s because she’s a sight prettier than any of them.”

Miss Trumulo stifled a giggle and blushed rather prettily herself. “I’m sure that’s not the only reason, Raymond. Well, to get back to the subject, a Magus has had several years advanced study in a difficult subject like Transfiguration or Arithmancy, and an Archmagus has had more study, and a Doctor decades more. We call any highly qualified witch or wizard who is teaching 'Professor', as a courtesy. Doctor Tofty prefers to be called 'Doctor' because...well... Merlin knows he’s earned it."

“Yeah," said Raymie. “He's been at it for centuries.”

Miss Trumulo broke through the ensuing laughter. “Let’s get to the day’s lesson: a review of the Lumos and Nox spells. Most of you have yet to get out of what our dear Headmaster likes to call the Twilight Zone…”

~*~

Doctor Tofty’s classes got no better. Not that Minerva had trouble with them. She just hated his hedging and dodging of explanations. And the actual lectures were so predictable that she had commanded Da's Notepad to duplicate several pages, thus:

Transfiguration notes. Date:____________. The subject for today is changing a _____________ into a _____________. The incantation for this transformation is: “___________________________________________”. You may get your ____________ from the_____________ as soon as we have practiced.

The formula never varied. She would fill in the blanks dutifully. Then the class would recite the cant a few times, and Doctor Tofty would go into a long spiel about how perfect pronunciation and concentration were keys to success. Never a word about the theory behind the spell or practical uses or anything of real interest. It was just an exercise. Change this into that, never mind how it works or whether this kind of change is related to the one we learned yesterday or the one coming up next week. And if someone asked him to explain the mechanism of the transformation, he would mumble something about that being Advanced Theory, not suitable for first years. But Robbie MacDonald told her Doctor Tofty was still giving the same sort of excuses to his NEWT level classes.

Minerva was sure it was possible for a student mage to understand the theory. Her little companion book Adventures in Transfiguration hinted as much:

All acts of Transfiguration involve a change in at least one of four aspects of a creature or object: its shape, its size, the material it is made of, or its degree of consciousness.

In the Muggle world, a change in the shape and size of an object can often be effected by the action of physical force. Anyone can fit a full length mirror into a handbag, if he only possesses a sledgehammer, safety goggles, and a decent aim. But this Muggle method of reduction will not work on, for example, an elephant or the Atlantic Ocean.

However, even a first year wizarding student can learn to shrink or enlarge that elephant, or change it into a potbellied pig with little more than a wave of his wand and the appropriate command. And unless the magnitude of the change is very great--say, making a mountain out of a molehill or vice versa �”he does not need to concern himself overmuch about the difference in mass.

A change in the stuff an object is made of, whether it be paper or protoplasm or pease porridge--is a bit trickier. In its purest sense, it is called alchemy, the changing of one pure element, like lead, into another, like gold. In the Muggle world, such a change is virtually impossible on the scale of ordinary things. Alchemy takes place only with huge outlays of energy such as are generated in the formation of stars. There are, I understand, Muggle scientists who are working on a kind of controllable, small-scale alchemy based on the cant: “Ee eekwulze emcee skwaird” or something of the sort. We wish them luck in this endeavor.

Magic can easily make lead out of gold or turn a titmouse into a teacup with hardly a whisper of energy use. And although the theory here is complex and not completely understood, it can be mastered by any mage who has the wit and tenacity to pursue it.

Changing the life level (the degree of consciousness) of a creature is most difficult for the would-be Transfigurer to master. It is not so hard to change a live creature into an inanimate object, or to reduce the self-awareness of a Krup to, say, that of a salamander, although with the higher life-forms ethical questions may come up. But to raise an inanimate object, such as a stone, to the status of a living being with even the merest grain of consciousness is much more difficult and requires years of study. However, with care and diligence, most students should be able to perform at least elementary cross-species switches by the time they reach their magical majority, although only the most gifted and determined will be able to breathe life into an inanimate object.

Minerva comforted herself with words like these while she practiced changing matches into needles and beetles into buttons. There was a thread of coherence running through all magic, but not all had yet been discovered. Exciting thoughts. She needed someone to talk to about this, but Gig was perfectly content to memorize Tofty’s list of cants and couldn’t understand her friend’s need to know more. And she couldn’t bring herself to discuss it with any of her roommates. Suze and Poppy and Mina were surely of the same opinion as Gig, and Hildy would only launch into some boring lecture on the origins of magic, spouting names and dates like an overheated teakettle. It made Minerva want to scream, or worse.

19. THE RECKONING

Mercifully Friday arrived before Minerva had gotten into any fights, though she came close in second period as Professor Binns droned his way through the history of wand-making. Raymie Sykes, looking pointedly at Minerva, volunteered in his loudest voice that not all new students bought their wands at Ollivander's. This prompted Binns to give it as his expert opinion that the handing down of wands from one generation to the next was a dangerous economy, likely to deprive the student mage of the best selection for his or her potential. This left Minerva seething and wanting badly to curse them both into oblivion. But Dugald grunted at lunch that it sounded like old Binns was getting paid off by the Wand-Makers’ Guild to plug their product, and her spirits lifted somewhat.

The results of the Quidditch tryouts were posted in the common room Friday noon, but Minerva had no need to look at it with the other eager candidates. Her name had been placed under 'Reserves--Chasers'. She and Stephen had agreed this would be best, a way of allowing her to work her way back onto the team after Christmas.

“Hey, Nerves, make the team?” It was Raymie Sykes. He scanned the list. “Well, cheer up, nobody gets on, first year. Not even my sister Jockie made it, and she the first ever to fly solo across the Atlantic.”

Minerva walked over, pretending interest in the announcement. She saw that the hefty boy, Danny Broadmoor, who had joked about wanting Stephen’s position, had been chosen as one of the Beaters, and Miranda Goshawk had taken her place as the third Chaser. “Mmmm--first practice Monday night.”

“So what?” said Raymie. “You going to sit in the stands and take notes?”

“Why’d you say that?”

“You’re getting like that batty Hildy Bagshot, scratching page after page in History class. Suze says you could be writing a novel, all the notes you take. You write faster than a tout at a Winged Horse race.”

“Susannah Yorke should mind her own business. She’d get better marks. Anyway, I’m not sitting in any grandstand. I plan to practice with the team�”when I get back.”

“Why? Where're you going?”

“Home. My ma’s back from Kirke’s, and I’m to help nurse her.”

~*~

“Is Ma here yet?” Minerva literally leaped out of the fireplace and shouted at Goodie Gudgeon, who was standing at the center table up to her elbows in dough. She recognized foreman Filch's wife Belda at the sink, tapping her wand against the sideboard as she supervised the peeling and slicing of a vast quantity of vegetables.

“Naw, child, she’s comin the morn’s morn. I thought yer Da told you that.”

“Aye, he did, but I thought maybe…”

“Och, ma dearie, it’ll be jist a wee. Come get out of yer school robes. I've got yer formal plaidie laid out on yer bed. We’re haein yer faither’s sisters ower at evening.”

“Oh, that’ll be fine, but why not wait until Ma’s home? Then we can really celebrate.”

“Yer ma needs her rest the noo. Healer Kirk wants us tae tak it slaw wi her. And the tea’s for business�”the Rackonin ye ken.”

Ah, the Reckoning. Every six months, after harvest and planting, Da and the aunts got together to pool their earnings and distribute the wealth. It was a custom the family had agreed to long ago. When Cadwallader McGonagall died, his wife having predeceased him, he willed the entire estate to his only son and left his equally deserving daughters out in the cold, saying they could just as lief marry and go live off their husbands. In fact it was said that the old misogynist had hung around just long enough to ensure that there was a male heir come of age to pass his property on to.

But Scots and Wizarding law both required that some share of property go to each sibling on a parent’s demise. Jupiter loved his sisters and wanted to be fair about it, not just give each one a token bit of the estate. And his sisters, except for Charlamaine, agreed that they didn’t want to divide up the estate anyway. Possession of a large tract of land was an important part of a Scots family’s influence and standing in the community, as it had been from medieval times. To give each of them a piece of the farm would leave them all the poorer. So they decided that Jupiter should keep the title of Lord of Connghaill Keep and each of them would husband a portion of the land as a tenant, but paying no rent. At the Reckoning each received a seventh of the pooled profits and Jupiter paid out of his share a salary to each sister. It worked well for all concerned. Even Charlamaine had difficulty finding a flaw in the system.

~*~

While she changed her clothes, Minerva thought about her aunts' unusual names. According to Goodie, they were a further reflection of their father's obsession with male offspring. Grandfather McGonagall had been confidently expecting a boy with every confinement. He'd picked 'Charles' for his first-born, after the beloved ‘Bonnie Prince.’ He hadn’t even thought to have a female name on hand and was quite perplexed when the bairn turned out to be a girl. His wife Johanna had come to his aid, suggesting 'Charlamaine' as a compromise.

When the twins were born, 'Philip' and 'Francis' were quickly turned into 'Philippa' and 'Frances'.

Roberta came next. She had been meant to honor Bobby ‘Ironpate’ McPherson, the great Creaothceann player, and she grew up tall and athletic, like her namesake. She tried to fulfill her father’s dream as best she could, despite her obvious femininity, and played Chaser for the mighty Montrose Magpies for years.

Barely nine months after Roberta came Geraldine, who had been small and sickly, and thought for a time to be a Squib in the making. She surprised everyone by earning nine NEWTs during her time at Hogwarts--the most of any of them.

And finally, just before Da, came the last girl. By that time it seemed to Minerva that Grandmother Johanna must have been tired of trying to fix her husband’s unfortunate name choices. She was too young to realize that having to care for five little children and a new-born, might have been a tad distracting. Donald McGonagall forgave her father his insistence on naming her after his father, and her mother's inability to fashion a distaff counterpart. She bore the name proudly and refused to be bothered by the teasing at school. In fact while she was there, said Goodie, she would answer to no other name--no nickname, no diminutive, no feminization. Only once had she had hexed a classmate--with everlasting warts it was said--when he persisted in calling her alternately 'Donette' and 'the beauteous and buxom Donalda.' Minerva alone had been permitted to call her 'Donnie'--starting from when she was a wee lass.

~*~

And over the years, each sister had found her own special niche in the family business.

Charlamaine, whose husband, Cameron Campbell, was an expert in Muggle relations, supervised the working of the coal mine on the estate and sold fuel to Muggle businesses. She had magical wards shoring up the mine shaft, and she used Blasting spells to effect some of the excavation rather than explosives. Insurance for her Muggle employees was nil and her prices were quite competitive.

The twins, Philly and Frannie, loved animals, so it was natural that they should take care of the sheep herd in the high hills; they also trained Crups and border collies and commanded a decent price for wool and mutton in both the magical and Muggle communities. Their current project was a Crup-Collie crossbreed incorporating the best aspects of each, but so far they hadn’t been able to get rid of the intense hatred of Muggles characteristic of the Crup bloodline, although they had managed to eliminate the forked tail and goat-like appetite.

Gerry was into cereal grains, herbs, and vegetables and raised most of the food for the clan's tables. Bobbie took care of the dairy cows and goats. Gerry and her young son had moved in with Bobbie after her husband had run off to be a magician in a Muggle circus. They lived in a converted mill within walking distance of the Keep.

Donald supervised the berry patches and an experimental fruit orchard.This left Da to manage the accounts, represent the family at meetings and sporting events, and tinker with the farm’s magical machinery.

Minerva got along with all of her aunts, more or less. The twins were a bit scatty and old-fashioned. They always gave Minerva sachets and lace handkerchiefs for her birthday and had recently taken to asking her whether she had a ‘young man’ yet. Gerry was nice, though distant; conversations with her tended to start and end with her son Argus. Minerva liked Bobbie, the former Quidditch star best, along with Aunt Donald. They treated her like an equal�”a real witch--even though she was only just coming into her powers.

She thoroughly disliked Aunt Charlamaine. She barked and bullied a lot. Also she had a son, Cuthbert, who treated Minerva like a half-witted younger sister--when he deigned to notice her at all. She hoped it would be Uncle Cameron representing the family that evening as he sometimes did when his wife had a conflict. She was on several committees, including that PLAGUE business, and was always off to one meeting or another. Her uncle was a bit stuffy, but not overly critical.

~*~

The meeting that evening was a swank affair. Everyone dressed formally. Da had borrowed some of Charlamaine’s house elves to help serve, so that Goodie could supervise the kitchen help. Minerva was designated to act as hostess. She had carefully rehearsed a little welcoming speech for each of her aunts, having questioned her father about their latest activities.

“Good evening, Aunt Donnie--um--Donald," she murmured nervously. “How are the new apple trees doing?”

Donald McGonagall, small and vivacious, was dressed in a kilt and an Argyll jacket with a double row of silver buttons. She had slicked her black hair, which normally hung down to the line of her jaw, severely back from her face. The mannish look contrasted with her silk blouse, which had delicate lace ruffling at throat and wrists, and a smart, dark red shoulder bag.

"Hello, dearie. They're coming along nicely, thank you. I know the Muggles have never been successful with them, but I've managed to shield the saplings from the worst of the damp, and you know anything will grow in dragon dung." She embraced her niece, and handed her a little package. “An early birthday present. Or if you like, a gift for the new student. How do you like school?”

Minerva tore at the wrapping paper. “It’s all right. We could do with a better Transfiguration teacher…”

“Is it still Tofty?” Minerva nodded. “Greatrakes alive, he was older than Merlin when I was there.”

The paper fell to the floor, revealing a porcelain figurine of a black cat, with a proud smiling face, and gilt eyes and whiskers.

“What’s this?” asked Minerva.

“A cat.”

“Yes, I know. What does it do?”

“Nothing, so far as I know. Don’t you like it?”

“Well, I don’t much care for cats, but this one’s pretty enough. You’re sure it doesn’t double as a Remembrall or something for school?”

“No, it’s just for fun. It somehow reminded me of you.”

Minerva looked at the figure. On closer inspection in the light, she could see that its coloring was uneven. “It’s blotchy,” she said.

“Those are tabby markings,” said Donald.

Just then, Minerva’s twin aunts, Philly and Frannie, came into the room. Minerva made a face.

“Buck up, my girl,” breathed Donald, “I’m right behind you.”

The twins, frilly robes softening their thin, angular bodies, nodded approvingly at Minerva’s greetings.

“How’s our fine young lady? Any of the local lads coming courting yet?”

“Patience, Fran,” said Donald, seeing a blush starting on Minerva’s cheeks, “she’s not yet twelve years old.”

“We know. Her birthday’s the fourth."

Philly cut in. "A Libra, my dear, the most congenial of signs: idealistic, peaceable, tolerant, sensitive to the needs of others…she’ll make a fine wife for some lucky mage.”

“My last beau was a Libran," countered Donald. "He was thoroughly intolerant of any opinion but his own and had a raging temper besides."

“But dear Minerva has none of those qualities..."

"...And it’s never too early to start thinking of marriage, especially when a lass will have such a burden of responsibility to bear." Aunt Fran fixed Minerva with a beady eye. "It takes a man to shoulder those burdens, Minerva. You should be thinking of that.”

“Wheesht, Frances!" cried Donald. "Let the lass get through her schooling first."

Fortunately at that moment, Da approached, looking very handsome in kilt and coatee. "Donald, you look quite the Highland laird, my dear." He shook her hand. "Philly, Fran, welcome! I haven't seen you in a while. What have you two charming witches been up to lately?”

“A moon zodiac, brother,” gushed Philly, seizing his arm and nodded sagely about the group.

“Yes,” said Frannie. “Even more accurate than sun signs. Because of the closeness of the moon to our own mother Earth, you ken." Minerva sighed with relief. She would have no need to make small talk once the twins started in on their favorite subject.

"Many’s the time we’ve consulted it before making an important decision,” said Philly.

“…as when we were trying to decide whether to enter Chauncey Croptail in the Krup obedience trials…”

“…or the time we were thinking of investing in fancy hippogriffs.”

“We actually consulted with one of the Hogwarts professors about it…”

“…the Italian one, Porpentina Cavallo-Grifone…”

“…Have you had her yet, Minerva dear?”

Minerva shook her head. She'd seen the 'Creature Teacher', as Madam Cavallo-Grifone was known, talking to Mina Grubbly once. And of course, she sat at the teachers' table most evenings. She was dark--Latin-looking--and went in for beautifully cut robes that showed off her Rubenesque figure. All her robes were some shade of not-quite black: a deep midnight blue, a wine-dark red, a rich, peaty brown, a green of forest shadows. A real individual. Minerva liked that.

“...and rumor has it, she’s seeing that Scamander fellow..."

“...You know the one who wrote that book?"

"So popular. Well anyway, a reading of the signs confirmed our instincts…”

“…yes, Luna rising in full glory at sunset…”

“…following the Bull across the sky…”

...and setting in his tail...

“…most propitious for financial ventures…”

“…we decided to take the plunge...”

~*~

And so the evening went. Aunt Donald was always but a few steps away, for which Minerva was grateful. To her discomfort, Aunt Charlamaine did show up--on Cuthbert’s arm. He looked more like his father than ever, but heavier than Minerva remembered, with a scruffy growth of beard on his cheeks. But that couldn’t hide jowls and an incipient double chin.

“And how is your schooling going, Minerva?” he asked, addressing the top of her head. He never quite looked anyone in the eye, she noticed. “Learned any spells yet?”

“A few,” she replied.

“Lumos and Nox, I suppose. And the ever-helpful Transparencia.” He laughed. Minerva couldn’t see what was so funny.

Charlamaine interrupted. “If you have any questions about magic, Minerva dear, just ask your cousin. He knows all the latest incantations. Studied all over Europe, you know. And he read the Emerald Tablet of the great Hermes--in the original!”

“Emerald Tablet,” murmured Donald in Minerva's ear. "Isn't that an Irish cure for hangovers?"

Charlamaine then announced proudly to everyone within hearing distance that Cuthbert had just completed an apprenticeship with the famed alchemist, Nicolas Flamel, and would now be taking a greater part in the family business. The twins oohed and ahh-ed as he demonstrated the latest in Stunning and Manipulation hexes to the room at large.

“And this one, Aunt Fran, you can use to hold down a Krup while you take off its tail.” Cuthbert pointed his wand in the direction of a passing house elf. The spell flipped the poor creature over and mashed its face into the rug. But when Cuthbert finally let it loose, it just cupped its hand to its nose, bowed, and said, “Thag you, Baster.” Fortunately the elf wasn’t carrying anything, so the floor suffered only a few blood stains, which Charlamaine removed discreetly with a whispered "Scourgify."

Housemates Bobbie McGonagall and Gerry McGonagall Filch showed up late. It had been hard getting little Argus to bed, Gerry explained. He had so wanted to come to the party, and the older he got, the more stubborn he acted. Tonight they had left him in the care of his Aunt Filch, the foreman's wife.

Argus didn't much like his aunt, Minerva remembered. That was probably the reason for the 'stubbornness'. Belda Filch was a big woman, with a shrewish voice. She and Filch seemed an odd match, he being taciturn and at least two inches shorter than his wife. They'd been married a long time, but were childless. Considering she had so little experience in that regard, Minerva had been surprised once to overhear Madam Filch criticizing Aunt Gerry's mothering instincts. "She spiles the lad rotten," she complained to Goodie, one afternoon while they were shelling peas out on the back stoop. "He'll come to nae airthly guid, mind ye." Fortunately Argus had only occasionally to be in his aunt's carping care. Otherwise, Minerva thought, he might surely come to no earthly good.

She escorted her tardy aunts into the Great Hall, where the others awaited them at a grand mahogany table, set with lead crystal goblets, glazed stoneware, and gleaming steel. The food was delicious, with contributions from all parts of the farm: cock-a-leekie soup, roast grouse, jugged hare, tripe, Clootie dumpling, clapshot, soured kail, a medley of buttered vegetables, and a gooseberry tart. Afterwards the family retired to the library to sip Drambuie and single malt whisky and share their reports. Throughout the proceedings, Jupiter stood regal at the mantel of the huge fireplace, glass in hand, a fine lawn shirt billowing out over waistcoat. Gold buttons at his cuffs glinted in the candlelight. A handsome dragon-hide sporran, tooled with the Connghaill Gryphon, hung from his waist, framed by the kilt in the dress plaid of red, blue and green. He looked magnificent, and knew it.

When the reports were over and the accounting approved by all, Aunt Charlamaine cleared her throat.

“Ah, there is one small thing we need to discuss. Ah, the order of succession.” They all looked at her politely. “The will, Jupiter. I’ve been consulting with…er…Laird Macnair… and he is somewhat concerned about just what happens to all this,” she waved her hand airily about, “when you are no longer with us.”

Jupiter thought it a jest, but he was willing to humor his humorless eldest sister. “Why Minerva is my next of kin and she will take over as head of household, of course. So long as everyone is still agreed.” There were nods around the room.

“How can that be? She is a witch, and so young. Whereas Cuthbert here-- just as an example, you understand--is in his prime and knows the workings of the estate…”

At that point Donald chimed in. “Why not one of us then, Charlamaine? We’ve a great deal more magical experience than either of them, Cuthbert’s umpteen years of study notwithstanding.”

“Well, that’s what I mean…”

“And each of us has a great deal more knowledge of the farm, if it comes to that,” said Bobbie.

“Oh, no,” protested Philly.

“The Head of house should be a wizard,” said Fran.

“It’s what Father wanted....”

“It’s the way it’s always been…”

The twins' comments were left hanging while Jupiter downed his drink, and poured another. He walked over to Charlamaine and took her hand. “My dear sister, I am touched at your concern for my well-being, and that of the estate.” He grinned impishly. “But I’ve no intention of popping off for a good many years yet, so if we can leave off this topic for the time being, I’d like to make a toast.” He looked about him and winked in his daughter’s direction. “To the McGonagall Clan--all of us�”united and happy, now and forevermore.”

There was laughter at his lighthearted jest and murmurs of agreement, and then some answering toasts. No one leaped into the vacuum and urged a continuance of the discussion, so Charlamaine retrieved her hand from her brother’s, pursed her lips, and sat down. Minerva was glad that was settled, although she was a bit uneasy about the weight Da’s statement laid on her shoulders. Aunts Frannie and Philly were always going at her about her ‘burden of responsibility’ but up to now she had not taken it seriously. She never thought much about the running of the farm, though she was sure that Da would teach her all she needed to know. She only hoped she could live up to his confidence in her. In any case, she didn’t want to see the Keep fall into Aunt Charlamaine’s hands. For that, she knew, was what would happen if Cousin Cuthbert became Lord of the Manor. His mother would run things, of that she was sure.

20. MA

The next morning, Minerva paced the courtyard awaiting her mother's return. She was to come by carpet, a much smoother ride than broom slings or even a carriage pulled by winged horses. When she saw the tiny black square against the gray sky, her heart went to her throat, and her hands with it, clasped tightly together, as if in prayer.

The woman who emerged from the carpet-bed, helped by Healer Kirk herself, looked much changed from Minerva's last sight of her: pale, but calm, her hair very short and flecked with gray. Minerva remembered it six months back as shoulder-length and dark brown, but matted with perspiration and spittle. She could still see her mother's lips drawn tightly back from her teeth in a rictus of desperation, her eyes wide and pleading as she was forcibly restrained from throwing herself off the balcony in Da's library. It had taken Da, and Filch and his wife Belda, who had come to tea, to subdue her.

This woman, still her mother, but so different, looked at Minerva with concentration and something like hunger, yet she did not move. She looked like a young forest animal, not sure if it was safe to out into the open. The right course in such cases, Petey had told her, was not to make any sudden movements, lest one scared the poor creature away. But months of longing had taken their toll. Minerva could not restrain herself. She flung her arms out in an impulsive gesture of welcome. Surprisingly, her mother did not flinch, but mirrored her movement, though it made her stagger a bit against the steadying hands of her attendant. Minerva ran to her and buried her face wordlessly in her mother's robe. She would not sob, nor cry, nor even sigh, but just hold on for a bit and be grateful.

They all went into the house, she and Da and Goodie and the Healer, and got Ma settled in her room, a pleasant one on the ground floor, next to the kitchen. Filch had converted it from a little-used parlor. It looked out on the courtyard. Some of the farm hands had fashioned a rockery under one window with a pretty little waterfall-- magically sustained of course--and flowers galore.

Iffie McGonagall had tea in her room that night, and her husband and daughter joined her afterwards for a short time. Da brought Ma up-to-date on Minerva's education, the aunts' doings, and his latest inventions. It felt like old times--not the best of them perhaps--but it would do for now.

"Have you seen my mother at all, Jupiter dear?" Ma asked near the end of the evening.

"I've had a letter from her," said her husband, to Minerva's surprise. "She asked after you and would like us to visit when you're feeling better…but if you'd rather not…"

"Oh, no my dear, I want to...I must see her."

"After Yule, perhaps," said Da tonelessly.

~*~

The days passed and Minerva watched avidly for signs that Ma had drawn herself up out of the well of sadness for good. They started having family over, an aunt or two at a time, except for Charlamaine who was thankfully out of town on some scheme or other. Aunt Charlamaine had never much cared for Ma. Minerva didn't know if it was because of her mother's Muggle upbringing or her long-standing illness or something else. Her aunt had always seemed uncomfortable with weakness of any kind, which she tried to cover up with a kind of forced compassion, but the uncomfortableness, and a degree of contempt, always somehow leaked through that facade. It would surely have been hard on Ma to have to endure an afternoon of sympathy from Da's oldest sister.

Minerva made special treats for her mother, the highlight of which was her first-ever haggis. Goodie opined that one could read a lass's heart in the haggis she made with her own hands. Minerva figured this must be an old hag's tale because hers turned out peppery, though with a hint of sweetness, from the currants she'd added in a last-minute burst of inspiration. Ma called it 'full-flavored' and liked that the vegetables were firm, not overcooked, with just enough meat to sustain a body through an honest day's work. It made her want to get back into the kitchen herself, and by her seventh day home, she did just that, donning her work robes and squeezing in between Minerva and Goodie at the table. They made bannocks and a soup of vegetable marrows, and played the tattie-peel game for auld lang syne, although Minerva was way too old to be fooled now.

Her school lessons came regularly by owl, and twice a week the kitchen was converted into a potions lab with Goodie helping her. Together they made, in turn, a maceration of frog's eggs and stump water to cure warts, a cleansing drink to mitigate the effects of billywig stings, drops to change eye color, a lozenge to curtail snoring, and warming powders to sprinkle over one's gloves in nippy weather. She owled samples of her work to her teacher and hoped for decent marks. Hildy Bagshot claimed that Madam Mossbane was more than a bit erratic in her evaluation of their work. The Mint-Monkeypuzzle Infusion they'd made on the first day of classes was a case in point. Everyone had been given full marks, even Raymie and Suze, whose result had not resembled in the slightest the description given in the book. In fact, Suze had confessed later that she'd misread one of the bottles in the ingredients cupboard and not used mint at all, but something called creme de menthe. Well, it had smelled like mint, said Raymie. But the homework papers they'd all handed in at the next session came back graded "Troll"--every single one! Then there was the research on leaching techniques they'd had to do the first weekend. Raymie had copied his word for word from Suze, but their teacher seemed not to have noticed--she gave Suze an "Acceptable" and Raymie an "Outstanding."

Dr. Fancourt, the astronomy teacher, had her keep a journal and draw the phases of the moon as it appeared in the sky at midnight every night for one full cycle. Minerva also had to observe the effect of its light on one plant, one animal, and one inanimate of her choice. She chose, respectively, a clump of silver moss that grew on the forked trunk of the beech tree, a huge toad that lived behind the rain barrel at the kitchen door, and an onyx ring left her by her witch grandmother Johanna Macnair McGonagall. The moss she noticed changed color in the different phases, becoming more reddish as the moon waxed, and, when it turned full, evincing tiny, sweet-smelling spore-stalks that attracted fairies. The onyx was pleasantly warm to the touch at full moon, grew colder and colder as it waned, and was positively icy by the new moon. The toad just stayed fat, grumpy, and hard to catch no matter what the phase. And it would pee or vomit spitefully in her direction whenever she tried to examine it.

~*~

"Jupiter, this experiment of Minerva's reminds me of that time we visited Greenland," said Ma at dinner one evening.


Minerva had come in dripping with toad-slime for the third night in a row, and was being Scourgified by Goodie at the kitchen sink before being allowed to join the family at table.

"How so, Iffie dear?"

"Well, not the ick, so much as the method. Do you remember? We stayed at that Healers' training facility at North Star Bay...on the advice of the twins, I think. I had to keep a journal of my reactions to the treatment to show to the mediwitch on duty every day we were there."

"Tell me about it, Mama," said Minerva as she took her seat, now looking and smelling relatively clean.

"It was one of our first attempts at curing my...disablity. It's called Auroratherapy. You know what the Northern Lights are, don't you?" Minerva nodded. "Well, their maginetic vibrations are supposed to be able to jiggle your brain cells about...dislodge residual curses...diffuse unhappy memories...to give you a fresh start, so to speak."

"We learned about the Northern Lights in Astronomy," said Minerva brightly. "Their technical name is Aurora Borealis. They have great...psychologic potential, though their...unpredictability...and remoteness...makes them less useful than moonglow as a magical...stimulus."

Iphigenia McGonagall took a long, admiring look at her daughter. "I can see school has changed you a great deal already."

"It's just that...well...Doctor Fancourt has us memorize facts from her books sometimes. I'm not always sure what they mean. But tell me about your trip. What's Greenland like?"

"Not green, that's for sure," said her father with a snort. "And cold as a yeti's hind end. But your professor's perfectly right. Those Northern Lights were a wee bit more powerful than we expected."

"What do you mean?"

"He means they cured me quite nicely," said her mother. "I felt better than I had in ages...no nightmares at all...and my appetite came back..."

"But it was their music that gave you the urge to go bobbing about on that confounded glacier."

"What music?" asked Minerva.

Her mother sighed at the memory--with pleasure, Minerva thought. "It's this heavenly sound that accompanies the aurora. The lights appear in the west at sunset and gradually rise and intensify into all the colors you can think of...rippling and flashing and flowing and folding over themselves like silk banners in a breeze. And as they rise, this sound comes out of them ..like so many silver chimes set to ringing...delicate and clear and a little bit wild. A thrill goes through you, and you find you simply must obey their cadence. You can't help but dance. It is delightful."

"Delightful! Dangerous, I'd say."

"What do you mean, Da?"

"I mean those Lights had your mother mesmerized to the point where she waltzed out onto the ice of the bay one night while she was indulging her Muse. The section she was on broke off from the main sheet. She would have been swept out to sea on an ice floe if I hadn't been keeping an eye on her."

"I don't remember that," said Ma.

"You wouldn't. You were out cold by the time I'd accio-ed you back to shore. But there was this blissful smile on your face...like you'd been rolling about in a nestful of Billywigs."

"The sensation was similar, now I come to think of it. but I didn't put that in my journal."

"Did you go anywhere else?" asked Minerva.

"Not that time," said Ma, "because I was feeling so good. Your father was...we both were sure I was cured."

"Och, I just wanted to get you home safe from that damned tingling sensation," said Da gruffly, but there was a smile on his lips.

"I think it was the next Spring that we went out again. To Tibet it was."

"Aye. I remember the brochure: Experience the relaxing herbal teas and specialized diets of the lama shamans…Traditional magic passed down through countless generations…Snow-covered mountains soar above you like castle towers… et cetera, and so forth."

"But, alas, we didn't stay long," said Ma, "I was allergic to the dragon curry you see..."

"Ah, yes, the curry. Too bad. That was the best part of the trip for me." Da patted his belly as he savored the memory

"It would be." Ma poked him, but her hand lingered on his arm in something like a caress as she continued. "So we went on to Germany, didn't we? To Max Spudmore's favorite spa."

"Aye, auld Max. Whenever he'd had a wee dram too much in the biergartens of Bavaria, he'd take a course of soaks and tonics in these subterranean sulfur baths that he swore would straighten out a donkey's hind legs."

"You never told me that," said Ma. "You said he took his aged mother there to cure her delirium."

"Delirium tremens, my dear." He winked at Minerva. "The old lady loved her whisky, she did."

"But I was not, and never have been, a pub-crawler." Ma made as if to slap his face, but Da grabbed her wrist.

"The baths are reputed to cure all kinds of mental...er...insufficiencies, Iffie dear."

"Well, they didn't...work...so well on me...did they?" Ma was struggling to wrest her hand from Da's grasp, but it didn't seem she was trying very hard.

"Why, Ma?" asked Minerva, fascinated that her parents were having an actual argument. "What happened?"

"The sulfur in the water turned my skin a wrinkly green. After two days, I looked just like a Moke."

"But a lovely Moke�”with hazel eyes," offered her father, trying to keep a straight face.

"It's not funny, Jupiter!" Iffie made a motion with her other hand, which, if it had held a wand, would surely have taken his head off.

"No, of course it isn't, my dear. But at the time..."

"At the time, you whisked me off to another place." Iffie's face softened. "I can't remember which...but it was nicer…"

"And much more effective," said Jupiter. He drew her hands together and kissed them. She stopped struggling.

"Where?" asked Minerva.

"Japan," said her father, a dreamy look in his eyes. "That cure was the best ever. And the free sake didn't hurt either."

"What's sack-ey?" asked Minerva.

"Never mind, dear," said her mother. "I remember now, Jupiter. There was moon-bathing, and they rolled me in hibiscus petals and jasmine. It was quite lovely."

"You were quite lovely," corrected Da.

"Did it work?"

"Not long enough," said her mother. "Shortly after we got back I had one of my worst bouts ever."

"But we didn't go straight home," said her father. "We went to America."

"Why?" asked Minerva. "If you were feeling so good?"

"We'd never been there," said Da simply. "And your mother was curious about the Snake Dancers."

"Yes, another brochure talked about these shamans in the Ozark Mountains who capture great poisonous snakes that have rattles in their tails. And, can you imagine? They drape these snakes over their shoulders and dance with them. Sometimes they even...kiss them...right on the mouth. It sounded so impossible. I just had to see if it were true."

"Was it?" Minerva was trying to imagine the scene: a roaring bonfire perhaps, and witches and wizards gathered around it in strange feathered costumes like pictures of Red Indians in a Muggle magazine Magnus had once showed her.

"Yes," said Da dramatically. "The snakes were huge. And fanged. And noisy. And there were drummers drumming and they were very noisy. And the people bounced about in time with the drumming with the snakes coiled around their necks, hissing and rattling...that is, the snakes were hissing and...like this." He got up and started towards her, gyrating about and waggling his arms, a look of intense pain on his face. Minerva giggled. He looked like he had been blasted with a double dose of Inkhorn's Incessant Itch Powder.

"Stop that, Jupiter!" said his wife. She was trying hard to keep her mouth serious, but the dimple in her cheek gave her away. "Snakes are beautiful creatures, Minerva dear. Sinuous and graceful. And their coloration is quite remarkable. Great stripes and diamonds that look like they've been painted on. I did so enjoy watching them."

"Watching them?! You joined in the bloody dance and only just escaped being bitten yourself."

"Did I really? And did you save me that time as well?" There was a mocking note in Ma's voice and a gleam in her eye that tickled Minerva.

"No, some old crone grabbed me as I was about to get up. Told me in that awful accent of theirs that it was bad luck to interrupt the ceremony. So I had to watch and pray you wouldn't start hugging one of the slimy beasts yourself. Somehow you managed to survive until you got close enough for me to pull you down."

"So that was the reason. I thought you just wanted to snuggle. But they're not slimy at all--the snakes I mean..."

They went on this way for some moments. Half the time it seemed they forgot that she was there. Minerva was enthralled. She had never heard her parents, or any grown-ups for that matter, talk like this to each other, playful and joshing, but with a hint of something more, a mysterious relationship, more intense than mere friendly affection.

After dinner Ma didn't retreat to her room after dessert, but stayed to help Minerva with her studies for a bit, then went for a walk outside with Da.

While helping to clean the kitchen, Minerva questioned Goodie closely about Ma's 'cures.' How many more attempts had there been? Could she think why they didn't work? Goodie remembered only one other such trip, to a famous 'witch doctor'--as the Muggles called them--in Rhodesia, recommended by Lord Macnair. Minerva wondered if it was the same place his Lordship had found that Shrinking Potion she'd heard Waldon talking about.

Goodie remembered because it was the one time she'd been permitted to go along. The shaman had diagnosed the Mistress with something he called the deeping doubt and recommended that she be coated in diamond dust and purged with viper venom. She endured the first step fairly well, even reveled in the glistening of her skin as she strolled about in the African sunshine. But Jupiter himself balked at the venom therapy when Goodie heard from another patient she was trading recipes with that the chances of mortality were distressingly high, even for magical folk.

Minerva went to bed that night very glad that Da had tried so hard to help Ma, but gladder still that Ma hadn't taken the viper venom. She fell asleep lulled by the sounds of their laughter echoing up through her casement window.

21. MORE LESSONS

"Good Morning, dearie, and a happy twelfth birthday to you." Da reached across the breakfast table to hand his daughter a package. Her mother sat beside him, beaming. "Wrapped it myself. Well, your mother wrapped it first--but it was a bit too revealing for a surprise, I thought."

"Thanks, Da." She started to undo the thick twine and the rough, brown burlap.

"I got the idea from the twins. They were going on and on about how you were a Lee-bra and all, so I thought--hmm-- 'Libra' means 'scales,' so I told your mother: why don't we get you some nice new ones?"

It didn't feel like scales. Much too heavy. And the wrong shape, unless it were in a box.

"But I told him not to be so very practical," said her mother. "So we compromised. " She paused as Minerva came to an inner wrapping--a gauzy shimmering tissue, flecked with stars. It peeled away to reveal a large book. "Instead of libra, why not liber?"

Minerva read out the words on the spine of the book: Fairy Tales by Jakob and Wilhelm Grimm. They were in gold ink on red leather. She turned a page, a much thinner material than parchment, and gilt-edged as well. "It's in another language...not Gaelic..."

"Och, that is but the introduction to the original," said her father. "These Grimm brothers were German wizards and great scholars, I hear. I thought it would help with your schoolwork. You know...history of the wee folk and all."

"Minerva glanced through the Table of Contents. "Da, did you actually read any of this?"

"Aye...well...no. You see, I went to Hogsmeade, but I couldn't find anything that looked factual, but interesting too, like your mother wanted."

Ma chuckled. "I told him not to bring back another school book."

"True, but we did agree,did we not, that it should be something worthwhile...and helpful in her studies. So I Apparated to London to see what they might have in Diagon Alley. But as I was walking to the Leaky Cauldron, right next door was this Muggle bookshop. I was a bit curious...walked inside, and here was this book, big as life, right on the first shelf I came to. Luck, I call it! A wizarding manual in a Muggle shop!"

Minerva looked over at her mother. She had her hand over her mouth as if she were trying to stifle a sneeze. Minerva turned a beady eye on her father. "Da! This is no wizard's manual. It's more like a storybook."

"Is that so? Well, the shop owner assured me..."

"Stop teasing. Where did you get it?"

"No, really. It's the Jobberknoll's own truth. I did the Ministry a favor too, getting the book out of there before any of those Mundanes could get their hands on it."

"Da!"

Minerva's mother dropped her hand, revealing an ear-to-ear grin. She got up and crossed to her daughter. "You just can't fool her anymore, Jupiter." She laid a hand on Minerva's shoulder. "It is a storybook, dear, much like one I had when I was young."


"Cost a pretty sickle too. Do you know the exchange rate for Muggle money these days? Outrageous! But it'll be worth it if it helps you with your history lessons..."

But by now, Minerva and her mother had bent their heads together over the book and heard little of what he said.

"It was one of my favorite books as a child, though you might be a little old for it..."

"No, Ma," Minerva leafed through to a colored illustration of a handsome young man handing what looked like a shoe to a girl dressed in rags. "I like it. Do you think we could read it together sometime?"

~*~

After breakfast, Minerva tackled her easiest and most tiresome subject: History of Magic. Grimm's Fairy Tales couldn't help her here, no matter what Da said. She had to read a chapter at a time and report on it to Binns. The current subject was the early doings of the Wizards' Council, especially its attempts to define the differences between beasts and rational beings. Minerva wished she had Gig with her to liven up this part of study time.

She couldn't see how those medieval wizards could have been so daft, deciding that a creature was a 'being', and therefore capable of rational thought and civilized behavior, solely on the basis of whether it could talk or not. Good Grindylows! It was obvious that a beast was a creature that behaved in a beastly fashion, lawless and destructive, whether it had language or not, like Trolls and Pixies--and Erklings. But she couldn't put personal opinions in her reports. Professor Binns was not interested in independent thought. Your grade was based on the number of inches of parchment you filled, and how accurately you could paraphrase the textbook. In the real world, this would have been called plagiarism. In History of Magic, it got you an "Excellent".

~*~

Charms, Magical Defense, and Transfiguration were more challenging. She knew she would have to visit the school the last Friday before the holidays and demonstrate her spellwork for her 'Practicals' teachers. She figured she needed to master one spell a week to satisfy the minimum requirement. Da promised to help her learn them. She hoped he could keep his promise. He seemed rather preoccupied these days walking with Ma, scratching odd little sketches on the tablecloth, humming and smiling to himself. She confided her concern to Goodie Gudgeon.

"Ye needna wirrie your faither with nane o yer schuilwork the noo. He's got mair important things tae think on. I can teach ye whativer ye maun knaw."

Minerva got out her list of Spells To Be Memorized Before the Twentieth of December and presented it to her nurse.

"Och, that's a goodly number. We'd best start right awa."

Goodie was able to help her with the Accio charm as she was expert at this, and Minerva's Lumos and Nox only needed a bit of polishing. But Goodie hadn't used the others in years and didn't even recognize the Transparencia Charm.

"What guid will it do to be able to light up yer insides?"

"Perhaps you can use it to tell how much flour's left in the bin," said Minerva.

"I always knaw that. I'm the only one ever uses it."

~*~

Minerva was afraid she'd be left to learn most of the spells on her own, but one day when she was out in the courtyard, trying for the umpteenth time to levitate her broomstick higher than the fork of the beech tree, Aunt Donald came strolling around the side of the Keep.

"Hello, my girl, is your father in? Oho, practicing, are we?"

The broomstick fell to the ground. "Yes, Aunt Donald," said Minerva, "and my Wingardium Leviosa just doesn't have enough 'wing'."

"Or enough levity either."

"What do you mean?"

"The Leviosa relies on spontaneity for its lightness. You need to concentrate a little less, I think."

"Less?"

"Aye. The harder you try, the more it weighs the subject down."

Minerva tried, but the broomstick just lay there. It didn't even twitch. "It's hopeless. I just don't know how to 'not concentrate.'"

"All right. Failing that, it helps to have a purpose in mind."

"You mean a reason why I want the broomstick to rise?"

Donald nodded.

Minerva thought a moment. "That I can do. Say I want to put it away...under my bed." Her wand made a swishing noise as she brought it to bear on her subject. "Wingardium Leviosa." The broomstick rose swiftly and hovered on a level with the open window. "Oh that's top hole! But now, how do I get it to finish up?"

"That's where body English comes in. Just give it a nudge." Donald demonstrated a flicking motion with her wand in the direction of the window.

Minerva mimicked her. The broomstick shot through and she heard it hit the wall and clatter to the floor, presumably in the desired space. She turned to her aunt. "I don't suppose you'd have the time..."

"To help out my favorite niece with a few first-year spells?" She put her arm around Minerva's shoulders. "Of course I would. And by the way, since when did I stop being Aunt Donnie?"

~*~

"What are we doing today?" asked her mother as Minerva brought in yet another box to set in the window. Minerva loved the word 'we.' When Ma used it, it sounded more like 'wheeeeeeee!' to her ears, like the gasp of pleasure forced from her lungs whenever she accelerated into a grand loop out on the pitch. But she hid her feelings behind a sigh, (which was not fabricated�”-the seed flat with its dose of moist dragon-dung was heavy) and just said, "The last of my Herbology seedlings." She stared at the flat. Agrimony, milk vetch, bee-balm, cinquefoil, dog's mercury, heartsease and hyssop completed her mini-garden.

With her 'practicals' taken care of, she was tackling her final project: packets of seeds to grow for Mami Leek. She was to keep notes on their care and behavior and collect certain of their fruits as they matured. For this she needed a sunny window, and her mother was happy to offer her own. Minerva smiled. It would be a chance for them to be together alone.

Minerva fussed with the flats on the stone window ledge and moved them around until they were just so. How lucky that the castle walls were over three feet thick. She could fit two rows of flats in the sunny space on the sill and still have room for the appurtenances of their care: instruction sheets, extra fertilizer, mini-trowel and rake. Oh yes, and a watering can. Aguamenti was a fifth-year charm.

Her mother surveyed the tiny farm. "Hmm, let's see if I remember my Herbology. 'Leaves of three'…must be Cannabis. Your teacher is from the States, right?"

"She's from Trinidad, but she's traveled a lot. See, here's bloodroot. It's also called a puccoon. It was used by the Algonkian Indians as a dye and an afro...afro-disease-ee-ack. That means it protects against Nundu breath, doesn't it?"

"Mmm--something like that. I don't see belladonna or foxglove or sumac either. Don't they have them in the Caribbean?"

"Mami Leek doesn't believe in giving first years poisons to work with. She says it's just tempting them to try them out on their enemies"

"Oh, I'd worry more about the older children using them. Their sense of vengeance is so much better developed. And they have so much more to revenge."

"What do you mean?"

"You still have the four Houses, don't you?" Minerva nodded. "Well, I could tell you some stories about the things students do to each other in the name of House loyalty."

"Oh. Did Da tell you? I'm in Gryffindor."

"No, he didn't. He was in Ravenclaw, do you know? As I was."

"Yes." Minerva felt suddenly shy. "That's how you first met."

"Yes, in spite of all the prejudice against Muggle-borns, and your father the purest of the pure. It's a little like a fairy tale, isn't it?"

"I should hope not, Mama! Some of the Grimms' stories are--well--grim."

Yes, there is violence in them. There nearly always is when there are wrongs to be righted. But my personal favorites are those with an improbably happy ending. Like Cinderella. Poor young girl, her birthright stolen by her wicked stepmother, meets and marries the man of her dreams, the handsome prince. And they live happily ever after."

"Like with you and Da." Ma smiled at this and Minerva giggled. "Did you have a wicked stepmother?"

"No, my parents were both very good to me."

"And Da was...your prince."

"Nae, he was a great, swaggering, clumsy oaf!"

Minerva turned toward the new voice. It was her father who spoke, framed in the doorway. Ma laughed, a tinkly sound. She held out her hand. Da strode forward, took it, and gave it a lingering kiss.

"And what are my two fine ladies up to today? Talking ancient history, are we?"

Minerva giggled again.

"Catching up," said Ma. "Don't you know we 'fine ladies' have to have some time together. It's been so long…" There was a little catch in Ma's voice. She looked like she'd like to stroke her daughter's face, but the words and the look were enough for Minerva. She didn't begrudge Da the interruption. There would be plenty of time for 'girl talk'. A world of time.

~*~

In the middle of pleasant conversations, mostly trading stories about life at school, Minerva's mother would sometimes pause and stare out the window, a slight frown line creasing her brow. The pauses got longer and longer each time. Minerva always bit her tongue and waited her out, but finally after a week, she had to ask: "Ma, is something wrong?"

"Never in life, my dear, I just…there's something I want to share with you, but I wonder if you're…"

"Ready...to bear it?"

Her mother's mouth formed a small O. She blew on her tea, sipped it, drew back as if it burned her lips. "Yes, I think you are. All right." She opened the drawer of her nightstand. Her hands trembled slightly as she removed a piece of paper from it. It looked like a news clipping. "Read it," she said.

Minerva unfolded it, smoothed it out on her knee. It was a news article and had a headline:

WIZENGAMOT REJECTS CASE OF SUSPECTED PATRICIDE

Department of Magical Law Enforcement Head Joseph Longbottom announced today that although there has been speculation in the Press of foul play in the death of William Wallace of Bridge of Tilt, Perthshire, he will not bring charges against the deceased's daughter, Iphigenia "Iffie" Wallace McGonagall. Judicial experts speculate that the reasons for Longbottom's reluctance stem from the fact that William Wallace was a Muggle and his case rightly belongs in the Mundane courts, even though the chief suspect is Wallace's own daughter, who is a witch. Muggle medical officers have labelled Wallace's death heart failure, brought about in part by injuries suffered in the war. Wallace served in the British infantry in Belgium and France and suffered breathing problems from exposure to poisonous gas.

Less sympathetic observers point out that the suspect's husband is a wealthy and influential Perthshire landowner, and that she is herself a comely young witch. Moreover, she is in the family way, which is bound to generate sympathy and make it difficult to get a conviction.

A mediwitch who examined the deceased at the scene gave it as her opinion that the death was due to a Killing Spell of some sort. A Prior Incantato done on Madam McGonagall's wand, however, shows that the last spell performed was obstructed in some way and no conclusions as to its identity could be drawn.

Healer Valentine Golden, who has made a study of Muggle mental disease, agreed that a story Madam McGonagall told about seeing her father turn into a monster is consistent with a condition known as paranoid schizophrenia. She was found unconscious next to the body and has only fragmented memories of the incident. Golden said this approximates a trance-like state called catatonia which schizophrenics sometimes experience after a deeply shocking event. He went on to say that Muggle-born witches and wizards sometimes retain a susceptibility to Mundane ailments. That the body was identified positively by Gladys Wallace, the victim's wife, and the fact that there was no evidence of Transfiguration on the body, leads investigators to believe that the daughter either suffered some kind of delusion and lashed out in self-defence or that an innocuous spell she meant to cast went horribly wrong and the sense of being responsible for her father's death threw her into the catatonic state.

Madam McGonagall has been in a state of mental distress since the incident, and her husband has blocked all attempts to interview her. One close relative, who asked not to be named, gave out that "Iffie has always been a bit peculiar and stand-offish." This person went on to say that although Miss Wallace, as she was then, was warmly welcomed into the McGonagall clan, she insisted on having her wedding at her Muggle parents' home with a minimum of witnesses, citing her father's illness as an excuse. "She had something to hide even then," said the source.

Madam McGonagall has been relegated to the custody of her husband, Jupiter McGonagall, Lord of Connghaill Keep in Perthshire, while the couple awaits the birth of their first child.

Minerva reread the last words aloud. "'…their first child'...is...was that me?"

Her mother smiled wanly. "Yes, my dearie."

"Goodie said...you had a lot of trouble...when I was born."

"Oh, that...the birthing pains. They only lasted a short while. For me, you were the sun at the end of a fortnight of rain."

"This thing they say you did. Do you remember anything about what happened?"

"Very little. It's been so long, and I think the cures and nostrums I've been exposed to have dulled my memories...for better or worse. Sometimes I read those words over and I don't recognize who it is they're talking about. Who was that woman? Who am I?" She stared at her daughter with real anguish for a few seconds, then sighed and hung her head.

"You're my mother," said Minerva simply. "Nothing else but that matters."

"And that I'll never forget." And she drew her daughter to her and clasped her fiercely.

Minerva pulled back and looked at her mother. She could see no trace of the despair in the eyes, only regret. She thought it was safe to ask a difficult question. She had penetrated Ma's defenses this far, and might never have another chance. "What's it like, Ma? Your illness, I mean."

"Mostly I hear voices. In my head. One voice in particular. It's insistent, cajoling, and very logical."

"What does it say?"

"Sad things, hateful things. It makes me want to..."

"Kill yourself?"

"Only once did it bring me to that. Before, I always managed to resist."

"It must have been so hard."

Ma gave a little laugh. "Not so, my dearie. Whenever the feelings were strongest in me, I'd do one of two things: I'd watch you sleeping or playing in the yard or...I'd dance."

"Dance?"

"Yes, dancing has always given me strength, even in the lowest times."

Except for once, thought Minerva, remembering what Goodie had told her about Ma clinging to her as a baby and dancing towards the hearth fire. Sometimes, she guessed, the cures didn't work. But she didn't say this. She wanted Ma to remember only the triumphs.

22. A FAIRY TALE

With workdays spilling over into weekends, holiday celebrations were a privately tutored student's only reliable markers of the passage of time. Farming families in the magical glen kept to the oldest witching traditions. A cup of brose was lifted not only at harvest time, but also at Mabon, the wizarding day of thanks, and, of course, Halloween. And since Goodie Gudgeon was of the ancient stock of moon-worshipping druids, the McGonagall household also toasted the Blood Moon of October and the Snow and Oak Moons of winter. As a child Minerva had lived with these milestones unthinking. Now, recording her lunar observations in Doctor Fancourt's journal, they took on new meaning for her. No clock, no calendar was needed in the Magicosm. Mother Moon and Father Sun became Time for Minerva.

And there were more talks with Ma. She completed her story of Da's courtship. Minerva knew both versions now, having teased her father's side out of him by bits and pieces in their early years together. She often imagined the scenes of their courtship, dreamed about them, and recorded her dreams in that self-adjusting notebook Da had given her, with an Enhancement pen borrowed from Suze Yorke. Every night at bedtime, she would marshal her memories and poise the pen over the Notepad. Then she just started talking. And just as Suze said, the pen turned her thoughts into the purple prose of romance:

Not Just Another Highland Fling, by M. McGonagall

He first saw her coming out of first-year Charms and recognized in the plaid stole about her shoulders the sett of clan Wallace. He asked his mate, Duncan McNair, who she was.

Duncan shrugged. "There's no wizarding blood in clan Wallace that I know of."

But here was this witch, flaunting the red and black tartan with the bold gold cross-stripe of William the Liberator. Jupiter was determined to meet her, if for no other reason than to demand by what right she wore it. But when he did so later in the dining hall, and gazed into those bold hazel eyes, he found he could only mumble, "Excuse me" and pass on by.

He saw her again later that day talking with his Astronomy teacher.

"Oh, McGonagall," Doctor Fancourt called across the crowded corridor, "can you help us out? There's a good fellow."

He followed them into an empty classroom.

"I'm going to be away the rest of the week at a convention, but young Iffie here...Oh, I should introduce you, shouldn't I?...Iphigenia Wallace...Jupiter McGonagall. Well, she's had to miss several classes due to illness, and with the holidays coming, I'm afraid she might never catch up. We're doing measurements, you know...declinations, right ascensions...it's so very tricky. I was looking for an older student to tutor her so I can give her the test when I get back. What do you say? You've always been a top student...in my classes at least..."

"I...uh...yes, Professor, I think I could do that."

And so it was decided. He and this Iphigenia--odd name for a Scottish lass--would meet in the Ravenclaw common room that night after dinner to go over her lessons.

Jupiter McGonagall was, for all his bulk, essentially a shy fellow, who sought the quiet of his dorm desk at the end of a day, mostly to study, but also to secretly tinker with any magical device he could lay his hands on. Once he had smuggled a Snitch out of the Quidditch equipment room and taken it apart, laying all the pieces out neatly on his bed. He marvelled at the delicate rotational joints and ingenious charmwork, and he immediately fell in love with the idea of being an inventor. To his credit, he managed to put the Snitch back together and back in its box without the Games Mistress noticing. But it was noted ever afterwards, that that particular Snitch could be captured all too easily, as it always traveled anticlockwise, hugged the magical barriers of the pitch, and never rose more than thirty feet above the ground.

Though barely seventeen, he was much taller than most mages. He'd always felt he had an unfair advantage over his fellows, in height as well as family influence. But his father made short shrift of politics, so Jupiter never learned the niceties of diplomacy.. "Just go at 'em, laddie" was a favourite paternal dictum. "Give no quarter. If the peasants demand an increase in their share of grain, give'm a couple of bowls of Brose. And if that don't make'm forget what they came for, show'm yer fist and yer claymore�”and a few Stunners wouldn't hurt either." He didn't feel inclined to follow his father's advice. But seeing that tartan around the Iffie creature's neck again in the all-but-deserted common room that night prompted him to ask baldly: "Are you really a Wallace?"

"Indeed, I am. My father is a great�”great�”I don't know how many of them�”grandnephew of the first William. Many of his forebears were youngest sons of youngest sons, so he's got no title, only a bit of land by the River Tilt. And you of course, are a real McGonagall. At Connghaill Keep, are you not?"

"How would you be knowing that?"

"Heavens, Master McGonagall, don't you know how the girls talk about you in the dining hall? Even the Sassenachs blush and giggle behind their hands when you walk by. They've all set their caps for you, the tall, handsome son of a Highland Laird."

Jupiter was astounded. He felt the blood emptying out of his brain into his cheeks. He could think of nothing to say that wouldn't sound stupid�”or pretentious-- so he only mumbled, "We'd best get on with your lesson."

"If you insist."

Iffie Wallace was an apt student, so they finished the first lesson quickly. Then, admitting to no other more pressing engagements, they talked a bit. She had missed the midnight Astronomy classes because an Anti-Conjunctivitis Charm she'd been trying on herself had backfired, and she was only now getting back her night vision. She liked astronomy, was very much interested in exploring the healing properties of starlight. And she loved to dance.

"Have you never been to a ceilidh, Master McGonagall? Danced a Strathspey reel? Or a hornpipe?"

"Never. I don't get out much. But a lass taught me a bit of the Highand Fling once. She was competing in the Games at Inverness."

"Show me."

"I hardly remember. I was but a wee bairn…"

"Well, I'll show you then." Before he could say another word, she had kicked off her shoes, and assumed the time-honoured pose: one hand at her waist, the other curved over her head. Then up on her toes, she began to dance. It looked so graceful, so uncanny, as if a Levitation Spell had been imposed and she was suspended in air, stepping and leaping, kicking and turning, her toes barely touching the floor. He didn't notice a small crowd had gathered until she had almost finished, when they started clapping in time to her movement. Then the claps turned to applause.

"Nicely done, Wallace."

"You're a regular ballerina, you are."

"Who's the boyfriend? Oh, it's McGonagall."

There was a bit of a scuffle at the back of the crowd. Duncan Macnair elbowed on through.

"Cousin, are you done there? You promised to let me copy your Transfiguration notes, remember?"

Jupiter didn't, but he was grateful for an excuse to escape the crowd. He muttered a quick "Same time tomorrow?" to Iffie and followed his friend to the dorm.

"Are you really going to meet her again?"

"I have to. Professor Fancourt asked me to tutor her."

"I just thought you ought to know. She's Muggle-born."

"No, I didn't...but it doesn't matter…it's not like we're..."

"Of course it matters. It always matters. You're a pure-blood wizard with a lineage as deep as Loch Ness, and you've a responsibility to that lineage. She's a stinking Mudblood, and an opportunist no doubt."

No, she's not..."

"Tell me she's not! Showing off like that, prancing about in public, like she owns the place. And you, you big lug, ogling her, with your tongue out and hanging halfway down to your knees. 'Iffie!'" He snorted nastily. "That's the right name for her." He tossed his head to indicate that a subject was not worth further comment.

Jupiter McGonagall froze up. The tone of Duncan's remarks, as much as the hated word 'Mudblood', started a pressure building in his brain. He stared at his mate who had started prattling on about other of the day's trivial observations: the doings at the local pub, his new wand, some serving girl's buxom figure. He wanted to smack Duncan in his flapping mouth. But then Jupiter remembered the face of Iphigenia Wallace, and the frank, shining, slightly mocking eyes.

"Damn all, Dunkers," he hissed, "how'd you know that?"

"What? Why I gave 'em a squeeze...the real thing I tell you, got to be a double-D cup at least, and an arse you could balance a tea tray on…"

"Not that. The Wallace wench. How'd you find out about her family?"

"Looked it up...in the files." He took a crumpled bit of parchment out of his pocket. On it were scrawled the words:

Iphigenia Wallace, ent. 1910

Mother: Gladys Wallace, nee MacPherson (NM)

Father: William Wallace (NM)

NM. Jupiter knew that meant Non-Magical. Muggles.

So Iffie Wallace was indeed Muggle-born and as such, forbidden to him, the scion of an ancient and powerful wizarding family. He would just have to forget those hazel eyes.

He saw her at breakfast and made some excuse about not being able to meet with her. She shrugged and said she was pretty sure she had the hang of the calculations, and thanked him for his help. But she gave him an odd look, which he hoped, just for an instant, might be regret.

He stayed away from her the rest of the year, and thought she was out of his mind when he left Hogwarts. Not until five years later did he see her again, in the stands at the first match against Wigtown. It nearly put him off his game�”his first game as a Montrose Magpie. They won by a narrow margin and went out to celebrate at a local pub.

He was feeling a bit foolish, nursing a welt over his eye from a collision with the head of his partner Max's broom. They'd both been going for the same Bludger late in the game when--wham! Luckily a quick score by one of his teammates had distracted the crowd, and no one noticed the big Beater veering off, clutching at his face.

Max Spudmore, a veteran of many such entanglements, was entirely forgiving of his young friend's mistake and steered him about the smokey barroom, visiting groups of admirers. Max was well liked by the fans. He could always be counted on to stand a round or second a duel or join in the occasional Muggle-style brawl.

Tonight he was generous with the limelight, pointing out to a group of admirers that young McGonagall had kept Wigtown Seeker Pomponius Malfoy from capturing the Snitch early on, by putting a well-aimed Bludger between him and it. They all pressed drinks on the young Beater and asked questions. Which broomstick did he favour? Who did he think had a chance to win the Cup this year, besides Montrose, of course?

Max wandered away to another group to allow his young friend to bask in the glory alone. Jupiter was not entirely comfortable with this and was relieved when, several stories and pints later, his chum called him over to meet another knot of fans. It was a small knot, all girls. And at Max's side was Iffie Wallace. Jupiter froze up. Jovial Max, who knew everybody and his hippogriff, made introductions, then walked off again.

"Hello, Jupiter McGonagall," said Iffie. "I saw you stop Max's broom from getting him into trouble."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, if you hadn't blocked him out that one time, Max would have collided with our Chaser Georgina, and she never would have made that last score."

Since they'd only won by a goal, Jupiter felt a hair better about the collision. "Oh, I suppose I planned that."

"I suppose you did." She arched an eyebrow. "You've got quite a nice little mousie growing there, haven't you." She gently brushed his cheek next to the swelling under his eye. Her touch was cool and gentle; her hand smelled minty. "But you don't spend all your time tackling friends on the Quidditch pitch, do you?"

He noticed they had moved away from her knot, and seemed headed for a slightly quieter corner, a couple of old armchairs by the fireplace. He almost felt as if he was being steered, but there was no pressure at his elbow, only the calm, slightly mocking voice of his companion.

They sat, and now he could look into those fire-sparkling hazel eyes--from between his knees. He had chosen a chair that had a sagging undercarriage, and he was stuck now, trying to look casual, his arse embedded in the too-soft bolster and poked by broken springs.

She seemed not to notice. "I remember. You're from Perthshire too, aren't you?" She knew very well he was. Or perhaps their first meeting had not meant so much to her. But if so, why were they sitting here now?

"Aye, we have a farm there."

"The McGonagall estate. I've passed it once or twice. It seems to go on forever."

"We have a few acres." They sat for a moment. He asked if she wanted a drink, though he wasn't sure he could get out of his chair to get her one. Thankfully she shook her head.

"But you're not just a farmer. You invent too." She looked suddenly shy. "Max told me."

"Um, just little things." He was ridiculously pleased. She must have solicited the information about his inventing. Max Spudmore, for all his friendliness, was not one to brag to a pretty girl about a chum's talents.

"Tell me." She drew her legs up onto her chair and stared at him with those hazel eyes.

It was like they were back in the Ravenclaw common room, picking up where they'd left off. He gradually forgot all about his uncomfortable position, the noise of the crowd, the heat of the room. He started with his small triumphs, the magigadgets around the farm that were constantly in need of maintenance or repair. And the times he had to charm some Mundane tool to do a special job. And how modifications of such jury-rigs gradually led him into inventing. He described his personal triumphs: a milking device that simply accio-ed the milk out of the cows into the bucket and an elastic fence that could sense the imminent leap of a frustrated ram and stretch upward to stifle a bid for freedom. He didn't tell her about his failures: the incubator that turned out hard-cooked eggs, the exploding butter-churn, the Nogtail-proof pigsty that was so air-tight it almost smothered a sow and her litter.

He found when he ran out of brag that things had become much quieter. In fact, it was a house-elf laden with coal scuttle and tongs that interrupted him with a 'Last call, Master.' Iffie had curled up in her chair across from him, very relaxed but not asleep. He wrenched himself out of his own chair and almost fell into her. He just managed to catch himself, bracing on the arms of her chair so that, for a brief moment, he loomed over her.

She murmured something. It sounded like "Thinking of joining me?"

He would have liked to, very much, but he forced himself to stammer, "P-perhaps another time." He gave her his hand and helped her to the door.

Just before she Disapparated, she asked, "I imagine, with your inventions and all, you've been too busy for socializing."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I always thought you seemed to be avoiding me after our lesson."

"You mean the Astronomy lesson?"

"No, the dancing lesson." They both laughed. "I don't know what came over me that night. I thought...what's this, a highland lad who doesn't know how to dance? And you looked so serious...like you needed a bit of fun in your life. But later, I thought perhaps I had offended you, showing off like that. "

"No, you could never offend me. I...I loved your dancing."

"Really?" Her smile was dazzling.

"Really. And I'd like to go with you...to a ceilidh sometime."

"Oh, you'd love it! There's one at the old Town Hall in Pitlochry, on Saturday."

"Aye. If you'll give me your address, I'll pick you up."

She thought a moment. "Better I should meet you there. My parents...they're Muggles, you know. And my mother...wizards unnerve her a bit."

"I understand. Town Hall, Pitlochry, the seventeenth. Say at eight?"

"Aye." she said, "See you then."

So her parents were Muggles. So what? He didn't care anymore what Duncan thought, what his parents would think. He was going to learn to dance.

~*~

Minerva reread the story and hugged it close to herself when she went to bed that night. In much the same way she was sure her Da, almost twenty years before, had hugged the air after his beautiful companion Disapparated for home. It was a story she wouldn't be sharing with anyone else, not even Gig.

23. ROWDIE'S SECRET

The holidays came before she knew it. All her lessons and tests were in and surely graded by now, except for her spellwork practicals. For those, she had to return to school to demonstrate for her Transfiguration, Charms, and Defensive teachers.

On the twentieth of December, Minerva Flooed back to Hogwarts. But when she arrived at her first class, Transfiguration, there was only one person in the room--her cousin Cuthbert Campbell. He was sitting in the teacher's chair leaning way back with his feet up on the desk, tapping his wand negligently against his teeth. He looked bored and out of place.

"Hello, Cousin," he said as he studied the ceiling.

"What are you doing here?"

"Now that's a nice way to greet your elders." He got up and ambled over to her. "I could say I'm your new teacher. Would you like that? Trade in that old stick-in-the-mud Tofty for a young, vibrant magus-about-town?" He gave a high-pitched giggle, an odd sound coming from such a large person.

Minerva just looked at him. She thought he was joking, but with Cuthbert you could never tell.

He chucked her under the chin, just as if she were two years old. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"

She stifled the desire to stick said tongue out at him. She would not act like a infant, no matter how he treated her. "Where is everyone--Cousin Cuthbert?"

"In the Great Hall. Your teachers have a special surprise for you all." He put his wand back in its sheath, a handsome tooled leather one, and started rubbing his hands together and licking his lips.

Minerva's breath caught in her throat. What could the surprise be? Heavens forbid, they had sacked Doctor Tofty and replaced him with her odious cousin. It was a plausible enough story. Cuthbert did know a lot about magic, with all his studies abroad. Minerva thought of the old wizarding saw, "Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it." Hadn't she prayed often and unkindly for a new Transfiguration teacher? But Cuthbert Campbell? This would be too bad a punishment for so small a sin.

Cuthbert was rambling on in that know-it-all way of his. "…though I don't know if you want to take a chance, with that Squib's wand of yours."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Everyone knows Rowdie Flynn had all the magibility of a mountain troll."

"That's not true. Trolls don't get to go to Hogwarts."

"They do if their father has enough influence with the school. And if there's room."

"Room?" Minerva could not imagine where this conversation was leading.

"The Purple Plague of 1455 conveniently wiped out many of our dear cousin's peers, so there was plenty of space in his year, and the headmistress could afford to relax the standards."

"There's no proof of that."

"Not in the school records, no. He managed to squeak by in most of his classes. But if you look at what he took…Muggle Studies…Divination…no stretch there! And he dropped Charms and Transfiguration as soon as he got the chance. No decent O.W.L.s to speak of...except in Astronomy and Creature Care."

"How do you know all this?"

"Mother's got a thing for family history. As a Distinguished Supporter of Education, she has access to all the school records. Did you know your mum was a whiz at Muggle Studies? Not surprising since she's a Mudblood herself…"

Mudblood. From Cuthbert's sneering lips it sounded like a curse. But she let it pass because his next words were even more shocking.

"...and cousin Rowdie might as well have been one. Squib, Mudblood, Maladept, they're all one...weak, ineffectual. Anyway, when old Fergus Flynn finally realized Rowdie was a Squib, he had him Framed. He just couldn't bear the thought of the common mage finding out his son was a magical dud."

"Framed? What's that mean?"

Cuthbert's eyes gleamed. "You haven't heard of Portrait Magic, dear coz? The binding of a creature within the confines of a picture frame?"

"No..."

I learned about it from a witch in the Black Forest."

"You mean the way Rowdie and Lady Anne and all are in the Gallery at home? And those people in the pictures around the school?"

"No, that's a completely different animal. I'm talking about imprisonment of the living--rigid and involuntary�”and...in oils."

"I've never heard of that."

"Not surprising really. The mechanism's been lost to us for over four hundred years. It was a closely guarded secret among a small number of wizarding families on the continent, but never written down, you ken."

Despite her reluctance feed her cousin's already overlarge ego, she had to ask, "How...how did it work?"

Cuthbert walked over to a small landscape painting hanging by the door and assumed a pedagogic pose, using his wand as a pointer. "They'd choose a picture like this one, Enlarge it, and place the victim inside, artfully posed. The appropriate cant was spoken, and, voila, the poor wretch was frozen inside it. Then the picture was returned to its normal size with nobody the wiser."

"And you're saying cousin Rowdie was locked away like that."

"Yes, at his father's behest. It's like being cursed with an Eternal Sleep Spell. All growth...all decay...stopped dead, so to speak. He couldn't move or talk or scratch or… "

"Or grow old?" Minerva felt a sudden pang. Sir Nick's testimony dovetailed perfectly with the awful lecture Cuthbert was giving.

"Hmmm...yes. In fact that's what the spell was originally used for: to slow the aging process. A mage could expand his life by a third or more if he allowed himself to be Framed every night. Witches like Joan of Navarre were believed to have used it to preserve their youthful beauty. It was outlawed in Britain because there was such a great possibility of abuse. You know: Laird Auldlecher gets tired of his wife, so one morning he conveniently 'forgets' to undo the Framing Spell, and just stores Lady Auldlecher away in a back room. It could last as long as a hundred years, they say…"

Minerva heard no more. She muttered something about needing to use the toilet, and stumbled out of the room.

~*~

She arrived in the dining hall to find it transformed into an amphitheatre, with the entire school ranged in ascending rows of benches around three of its sides. Along the fourth was a line of comfortable armchairs, holding most of the staff--including a smiling--and most definitely not sacked--Doctor Tofty. There were also some mages who looked vaguely familiar, the Head Girl and Boy, and Aunt Charlamaine and Cuthbert.

Minerva found her dorm mates easily, as most of the first years were sitting on the bottom row of risers. Miss Trumulo was just introducing Cuthbert, his mother, Milady Macnair, and several other witches and wizards to the student body. They were guests of the school, representing "the Purebred Learning Advancement Group--United for Excellence," warbled Aunt Charlamaine, "a new association formed with the blessing of the Ministry of Magic, to foster increased communication between the school and the community." That explained Cuthbert's presence at Hogwarts. Minerva clapped enthusiastically at the announcement.

Professor Merrythought explained the reason for the gathering in her nasal whine. "There are lamentably few opportunities for the various class levels to demonstrate their spellwork for each other. So the teachers have decided to allow you to witness the efforts of some of our NEWT-level students so that you may gauge your own progress against theirs. Try not to be too discouraged. They are, after all, the very best the school can offer."

She called seventh year Amelia Bones to the front. The Head Girl was, as usual, impeccably dressed, her robes pressed into crisp pleats, her long hair shining. Three burly Ravenclaws rolled a large brass urn to the center of the room and Amelia directed it to stand upright. Then she waved her wand, and the urn sprouted three brass feet, complete with toes. At the command "Animato!" it launched into a tottering dance about the edge of the performance space. Everyone laughed nastily as the first years scrambled to get out of its lumbering way.

Amelia favored her audience with a rare smile and transformed the dancing metal into what looked at first like a huge, three-legged table. It was black and almost right-triangular, though its longest side curved inward towards its center. But it was altogether too tall for sitting at. And it had a row of little white blocks set into one side, which Minerva could now see were moving up and down independently of one another. Beautiful music was coming from it, although she didn't recognize the tune. There was applause at this and someone--she thought it was Hildy--whispered 'pee-yan-oh' and something about 'moonlight sun'. Everyone listened raptly for some moments. It sounded a bit sad, Minerva thought, and she wondered how the instrument worked. Some rare magical artifact, she guessed.

When the music ended, Amelia made the great hulk fold into itself over and over again until it was reduced to a small bag. This she levitated high up into the air over her audience. The bag upended and marbles came pelting out of it. Students within range covered their heads, but before even one could reach them, Amelia flicked her wand, and the marbles began to swell and lighten like bubbles. The bubbles began to rise, gathering together gradually into one great glittering globe. Everyone was speculating on what would happen if it should burst, and a few daring boys tried to hasten its demise by jumping up and down, jabbing at it with their wands. Amelia accio-ed the bubble to her, and when she touched it, it shrank into a small rectangular object, seen to be a deck of cards that she quickly fanned out in her hand. These she waved up and down for a bit, and they became a lacy lady's fan, much like one Jenny Blair carried in her portrait back at the Keep. A sweet smell emanated from it, it reminded Minerva of fresh-cut flowers. Amelia brought the fan demurely up to her face, gave a small curtsey, and sat down to cheers and wolf whistles.

Next Professor Merrythought asked Conall Macnair to give them all a demonstration of his powers. Conall waved his wand and produced a flock of tiny birds. Everyone clapped at this. He Accio-ed one to him, then started shooting the rest out of the air using a variety of Hexes. The birds fell one-by-one to the floor with a rhythmic plopping sound. He bowed in the direction of his Slytherin mates who were all cheering wildly. Then he released the bird he had in his hand. It made a mad dash for a window high up in the ceiling. With one spectacular Fireball, he incinerated it. The student body gasped, then clapped, except for Poppy Pomfrey, who Minerva could see was close to tears.

"Oh, grow up, Pops," grunted Mina Grubbly, who was sitting next to her. "The birds are just an illusion, like leprechaun gold."

Minerva reached over and patted Poppy's hand. "That's not quite true. But they would have dissipated in a couple of hours anyway."

"Oh, that's good--I guess," Poppy sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "But...but still...those boys...how can they relish it so?"

During their conversation, Conall had vanished all the little carcasses, and was now asking for a volunteer to help him with his next demonstration. Several eager hands shot up, but he took his time making his choice. Cuthbert, who was sitting near Conall, nudged him with his foot. Conall bent over and listened to the older wizard, nodding and grinning. Then he straightened up and said, "Would Minerva McGonagall please come forward?"

Minerva was stunned. She had no choice but to obey him. Conall continued, "You first years may be wondering how those puny spells you're learning can be useful in a fight," he said. "Well, I understand McGonagall here is pretty good at them. So let's say she's an evil archmage, bent on killing me, and I have to defend myself. All right, McGonagall, stand over there and get out your wand." There were more cheers and some snickers from the audience.

Minerva did as she was told, but with a feeling of terrible foreboding. There had been something in Cuthbert's face as he whispered his advice to Con, a look calculating and somehow cruel. The Macnairs still blamed her family for Petey's fall from grace. Could Cuthbert be daring Conall to take the Laird's ire out on her? It would be like him. She felt a rising indignance at the proposition, but fear as well. Even with witnesses present, she was sure this Head Boy was more than capable of making her suffer both pain and humiliation, and perhaps even some permanent damage, disguised as an innocent student error. She was going over in her mind the short list of spells she knew well and wondering which could be in any way effective when she heard a sharp voice behind her.

"Macnair!" All eyes including Minerva's turned towards the voice, which now became apologetic, though hardly less forceful. "Excuse me,...uh...Con... but this is hardly fair...I mean...realistic, do you think?"

She stared at the interloper. It was, of all people, Dugald Macmillan, stepping carefully down the risers with his wand drawn. The talking had stopped and everyone was looking at him, even the teachers. "I mean, don't most evil wizards have a couple of other...um...evil mates to help them out in their...er...evil doings?"

There was laughter from the students, but also sounds of agreement. Minerva saw a few of the professors nodding and grinning, and the rest of the adults at least had benign looks on their faces, except for Cuthbert, whose mouth was set in a grim line.

"It's Macmillan, isn't it?" said Con. "What's the matter? Think your girlfriend can't stand up to a little wizards' duel?"

There was more laughter at this, and Dugald blushed right to the roots of his hair, but his voice was calm. "No...um...I mean, yes, Minerva is a very capable witch, especially in Transfiguration. But it's no challenge to someone like you...I mean...one-on-one like this...with any first year."

Most of the students had hooted at the word "boyfriend," but now they all applauded Dugald's suggestion. Yes, they seemed to be saying, let's give the Head Boy a real test of his powers.

For her part, Minerva had lost her fear and was feeling a little ticked. The big ninny! He probably got this idea from all those romantic stories Gig had told them. Well, she, mage daughter of a Highland lord, was no damsel in distress.

Conall looked back at Cuthbert, but he was still scowling at large. Getting no help there and seeing that the common will was against him, Conall muttered, "All right, what do you propose?"

"How about you against me...and the wench...and maybe one or two more…"

"Count me in," shouted a voice. Minerva looked up the risers. Magnus MacDonald was standing on the top one, waving his arms. He stumbled and tripped his way downward to hoots and catcalls and not a few curses. At one point he accidentally squashed his hand into the chest of a very large girl, who hastened his progress with a shove. He landed in a heap, grinning, between Suze and Hildy Bagshot.

"Me too."

"AND ME!"

Minerva turned again. It was Kenny Whisp, and beside him, Poppy Pomfrey. Poppy had a glare of divine wrath on her face. She looked more than ready to wreak vengeance on Con McNair for his destruction of those little birds, illusions or no. But her best spells were likely to be of the Healing variety, hardly useful in the middle of a raging battle. Minerva didn't know anything about Magnus's or Kenny's magical abilities. She could only hope that she and Dugald had a few spells between them that could fend off this formidable seventh year, who, according to reports, was studying for a record twelve E.F.T.s or T.O.A.D.s-�”or whatever those seventh year tests were called.

"My dear children," wailed Professor Merrythought, who had risen and slipped between Dugald and Con. "This was not planned as a part of the day's program. You first years don't even know the rules of engagement. You might be badly…"

"It's all right, Professor," interrupted Con, now keen for the challenge. "I won't use anything over third level, I promise." His eyes were gleaming in excitement, like a cat moving in for a kill.

Shouts of encouragement rang out from the stands.

"Oh boy, a wizard's duel!"

"Come on, Professor, let 'em fight!"

"Give 'im heck, Duggie!"

"You're our man, Con!"

Quickly two competing chants started at opposite sides of the stands, resounding off the ancient wood of the dining hall walls: "SLIH! THER! IN! GO! SLIH! THER! IN! GO!" and "GRIH! FIN! DOR! GRIH! FIN! DOR!"

Miss Trumulo bounced out of her chair and joined Professor Merrythought, who looked as if she were about to cry. Her energetic presence quieted the students immediately. "I'll tell you what," she said. "Our guests have expressed an interest in seeing some of our younger students show off their own best efforts. And I happen to know that Minerva is here for a practicals test anyway. So, since you five seem eager to fight, let's have you go at it with each other. And our Head Boy can be the referee...and set the rules. How would that be?" There was a smattering of applause at this and delighted comments: "A free-for-all, hurrah!" But a few boys grumbled, "Yaaah, bunch of ickle firsties", "Can't do much damage with Leviosas and Light Spells."

Pressing her advantage, Miss Trumulo lost no time placing the five contestants about the floor. Then Con, who seemed to have calmed down a bit, announced the rules of the spell-fest. "Anyone can attack anyone at any time. Ganging up is allowed. We don't stop the contest for anything. If a student is incapacitated, she...or he... will just have to..."

"...will be magicked immediately to the Infirmary," finished Miss Trumulo.

"Yes, of course," said Conall. "Wands at the ready now...Wait for my mark." He aimed his wand toward the ceiling, and fired a concussive blast of sparks and smoke. "COMMENCE!"

Minerva had been watching Dugald out of the corner of her eye. He was likely the greatest threat. But he and the other two boys immediately closed ranks and started a three-way battle, so she turned to Poppy Pomfrey who was on her immediate right. Her dorm mate's best spells, mostly Healing and Disinfecting Charms she had taught herself, couldn't do much damage in a fight--or so Minerva thought.

"Lingua non sensa!" screeched Poppy.

Minerva felt her jaw go slack. She tried to articulate an "Accio wand" but couldn't get the words out of a mouth that felt like it had altogether too much tongue. Then Poppy threw her favorite "Mummy Whammy," which she'd used once before to keep Tyger from using her Healer's kit as a scratching post. It covered Minerva in bandages from head to foot, making it almost impossible to move. But Minerva concentrated hard on her articulation the way she'd so often watched Gig do, and managed after a few false starts to intone the Shallow Skinning Spell she'd seen Aunt Bobbie use on steer carcasses.

"Wiwinno! Bibbimbo! Divvvinno!," she mumbled, then took a deep breath and managed to explode out a "Dif-Fin-Do!""

This slit the bandages quite effectively, and she shook them off and dodged about, avoiding Poppy's spells while she waited for her mouth to start working reliably. Finally she got to her opponent by Transfiguring the buttons on her robe into brightly colored squash bugs, which caused the immaculate and fastidious Poppy to run shrieking from the hall.

A shout from behind her made her turn quickly. Magnus was lying on the floor, his legs flailing about in the unmistakeable throes of a Jelly-Legs hex, while Kenny floated wandless in the air. Dugald Macmillan was standing there alone. It was likely he who had shouted, as a challenge--or a warning. Apparently this self-styled Merlin was unwilling to jinx Morgan le Fay unawares.

Minerva started off attacking Dugald with the basic "Accio wand." He blocked it with a Shield spell--advanced work, she thought, with grudging admiration--and sent some kind of hex back at her. She accio-ed a nearby chair to deflect it and countered with Petey's favorite "Wingardium Leviosa," imagining, as Donnie had taught her, her opponent pinned helplessly against the ceiling.

She watched Dugald as he rose swiftly upwards, but he somehow managed to paddle a bit sideways to take refuge among the many hanging pendants of the great chandelier in the center of the hall. He was an enterprising bloke, she had to give him that. He surely knew she would not take a chance of sending a spell into all that glass while there was a possibility of unleashing sharp shards to fall among her classmates. So she just waited for the spell to subside. But as Dugald emerged from te chandelier, he put up the Shield again.

Next Minerva tried the Crying Hex, which Professor Merrythought had told them was capable of penetrating most male mages' defenses. But her aim was off and she reduced the students in the first two rows behind Dugald to tears. Then he sent several students' books flying across the room at her. This time she accioed a corner cabinet to protect herself. But this also blocked her line of sight, and at that instant, Dugald did something most surprising and unmagical. He ran forward and around it and grabbed her wand hand. She did a Leviosa on herself, and he had to let go as she escaped into the prisms of the chandelier. From its protective pale she shouted "Alohomora" and the cabinet door swung open to give Dugald a good whack in the face.

He started to swear, and it made her dare to try the Scourgifying Charm that Goodie had used on her so many times. She cast it at Dugald's mouth, and it worked! He couldn't speak for the foaming and frothing. Minerva tried to slip in an "Accio," but somehow he managed to choke out the cant for the Shield Spell. He accio-ed a cup from one of the students' hands and washed his mouth out with its contents.

Then he closed his eyes and screamed "Transparencia!" A great flash of light blinded everyone else in the room. More important, it penetrated the chandelier and bounced back and forth off the glass prisms, hitting Minerva's eyes from every possible angle. The glare made her as blind as a bat for about ten seconds. During that time, the Levitation Spell wore off. Dugald nonchalantly muttered "Accio wand," then caught it and Minerva before she could hit the ground.

During the cheering that followed, Minerva stared coldly into Dugald's eyes, as if daring him to take advantage of the situation. He let go of her and gave her back her wand to which she murmured a frigid "Ta."

The big redhead was declared the winner to rousing applause and received a package of Drooble's Rainbow Gum, a roll of hardly-used parchment, and a coupon for a ten sickles' worth of free stuff at Diagon Alley, which the teachers had scrounged up among themselves as a grand prize. But Miss Trumulo also praised Minerva's spellwork and said her teachers all agreed that she had passed her practicals.

As they were leaving, Doctor Tofty accosted her. "That reversal of the Beetle to Button Transfiguration was first-rate, young lady, though I don't remember teaching you the Squash Bug Variation. How ever did you manage it? You won't be learning 'animative transformations' until third year."

"Actually, Doctor Tofty, I don't think I actually brought the bugs to life. I was hoping they would give Poppy the collywobbles whether they were dead or alive. It appears I was right."

"Clever girl! I'll look forward to testing you in your Transfiguration O.W.L. in fifth year."

"What do you mean, Doctor Tofty?"

"Oh, you weren't here for the announcement, were you? I've received a most generous offer to join the O.W.L. Examining Board, starting after the holidays. Now don't be disappointed. I'm sure the Headmaster will find an adequate replacement."

Minerva Flooed home feeling grim. That flame-headed MacMillstone had shown her up, and there was more than a chance that her hateful cousin would replace Tofty as her Transfiguration teacher next term. But worst of all, Cuthbert had reminded her of the mystery eating at her vitals: the possibility that her favorite relative, Rowdie Flynn, was a Squib, or at the very least, a Maladept. Had he really been Framed by his father? Was that the real reason why he left the Magicosm? Not, as he said, to help out Muggle-kind, but because he was embarrassed about his magical inadequacy. She had to know�”she would know�”tonight.

~*~

She waited until everyone had gone to bed, then she lit a candle and tiptoed out of her room. She surveyed the gallery. Her paltry Muggle light would not illuminate the ceiling, nor would it reach across the empty expanse beyond the balustrade that ringed the gallery, to the side where her most ancient relatives held sway.

She was not much interested in Auld Fearghas and his immediate family, ranged along the wall by her parents' bedroom. They seemed too stodgy, too far in the past�”and they spent most of their time sleeping. The contingent nearest her own room were lively: always laughing, gaming, and insulting each other in the most creative ways. But now all the portraits were quiet. They were framed with curtains, and for the most part the curtains were tightly closed. But Rowdie Flynn's, at the head of the wide stairs, were not. And he was awake, sitting�”sprawling rather, but attractive for all that--with a cup in his hand, his legs splayed, his hair mussed, his collar rakishly askew.

"Hello, young Minerva," he said, with a slur in his voice. "Young ladies ought not to be up so late. One never knows what terrors might be stalking a haunted castle after midnight."

"Is the castle haunted, Sir?"

"Well, of course. What do you think we are?" He gestured about him. "Spirits, indeed, though passed into the tranquil sea of the Beyond, with but a ripple, a wavelet of our essential being lapping at the shores of your world through these convenient portals. But please�”call me Rowdie."

Minerva frowned at this.

"Or if you must, 'Cousin.' But what brings you out at this time of night in bare feet, clutching a feeble Muggle light source in your fair hand?"

"I'm not allowed to use my Lumos out of school unsupervised, as you surely know, Sir...Cousin. The Statute says…"

"Oh aye, the Statute of Secrecy. That was after my time, you know." He drank deeply from his cup. "Don't know how you bear it, not being to do magic whenever you want."

"Well...you didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Do magic. After you went with the Muggles, I mean."

"That was different. It was my free choice. But even in school, no one told me I had to hide my Charms from Muggles or anyone else. I could light my way with magic, accio a cup of wine, call a miscreant out to a wizard's duel any time I liked."

"I was in a wizards' duel today�”in school."

"Really? You won, of course."

"No, I came in second."

"But you don't look injured. Or dead."

"We don't learn harmful spells in first year."

"Hmmm�”sounds rather boring, if I do say so."

"Was there lots of dueling--when you were alive?"

"Indeed, we did it every chance we got�”though never on Hogmanay. It was great fun."

"What did you fight about?"

"Women, mostly, and honor--and property rights."

Minerva was grown up enough to understand how two wizards could fight over a witch, and she knew that slights and insults often made them mad enough to throw the odd jinx. But�”"property rights?" she asked.

"Indeed. You'd be surprised how many feuds are started over wills and boundary disputes. And, in the Highlands at least, a wizard's duel is still an acceptable way of settling matters."

"Did you really fight wizard's duels?"

"Yea, I cast the odd Jelly-Legs and Expelliarmus in my day. But all that changed when I crossed over."

"When you died you mean?"

"No, when I joined Muggledom. They don't use wands, you know, only swords."

"Which did you prefer?"

"I've never really thought about that. Each has its appeal, though swords are messier. Mmm...yes, the gore was rather attractive. In truth, there's nothing like standing triumphant on the deck of a captured galleon, its quarterdeck slippery with the blood of your foes."

"Which were you better at? Magic? Or--or--"

"Or swordplay? That's hard to say. I came late to Muggle weaponry, but after tutelage and much practice, I like to think I was able to tickle a rib with a claymore at least as well as with a wand."

But Minerva was getting impatient for the truth, and--her feet were cold. "Cousin…Ralph…why did you leave the Magicosm…really?"

"I told you, lass…"

"I know what you told me. But I heard some people say that you couldn't…I mean that you were…maybe…not so skilled…" She stared down at her freezing toes. Now that she came to it, she couldn't bring herself to make the accusation.

"What did you think? That I am a Squib?" Minerva jerked her head up suddenly. "Don't be surprised. I've heard the rumors. We here in the gallery hear everything that wells up out of the Great Hall. Why at the Reckoning the other night, there were no fewer than eleven references to my condition, as your Aunt Charlamaine so delicately puts it." He took a long drink and wiped his lips on his sleeve. The movement caused a lock of his hair to curl down over his forehead. It made him look adorable. But Minerva would not be distracted.

"Well," said Minerva, "Are you? A Squib, I mean?"

"Odds bodikins, Minerva, you remind me of the Queen of Scots herself. So forthright, so sure of herself. Not at all like other…maidens…of that time…" He took gulp of wine and stared across the gallery. "But I told you. I may not be as gifted as Auld Fearghas over there…" He gestured at a small picture of the clan founder next to the Master Bedroom door. "But I left the Magicosm to help our less gifted brethren. You can rack me, hang me, draw and quarter me...my story will not change." He finished his drink, rose and bowed, and staggered off through a door which appeared suddenly behind his chair.

Minerva stared at the empty picture frame. He hadn't really answered her question. And why not? Because of course, he was a Squib and couldn't bring himself to admit it. She pursed her lips and turned to head back to her bedroom. A floorboard squeaked loudly and a voice called out, "Who goes there?" A head poked itself through the curtain next to Rowdie's portrait. Lady Anne McCutcheon.

"Oh, it's you, the young witchling." She flung the curtains back, revealing a sumptuous feather bed, and herself in a flowing emerald green robe. "What are you doing out of bed? Is there a storm, perhaps?"

"No," said Minerva. "I was just talking to Cousin Rowdie."

"Ah, that jackanapes. Is he misbehaving again?"

"Not exactly. I had to ask him a question."

Lady Anne looked at her, her head cocked to one side. "And you want me to ask you what the question was."

"No, of course not. Well...yes...as a matter of fact. Would you please?"

"Since you ask so nicely, I will. But let the record show that I'm not really interested. So, what did you ask him?"

"I asked him if he was a Squib," Minerva muttered.

"You didn't!"

"It wasn't such a good idea, was it?"

"Let us say it lacked tact. But I grant you points for honesty. I'm all for honesty...and a good thunderstorm. What made you ask it?"

Minerva told her about the 'botched spell' revealed by Miss Trumulo's Prior Incantato. And Cuthbert's theory about his being Framed. "From the way cousin Cuthbert talked, it sounded like common knowledge..."

"Aye, common, there's a word. I think vulgar's nearer the mark."

"But Da...nor Goodie...has ever told me..."

"The laird of the manor does not deal in idle gossip, nor would he allow a servant to repeat such calumnies. But he has no control over his sister's tongue or her son's. And mark you: coming from that hag's's get, such a story sounds suspicious, does it not?"

Minerva felt suddenly and unaccountably ashamed of her own accusation. Lady Anne was right. Why, after all, was she taking Cuthbert's word about anything?

Lady Anne interrupted her brooding with a pointed: "So, what you really want to know is why dear Rowdie left the Magicosm."

"I guess I do."

"I'll tell you, but only if you do me a little favor."

"What's that?"

"Don't ever, ever tell him who told you."

"That's easy enough."

"Swear."

"I promise, I'll never tell. Was it pride that made him leave?"

"Not entirely. Though pride...both his and his father's...had a lot to do with it. Our cousin Rowdie left the Magicosm for love."

"Love?"

"A very improper match. He...fell in love...That's the term you moderns use, I ween...with a Muggle lass, and his father wouldn't allow them to marry. So Rowdie determined to leave Wizard-dom to be with his lady."

"That...that's just stupid."

"It's what men do."

"Is that why he wouldn't tell me? Because he was embarrassed about the reason?"

"No, he wouldn't tell you because you didn't have faith enough in him not to ask the question in the first place."

"But how can you know anything unless you ask?"

"Nice young ladies don't. But of course, that doesn't include the likes of you and me."

"How did the 'botched spell' happen, do you know?"

"It's a sordid tale, but soon told. As I said, our boy was head-over-spurs in love with a high-born Mundane beauty...named Morag, I believe. He told his father as much. When he asked leave to marry her, the old man told him that if he did, Rowdie would have to give up his wand. It was just a ploy, of course, to try to make the boy see reason. But Rowdie took him at his word and handed his wand to his father in front of the whole household. And then he just turned on his heel and left the hall. That was when the old man tried to stop him...with Rowdie's own wand. A Full Body-Bind it was. But, the wand rebelled, and stopped the spell, as wands sometimes will, when forced to go against their masters. Hence the 'botched spell.'"

"I didn't know that. You mean no one would be able to take my own wand and use it against me?"

"It takes some time for the personal bond to be forged between wand and wizard, but yes, most wands will refuse to work against their masters, especially if seriously harmful magic is intended."

"Where did it happen? Was it down there?" Minerva waved her hand toward the black void of the Great Hall below them.

"Aye. In those days there was no open gallery, the way you have it today. And the Great Hall took up the entire ground floor. Low-ceilinged it was, and laid out like a throne room, with the Laird's great chair on a dais, almost exactly underneath us."

"How do you know all this?"

"Rowdie described it once when he was three sheets to the wind. He even reenacted the confrontation scene. How he told his father he was leaving, laid his wand in the old man's lap. In fact, the reason that ceiling is open today is because of Fergus Flynn. After Rowdie left the hall unscathed, he threw down the wand, and started cursing and swearing. Then he drew his own wand and blasted a couple of holes in the ceiling before he called for some minions to chase his son down. Lady Flynn decided she liked the open look and had the rest of the ceiling taken out and the colonnade built and the railing and that curved stair."

"I like it too."

"Yes, far less oppressive to the spirit...and it allows us in the Gallery to eavesdrop on everything that goes on downstairs."

"And his father really did call in a witch to Frame him."

"Yes, Gutrune of Schwarzenwald. She was the premier exponent of all kinds of portrait magic at the time, one of the last, I believe. So, have I answered your questions to your satisfaction?"

"I'd say so...yes."

"Then good night." She pulled the curtains closed with a snap, and Minerva hurried off to bed to warm her freezing toes, wondering if her favorite ancestor would ever forgive her for distrusting him.

"Petey, you're back!"

Gig and Minerva burst through the door of Bones's Brooms, the tinkle of the doorbell accenting their delight. They were in Hogsmeade and had caught sight of their friend's blond head through the window, beckoning to them. He led them into the back of the shop, while telling them breathlessly over his shoulder that he had managed to get away from his mother and brothers for a bit to ogle the latest in racing brooms.

When they were far from the door and the likelihood of being seen from the street, Gig gushed, "Oh, Petey, what's it like at Storm Drain?"

"You mean Durmstrang? Oh, it's just another school." He lounged against a display of toy broomsticks, affecting nonchalance.

"I hear they only teach Mark Dajic."

"Mark who? Oh�”aye, Dark Magic." He pulled out a toy broom and started examining it. "That part's pretty interesting actually. I've learned a whole raft of new jinxes. Why I could make this broom start beating you and chase you right out of the store." He tossed it back on the pile.

"But you wouldn't, would you?" challenged Minerva.

"Course not. Anyway, I hear you're getting pretty good at hexes yourself."

"Who told you that?"

"Oh, word gets around."

"Have you made it up with your dad?"

"Well, he bought me a new wand, specially designed for offensive spells. But I can't carry it around over the hols. He's afraid I might lose it or something. It should help with my classwork."

"Is it very hard?" asked Minerva. "School, I mean."

"Naw, naw." He lowered his voice. "The worst thing is�”the place is so bloody cold. And the language...."

"Do they swear a lot?"

"Naw, I mean most of the students don't speak English. And the classes are all held in German."

"But Petey, you don't speak German, do you? How do you get along?"

"Dad bought me these." He held out a squarish tin with a screw key on the side. On the top were the letters LOKHS.

Gig took the tin and rolled back the lid. Inside were many tiny fish, packed like the sardines Goodie Gudgeon sometimes brought home from the Muggle market. They smelled very strong. Gig and Minerva just looked at him.

"Honestly, they really work. I mean�”I'd better explain. 'LOKHS' stands for something in German: Ling-Wished-a-Fish…or something like that…."

Minerva pointed out some words on the side of the tin, but did not attempt to pronounce them: Linguistische Ohrenheilkundische Korrectur fur die Hochdeutsche Sprache.

"What the heck does that mean?" asked Gig.

Petey shrugged. "I don't know, but if you swallow one you can understand what they're saying... the Germans, I mean. But you can't speak the language... only sort of hear a translation in your mind."

"Whoever thought of that?"

"Some Jewish wizard. His people only spoke Joodish, but everyone around them spoke German. So he invented LOKHS so they could all get along." Petey stripped one of the tiny mullets out of the tin. "They call it a 'bagel fish.'"

"Butt's a wagel?"

"A sort of fat scone with a hole in the middle. They're good for sandwiches and stuff." The girls moved in closer to get a good look at the fish. It was mud-colored and slimy, and gave off a strong odor of decay. "You can't just eat one of these naked," said Petey. He lowered his voice. "It tastes that bad." Minerva nodded solemnly. Gig just pinched her nose and made a face.

"And how often do you have to take one?"asked Minerva.

"Once a day. I have mine with breakfast. Like I said, you can eat it on a bagel or mix it with your gruel or whatever."

"Gruel? What's that?"

"It's a bit like oatmeal, but sort of watery...and salty...."

"Sounds nasty."

"It's not so bad. There's mealies too�”for protein."

"You have worms in your oatmeal?"

"Naw. Just kidding. But we get a whopping big tea�”if we do our lessons right."

"And if you don't?" Minerva was slowly becoming appalled.

Petey grinned ruefully. "Well, I needed to lose a bit of weight anyway. And at least they haven't used Der Flitzer on me yet."

"Fleur Ditzer?" Gig stared at him, her eyes large and round.

"It's a big charmed whip�”like a cat-o-nine-tails. It can beat the liver'n'lights out of you all by itself." He made slapping motions with his hands. "Whack! Whack! Had to watch a sixth year take a dozen of those, day before I came home. Lots of screaming, and a fair amount of blood. Believe me, it makes a chap remember to do his lessons all right, no matter how cold it is." He said this in a matter-of-fact voice that made Minerva think he must be hiding a lot of his real feelings inside.

"Oh Petey, tat's therrible," said Gig. "Why don't you tell your ma?"

"Aw, it's not so bad, and actually, I sort of deserve it."

"What? Just because you got trapped in a cave and lost your wand? I mean it fuzzn't your wault."

Minerva thought she knew the answer to this, having eavesdropped on Walden Macnair's conversation her first night at Hogwarts, so she was surprised at his reply.

"Well, Dad was ticked off about the cave thing. But… before that… I did something really, really bad. Verboten, the teachers at school would call it. So all those other things were like the last Bundimun in the rafters, so to speak."

"Oh, Petey, what did you do?" Gig's voice quivered with horror.

"Um�”you know how my dad has all those animal trophies�”heads and horns and rugs and such in his den? Well, he has this collection of little miniature animals too. He keeps them in a glass case by his desk. One day I was in there by myself, just looking around, and I saw them. They looked really interesting, you ken? Little toy Erumpents and Nundus and Firecrabs and Yetis and Hippocampus-usses. Even a dragon... a Chinese Fireball. I thought I might play with them, just a bit. So I took out the Yeti and the Fireball. But I had a mug of pumpkinade with me, and I... uh... accidentally dropped the Yeti into it."

"What happened?" encouraged Gig.

"Believe it or not, it started to grow, like somebody did an Engorgio on it."

Gig's eyes grew wide, but Minerva folded her arms with a look of deepest skepticism.

"No, honestly, it was taking in the juice like a sponge, you ken? It kept getting bigger and bigger, till finally it cracked the cup. Then, when it got really big, about as long as the desk--I swear it, Minerva, on my Grandpa's kilt and claymore--it came alive."

At this, Gig gave a small yelp and covered her cheeks with her hands, but Minerva just stared at him.

"It had long white fur and a mouth with blue lips and all these pointy teeth. It was like a bad dream, I can tell you, even worse than being in that cave with the ghosts and all. It chased me around the room, and we must have made a lot of noise because my father came in with his wand and started blasting everything in sight. The last I saw of the yeti, it crashed through a window and went heading off across the fields…."

"Hey, what's going on here?" It was Walden, Petey's middle brother, who had come up behind them. "Sneaking out to meet your girl-friend, Runt?"

The girls were petrified, but Petey rolled his eyes, unperturbed. "Oh. Waldo. What're you going to do about it, give me detention?"

"I'll give you worse than that, you little turd." He made a grab for his little brother, but Petey danced out of his way and circled around behind the broomstick display.

"I still can't believe they made you a Prefect, Waldo. Magnus is probably right though, the competition is pretty slim in your year. Who else is there? Dung Fletcher? Warty Harris? 'Silly Willie' O'Grogan?"

Petey's cheek infuriated his older brother. Walden went after him with clenched teeth and murder in his eye. Petey dodged about for a bit, but Walden was Quidditch-quick. He made a feint and a lunge which made Petey panic. He turned suddenly and ran--right into the display, scattering toy broomsticks everywhere. Walden waded into the mess, grabbed him by the collar, and shook him hard. "Shut your face, Runt!" he spat in a tense, low voice, "I'm telling Dad you've been talking to this evil wench... even though he told you not to at least a hundred times." Petey tried to wrench away from him, muttering "daftie" and "creep" under his breath, but Walden was a lot bigger and stronger, and he had him in a death-grip. He looked around furtively, and seeing no adults nearby, punched Petey in the gut.

Minerva hissed, "Stop it, you great bully!"

Gig tried to pull at his arm, but he just shrugged her off. He shook Petey again and whispered, "I wouldn't be surprised if they never let you out of that freak school now. You can freeze up there, summer and winter, until you turn into an abomable�”abomina�”abominominable--into a snow-monster yourself."

Just then a clerk hurried up, wand in hand, tsk-ing about the ruined display. Walden wrenched Petey's arm behind him and started to march him out of the store. Petey was a feisty chap, but Minerva could see that Walden's sneak punch had taken a toll on his endurance, if not his spirit, for he now gave little resistance.

Gig followed, protesting with a string of gibberish that made shoppers look at her as if she were mad. Minerva pulled at her arm, trying to keep her from doing something stupid. Wandless magic could rear its head in times of great emotion�”and Gig was really upset. And they didn't need to give Walden fuel for his inner fire. Everyone knew Petey was Milady Macnair's favorite, and Conall, his Lordship's. As odd man out, Waldo had a lot of reasons to hate his baby brother. As they reached the door, he turned back and flung at them, "And you two, stay away from my brother, or you'll end up somewhere you won't like�”just like him."

The shop door slammed in their faces; its tinkling bell mocked their horrified cries. Minerva led Gig, who was now sobbing freely, over to a bench. She put her arm around her friend and tried patting and rocking her a little, the way Goodie always did. Though Minerva didn't have her Nurse's comfortable padding, the motion helped to calm both of them, and Minerva began to see things very clearly. She believed Petey's story now. It all tied together in a nice, neat package. She knew now how the creatures Laird Macnair smuggled into the country could be restored. She knew�”well, probably knew--what creature it was that had chased her after her crash on the mountainside. And she knew she had to somehow rescue Petey from that horrible school.

~*~

Hogmanay was a time for visits, and after a sumptuous feast and present exchange with the relatives in the Great Hall at Connghaill Keep, there remained the inevitable sorties to the houses of friends. Early in the week, Ma, Da, and Minerva answered an invitation to tea with Giggie's family. Minerva had seen Madam and Master Gwynn often at parties and in the market, but never really talked to them, except for a polite how-do. Their house was a rambling, stuccoed two storey at the edge of town, with gabled windows and a nice big back garden, backed up to a wood. It had snowed and thawed a bit, then frozen again, so the yard looked to be filled with marshmallow crème.

Giggie met them at the door, laughing, and took their coats. It seemed the Macmillans would be joining them for high tea, and she was all agog over spending time with Dugald, for whom she still nurtured a secret crush.

Now Minerva was standing in the kitchen, keeping Madam Gwynn company, while Gig played hostess in the parlor. She sipped her hot cider, looking out a window, resting her eyes on the shiny-smooth expanse. She was sure the apples for the cider came from the McGonagall orchard; it was naturally sweet, needing only a little cinnamon as an accent.

"We have the hen coop, of course, and a big garden in the summer," said Fionna Gwynn from behind her, minding a pot of hard sauce, bubbling gently over a small orange flame. "Gig has her own small section. She likes to grow dye plants, and flax and cotton to weave."

"Have you sheep as well?" asked Minerva. She could see a small byre in the eaves of the woods and the remains of a fenced enclosure at its lee.

"Once upon a time. But they take a mort of care, and I'm afraid Gig is not capable of keeping up the responsibility of raising animals of any kind." Unlike some, the voice seemed to imply. "Help me with those tarts, would you, dear?"

Minerva had caught threads of this theme before. Gig complained that her parents were forever upbraiding her for being woolly-headed and irresponsible. But it didn't take an Archmagus to see that they were worried that with her handicap, she was destined for virtual Squib-hood. And Minerva had to admit it didn't help that Gig tended to whine and fret and sometimes even outright refuse to get down to the kind of hard work it took to pronounce her spells correctly.

Minerva retrieved the pan of tarts from the oven, tested them for doneness with a broom whisk, and held the pan steady, while a spoon Madam Gwynn had animated ladled sauce over them. She could almost hear Madam Gwynn's thoughts: Now here's a fine broth of a girl--the McGonagall lass. Fair-spoken and quick, she is. She'll succeed at whatever she turns her hand to. Minerva knew sentiments of this kind were presented to Gig whenever she couldn't meet her parents' expectations. And such sentiments only made her friend more melancholy, although it hadn't made her jealous�”not yet.

"We're so happy that Gilliain has managed to make such nice friends as you and Dugald," twittered Madam Gwynn. "The Laird's own daughter, so kind of you." The Gwynns had no sense of their daughter's unique talents, her unabashed warmth, her boundless capacity for cheering a depressed friend, her fantastic stories and homely gossip, not to mention her way with fabric.

Minerva sighed inwardly and helped Madam Gwynn bring in the tea. As soon as she could, she excused herself from the adult conversation, which she sensed would revolve around school activities. The Macmillans would surely bring up the duel at which Dugald had bested her, and comparisons of marks and awards would ensue at which Minerva would be embarrassed and Gig would come out on the bottom. She caught her friend's eye and they both edged towards the front door. To her surprise, Dugald caught up with them as they were putting on their capes to take a walk. He asked to join them. He was probably bored with the braggadocio rampant in the parlor. His parents were inordinately proud of their son, the first Macmillan in ages whose Magical Intelligence Quotient exceeded his weight. Gig blushed blotchily, and nodded assent.

"What are you doing the rest of the hols?" he said, walking between them as they set off down the lane. Dugald didn't bother with a robe although it was mortal cold. All that beef, thought Minerva, and thick curly hair to keep him warm. Gig replied with a long list of relatives she still had to visit, including the Irish contingent in Belfast.

Minerva just shrugged. It would be a quiet time for the McGonagalls: lots of studying for Minerva since she would be returning to school in the new year. Da would be closeted with Filch, planning the spring plantings. Ma would be resting up, healing. And they owed a visit to her Muggle Grandmother Wallace. Ma was pressing for it, although Da was reluctant. He had never felt welcome there, and since Bill Wallace's death, even less so. He thought Grandmother Wallace resented him, as a representative of the world that had turned her daughter into an alien presence. But Ma needed to do battle with whatever it was lay between her and her mother. Healer Kirk had encouraged her to face the past and be done with it. And they would go, if only to satisfy Ma's need.

She became gradually conscious of the conversation going on to her left. Gig was chattering away about one of her favorite subjects, Scots tartans.

"The Macmillan sett does not favor your coloring, does it Dugald?"

"What do you mean? Our dress tartan is red and gold, rich colors."

"Aye, and regal, but when you put them together, it looks orangey to the eye, and it goes not at all well with your coloration."

"I never thought about it that way," he admitted. "It's funny how the eye... even a wizard's eye... can be deceived. And my Dad has always said the Macmillan tartan is at once bright and dull; I mean... you know... red and yellow are bright and gay, but they are, after all, only two colors."

"Whereas," opined Gig, "the Gwynn sett has thick bands of red and blue, and where they cross, they make a deep heather purple blend�”and there's black and white in it too--for contrast."

"Where--as," Minerva chimed in, "the McGonagall tartan has stripes of blue and red and green, and thin threads of black and a darker red to set them off."

"Red and blue and green and black," Dugald recited back. "Sounds just like all the other plaids. I think perhaps our pattern isn't so dull after all by comparison. At least, there's no mistaking the Macmillan lads when they step onto the field of battle."

"Aye, Dugald," said Minerva, "but the enemy have to hold their sides for laughing because it looks like you're all wearing great pumpkins around your middles."

With an exaggerated scowl, Dugald bent down and picked up a chunk of snow and hurled it at her.

"That for your criticism of my noble tartan, McGonagall!" She ducked, but the chunk had disintegrated in the air and sprayed her with icy-cold flakes.

"And this," said she, grabbing at a branch of the the Scots pine Dugald was standing under, "for your insult to the McGonagall sett, and your ancestors' awful taste in tartans and your own rotten aim." With that, she pulled on the branch and it let loose a shower of snow from the canopy over his head. Dugald ran for it. He bumped into Gig and they went down together and rolled down a small incline into a drift. Gig landed on top of him, covered in snow and laughing fit to burst.

"Thank you s-s-so much, Dugald, now I only have snow all over me, not just on my h-h-head," she stammered.

Her teeth were chattering Minerva noticed; the stammer was from the cold alone. As she helped her friends struggle out of the drift, she realized Gig hadn't made a single speech mistake since they left the house.

The very next morning--Ma would not allow them even a day to rest up from the festivities--they were off to Grandmother Wallace's place. She had owled her Muggle mother several days before to warn her of their coming and quelled her husband's misgivings with a look in her eye that would brook no argument.

They took the family sledge and their pair of winged horses--white Arctureans-- which Minerva loved almost as much as she loved her broomstick, though the sled was nothing like so maneuverable as a racing broom. They only flew as far as the east end of the village though, as the rest of the way would be through Muggle farm land.

On the way, Ma reminisced about her father, how she used to watch him sketching in the woods in his free hours. He wasn't particularly good at it, but he loved his subjects: plants and trees... mosses, ferns. This lent his work a meticulous care that was beautiful in its own right.

Then he went off to the war and spent four years dodging Muggle bullets in France and Belgium. He came home severely burned in his side and gassed and spent eleven months in hospital, recuperating. Even after his wounds seemed healed, he could not talk above a croaking of single words for long after that, and spent a lot of time in his room alone, even locking the door against his wife and daughter at night. Ma speculated that the horrors of the war yet haunted him in those days.

They arrived at the cottage past the village of Blair Atholl, by the River Tilt. It was small and neat, on the lee side of a small rise, with two trees and two rows of flattish, round stones flanking its path. There was a face at the window as they pulled up to it. A woman with iron-gray hair, tied back in a bun, came out of the house and motioned Jupiter to pull the sledge around to the barn at the back.

When they got inside the cottage, Minerva got a good look at her Wallace grandmother, whom she had never met, but recognized from a picture at home on her mother's bedside table. They looked not at all alike. Ma was slender and tallish; her mother squat and bosomy. Grandmother Wallace called her daughter 'Iphigenia'. People rarely spoke her mother's given name, perhaps because it was so complicated to say correctly. You had to get the accent just right, on the next-to -last syllable. It sounded mysterious and elegant that way, Minerva thought, like her mother herself. She made up her mind at that moment, that she herself would always insist on being known by her full name, not 'Nerva' or the execrable 'Minnie' her dorm mates occasionally tried.

They sat at a low table in a tiny parlor. Grandmother served them tea and scones, which were every bit as tasty as Goodie Gudgeon's, though flavored differently, and not nearly as sweet. Minerva's eyes wandered to the walls and particularly to a picture of a farm, very like her grandparents' own, on the wall. She stood up and walked over to it, leaving the adults to their farm-talk: the weather, the harvest, the animals. They wouldn't get down to serious matters, like Ma's health, and the cause of her condition, for some time yet. In fact, they might never get to it. Ma's face had taken on an odd closed look, as if having arrived at the place where it all happened, she was afraid to finish the job--afraid to face the truth, whatever it might be.

The focus of the picture was the farmhouse front, which was lit by the setting sun. Minerva could tell because of the long shadows cast by a tree in front of it. There was a chair under the tree, an empty chair, and it reminded her of something.

"Och, Minerva, do you like that picture?"

"Aye, Grandmother."

"It was your Grandda's favorite. He kept it in his room, and stared at it for some time every day. There's an interesting story about how he came by it. Would you like to hear it?"

"Aye, I would." Minerva walked back to the table and stood beside her grandmother, looking gravely into her face. It was a pleasant, lined face, with more smile wrinkles than frown wrinkles, and more worry wrinkles than both combined. She thought she knew where the painting came from. It was all in a letter in a dusty knapsack under her bed, but she wanted her grandmother to tell her about it. She had an inkling that her words would bring them to the painful subject of her grandfather's death, the reason they had come, and the subject her mother could not bring herself to broach.

Grandmother Wallace put an arm around her waist and drew her closer. "You know how yer grandfather fought in the Great War and was injured?"

"Aye, he was gassed."

"And he was in hospital a whole year before they would let me touch him. Aye, the doctors did the best they could for him, but finally they admitted they'd done all they could." There was a note of triumph in her voice. "And I was ready for him. I'd had the house painted, and the boys over the Tilt helped me keep up the farm, and Iphigenia helped me get his room ready." She put her mouth close to Minerva's ear, although her whisper was so loud, it made her jump. "And I wouldn't let her use any of her mumbo jumbo to do it." She chuckled and Minerva could hear Da shifting uncomfortably in his seat behind her. Then Grandmother continued in a normal voice, "Oh, it's not the reason you think. I've nothing against you folk, much as you may think I do, Jupiter McGonagall. But wizards have rules too, do you not? No underage magic outside school. No magic allowed in front of us mundane folk. And I agree: the two worlds should be kept apart. And I didna want my daughter to forget her roots, what made her what she is, under all that hocus-pocus and flummery. So we had a rule, even after she came of age: no magic on the farm."

"It was a good rule, Mama," her daughter murmured softly.

"Aye, if you'd kept to it, things might have been different." There was no meanness, no accusation in the words, but Minerva saw a flicker of pain cross her mother's face. "But I was telling you about that picture. Yer grandfather got it in France, his mates told me, before the last battle. I found it in his knapsack and went to hang it in his room. Poor man, he couldna talk for almost three years, but when he saw me with that picture and a hammer, he said plenty. I thought he was going to have a fit. He grabbed it from me, gibbering and cursing. I think he thought I was going to smash. But he calmed down right enough when I pounded a nail into the wall and hung the picture right in front of him."

"Did he tell you what it was all about?"

"Why no, child, it was just a pretty picture he picked up. Reminded him of our place I suppose. After... afterwards, I had one of the boys hang it in here. Haven't really looked at it much myself. My eyes aren't so strong as they once were."

"Do you have a thought about it, Minerva?" asked her mother.

"I--I think the farm...it's a peaceful place. But it looks lonely. The chair needs someone to..." She was looking for words to jog her grandmother's memory about the empty chair without revealing her knowledge of its origin. For surely, if the letter were true, her grandfather would have told her about it right away. Or at least, as soon as he got his voice back. About its name, La Chaise Vide, and its connection with the war. Or he would have shown her the letter he'd written, but not had a chance to send, where he'd addressed her as my own Gladys.' But Grandmother Wallace showed no sign of remembering any of this.

There was a skittering and then a creaking sound overhead. "That'll be the squirrels," said the old woman. "Red devils! They're always getting in the eaves and rafters. Jupiter, I imagine we could use one of your spells to patch up the holes in this auld place." She laughed and gave Minerva a little squeeze.

Just say the word, Mother Wallace," said Jupiter, and he too chuckled.

Over her shoulder, Minerva caught a glimpse of a bright red can on the mantel. "What's in there, Grandmother?"

"Oh, that? Yer grandfather's favorite tobacco--Auld Beechmast. His pipe's there too. Funny, he never smoked before the war. But he loved a pipe and a pint down at the local pub--in his later years."

"Does it make you sad--remembering him, Grandmother?"

"It's funny. I miss more the man he was before the war. When he came home, he was much changed."

"How so, Mama?" said Iffie.

"Aye, you weren't here much, dearie, with yer wedding plans and then helping out yer new husband. The wife of a Highland Laird, busy setting up yer household. And as I remember it, winning over a host of female relatives."

"My sisters," said Jupiter. "Yes, they took some winning." Especially Aunt Charlamaine, thought Minerva.

Gladys Wallace shifted in her seat and addressed her daughter's question. "At first, you'll remember, when yer father came home, he couldna speak a word. And he was still somewhat addled in his mind."

"I remember. He didn't even recognize me. It was such a shock."

"Aye, nor me, when I first saw him on the ward, but it came back to him gradually, in bits and pieces: first his voice, then words, and at last the memories, though he and the dog never did get along."

"You mean our Tessie?"

"Aye, when he first came home, she didna recognize him, nor he her. She just kept barking and growling at him and wouldn't let up. It was the stink of the hospital as set her off, I think. She ran the ambulance attendants right off the grounds. We finally had to give her away, to a family over the Tilt. And yer father didna miss her, not one whit. But by the time yer wedding came around his mind was almost clear--he asked after her--but she was long dead."

"And he was still bed-ridden at the time of the wedding."

"Aye. He was most grateful to you, Jupiter, for having the ceremony here at the house. Excited, you know. He was always taken with wizarding folk. He'd met some of Iphigenia's teachers, of course. But he wanted to know all about his daughter's magical young man. I'd told him a bit in my letters to him in the field, but he was eager to meet you and your kin."

"Aye, it's just as well we could only have a few people in the wedding party. My sister Charlamaine would have turned him off wizardkind quickly enough."

"Was she much put out at not being invited?"

"Oh, that was all right. They all understood about his condition, needing quiet and all that. And you know my sisters. They had a big party for us a few days after. Invited the whole glen I think."

"And the gifts," said Iffie. "There are still some things we've never even used."

"Speaking of presents," said Jupiter, relieved to have an opportunity to change the subject. He brought out a bag he'd smuggled in under his cloak.

Grandmother was delighted by the thoroughly unmagical gifts, especially the knitted wool bedspread Goodie had made, supposedly by hand, but helped by occasional charming of the needles. Minerva gave her a journal and memo book from Scrivenshafts, and also a pen, which did have a mild memory-jog charm on it. She hoped it would help her grandmother when she had to write lists of things she needed to do, or if someday she decided to write her memoirs.

Now Grandmother brought out a selection of liqueurs for her guests to enjoy, with apple juice for Minerva. And there were lots of sweet treats: oatmeal cake, mint jelly tarts, biscuits flavored with anise, and Minerva's favorite, gingersnaps. For a time it seemed her mother had forgotten the reason that had brought her here. The evening should have settled into convivial reminiscences. But by the time the third round of drinks was poured, Minerva sensed a gloom overtaking the company.

Her mother seemed to need to dwell on Grandfather Wallace's behavior, and asked more and more questions about his deterioration. Grandmother was able to tell her that he recovered enough to be able to make his way to the pub in town most evenings, where he would engage the locals in tales about the war, especially the worst he had seen of German treatment of the conquered. "The Huns--they're animals," he would mutter, or "swine" or "a pack of wolves." His hatred seemed to grow with each night's harangue. One of her friends, whose husband was a regular at the pub, mentioned it to her. "I believe, Gladys, if a war started up tomorrow, your Bill would be at the head of the line to join up. He's that lathered up about it. And my boy Angus and the lads from the mill would be right behind him."

Indeed, by his wife's reckoning, the worst of it was Bill's effect on the young folk who gathered at the pub at the end of a day's work. They listened raptly to his stories, and came away wanting to do terrible things to "those stinking Huns." But she wouldn't speak of it to him; he had suffered enough, more than enough. And what was the harm of mere ranting? It simply let off some steam.

But it didn't stop there. If any politician started making noises about letting up on the onerous reparations levied on Germany and its allies by the Treaty of Versailles, Bill Wallace and his friends would voice their dissent loudly to anyone who would listen. Word of his feelings had even gotten round to the local newspaper, and its editor had been planning to interview several injured war heroes, including Bill Wallace--"before, you know..." said Gladys.

"Before he died," finished her daughter. "Mama, I know we've never talked about that day."

"Best leave it unsaid, dearie." Grandmother used the last word out of habit, Minerva could tell. She was not now in a 'dearie' mood.

"I must know. There has been so much said... well not said... intimated..."

"You were ill all those years. There was never a good time to speak of it." She looked her daughter square in the eye. "Are you sure you're strong enough to hear it now?"

Ma's face took on a rigid quality. She stared back. "If you're strong enough to tell it."

"It's soon told. One morning I left the house to do the day's shopping. You evidently came in while I was gone, to visit your father. When I arrived home, you were lying on the bedroom floor, and your father was sprawled out on the bed. That--stick--your wand--lay between you. I couldn't rouse your father; he was beyond help. But when you woke, you started shrieking about him--changing--attacking you--and other things I couldna understand. Then you fainted. I sent one of the neighbors for your husband. Then those folks you call Healers took you away. They did some kind of test on--your father's corpse--and said there was some terrible curse laid on it as killed him. Abracadabra--it sounded like--I almost laughed. Abracadabra--a child's play word! I must have misunderstood him..."

"Mama, I'm so sorry."

"Whatever for?"

"If I--I did this thing..."

"Nobody knows what happened, child. And if you did it, it could only have been because you really did believe he changed into a monster or something like. That's why you weren't prosecuted. No motive. Everyone knows you loved your father, child. I asked a doctor about it once. He said such things do happen."

"What things?"

"People going off their head and seeing visions...they call it skits--skitso--some long name."

"Schizophrenia."

"Yes, a Muggle illness, isn't that right?"

Ma nodded. She looked drained, and Minerva wanted to whisk her right away from there. She couldn't blame her grandmother for her frankness, and she didn't understand all that had been said, but she knew her mother could never hurt anyone, no matter who Skitz O'Freenia was, and what he might have done to her.

Da seemed to agree. "We thank you for your honesty, as well as your hospitality, Mother Wallace. The Healers were not very forthcoming when I asked them what they'd found. And the newspapers...och...they made it seem like there was some kind of cover-up. This does answer some questions for me."

"But not for me," said Ma in a small voice, as she was helped into her cloak. Minerva, at Da's directing, gave her grandmother the smallest of hugs.

Gladys Wallace seemed to sense her reluctance, and she said softly, "Perhaps you'd like to have that picture, Minerva, the one your grandfather loved so well." But Minerva shook her head. She didn't want any souvenirs of this night, not at least until she was sure it hadn't hurt Ma, hadn't made her regress. "Ah, that's all right," continued her grandmother. "Someday, we'll look at it together and you tell me if you don't think the man in the chair looks a wee bit like your grandfather."

And with that impossible pronouncement ringing in her ears, Minerva hurtled out onto the lawn. She almost tripped over one of those round stones, which seemed somehow to have been dislodged from the neat lines marking the path from the front door. She had a sudden feeling of overwhelming dread. The visit answered few questions and raised many more to her agitated mind. She was packed into the sled next to her mother, whose cold hands she tried to warm with her own, as her father gave the Arctureans their heads to make for the safety of home.

26. UP THE BEECH TREE

When they got home, Minerva was sent straight up to bed. But in the shadows of the gallery, she paused, transfixed by sharply whispered words: "Jupiter, we must talk about this--now!" The rumbled reply: "Can't it wait?" was followed by a tremulous, "No, it can't." She tiptoed back down the Great Hall stairs as soon as she heard them enter her mother's room and listened frozen at the door that was just barely ajar.

"There's something I must know."

"What is it, my dear?" There were sounds of restless pacing.

"It seems very strange that I was the only suspect in my father's death. Yet I was never prosecuted." A drawer opened and closed.

"It's as your mother said, Iffie. There was no motive...and also, the Prior Incantato was inconclusive." Water splashed into a pan.

"But they didn't look for any other suspects, did they?"

"I don't know that they did."

"You know they did not. Because they were sure that I did it."

"Iffie!" The word rang out sharply. Then her father went on in a gentler tone. "It's true they had no other leads..."

But her mother was implacable. "They knew, Jupiter. It had to be me."

"Darling--"

"It's all right, really. But what I need to know is: why did they not lock me away somewhere secure, like Saint Mungo's lest I should do this thing again...to someone else?"

Her father cleared his throat, but said nothing.

"Did you promise them something, Jupiter? Did you tell them you'd keep an eye on me?"

"I did...tell them...I would..."

"...be my gaoler."

"That is such a harsh word, Iffie...but, yes...it was that or...the mental ward." The last phrase was spoken so low, Minerva barely made it out. "But I couldn't let them take you away, Iffie--from me and our baby."

"It's all right, darling. I'm glad of it. And you see, I can handle the truth." There was a long pause. Minerva imagined--wished--her mother in her father's arms, spent and at peace.

Her father's voice came again, a hoarse murmur: "But now you are back...cured...and I am--we are--so relieved."

"I am glad of your faith in me, Jupiter. But do not be so quick to proclaim me healed and whole. It is true I am seeing more clearly than I have in a long time. But there is always that dread..."

"That you will relapse."

"It has happened before."

"Hush, my dearie. Let me tell you why I think it will not happen again." There were rustling sounds, as if her mother was being tucked into her feather bed like a little child. Her father's voice was gentle. "Those other times I sensed a continued restlessness in you, in your mind, and I knew that the peaceful interlude could not last. But since you came back from Kirk's I've thought--no--I've known--that you will beat this thing. And I don't think it's only Healer Kirk who is responsible for this change."

"No?"

"No. It's your daughter. The way you look at her. And more important, the way she looks at you. Your love for her will sustain you. And she--stubborn, stalwart lass that she is--won't let you fail."

Minerva was awestruck at her father's proclamation, and at how right this sounded. It must have struck a chord with Ma too, as her words came, not sharp and tense, but soft and perhaps sleepy.

"That's a bracing thought. I do love her so."

"And me, your guard and gaoler? Am I forgiven?"

"Of course. And you know you have my most heartfelt love as well." There was more rustling of the bed-clothes. "Do you think, my dear gaoler, that you could allow me one concession on this evening of such great confessions?"

"Anything, my dearest prisoner, barring another trip to Greenland."

"Could I have my window opened, just a bit? It's so stuffy in here at night."

Minerva sighed in relief at her mother's easy reply. All was well now.

As she tumbled into bed, she reflected on her father's words. ...stubborn, stalwart lass... She had the potential to protect her mother, now that she was a real witch. She would dedicate herself to learning as much as she could about her power, and make herself really useful to her family.

~*~

She was having a happy dream of her mother and father, dressed in Healers' robes. They were dancing the Fling together and laughing, on the frozen waste of a glacier with the Aurora Borealis flashing overhead. But out of the distance, a heavy figure shuffled towards them, its grayish fur glinting wetly in the light. Its lumbering gait made cracks in the ice, from which dark, slushy water oozed. The cracks widened,lengthened, reached towards her parents' feet like long black talons...

Minerva awoke, stifling a cry, and pulled her fleecy blanket closer about her. She breathed deeply the freshness of the cold night air, dispelling stale fears the dream had dredged up. She found another thought to occupy her, her grandmother's puzzling remark about that French painting, but shortly the fragment slipped unresisting into the 'nonsensical things old people say' part of her brain, as her eyes swept the room. Something was wrong.

The risen moon made of the window casement a sharp shadow across the floor. It was open much wider than she had set it, as if it had been disturbed by a breeze. She went to the window and looked out. The air was still. There was only the light of the full moon, still and strong on her face. Here one fork of the beech tree trunk almost touched the casement on its upward ramble to the southwest tower, skirting the walls of her bedroom and of her mother's below. Here and there it poked out a branch as if to steady itself against the strong stones.

She remembered how Ma had taught her to climb this tree. Its wide sloping limbs were her favorite refuge in childhood, the crotch of the forked trunk easy for even a wee lass to clamber into. Up it rose, from just outside the little enclosed garden, past Ma's window and hers, on up to within sight of the small balcony outside Da's library.

She thought for a second that it might have been Gig who threw a stone at the window to wake her, having one of her tantalizing late-night brainstorms that she just had to share with her friend. But it would have to be something really urgent to bring her across dark, frozen fields in search of an empathetic ear. She peered down the leafless branches, following the trunk to its origin in the courtyard. There was no sign of her impulsive friend.

She pondered the tree's limbs, smooth and bare. The word beech, she remembered from one of Da's rambling lectures on the origins of Brittonic witchcraft, was from the tongue of the Sassenachs, meaning 'book' because the ancient druidic culture used thin squares of its pliant bark to make their grimoires. In fact, he had, pressed in his library, a single fragment of such a page with the Connghaill gryphon and spiky runes indicating the beginnings of an ancient charm. "Blest be..." it started, or so Da said.

Now, though she ran her eyes along the comforting smoothness of her favorite tree, the oppression of the day came back upon her, hard, like a rot-weakened branch weighing heavily upon a roof. There would be no blessedness in this house until her mother was long rid of her affliction, which, for all her father's hopefulness, might yet overtake her the way shadows of the end of day gradually covered the fields.

Minerva caught herself. Where did this disturbing image come from? She had been so sure that all would now be well, listening there outside her mother's door. But this same feeling of nameless dread had come upon her by another door, her Grandmother's, when on leaving, thinking about all she'd heard, she'd tripped over a rock. She remembered she had touched it briefly, tried to nudge it back into place. Smooth and soft, yet turgid it was, as if it had absorbed a great deal of moisture in its years half buried in the earth. It had resisted her toe heavily, and she had been swept along by her father toward the waiting sledge. Was her mother's spirit like that rock? Too steeped in a past soggy with failure to be realigned with reality?

Now some aspect of the tree disturbed her. What was it? The trunk was smooth--too smooth. It had from time immemorial shot out small branchlets all along its surface, sucker shoots, always trying, like piglets at a sow's teats, for a place in the tree's complex vascular nourishment. But they had often been struck off by small scrambling feet and reaching fingers. But she hadn't climbed the tree of late, or if she had, had been careful not to injure those shoots out of a maturing reverence for all things living, as taught by Mami Leek. But there, at the base, near her mother's window, where two of the sucker-shoots had grown, was just a pulped remnant of their existence. And just outside her own window, a twig struggling to survive had been likewise flattened. There was a darkish stain on its stump, like frozen sap--or fresh blood. She looked up. Someone or something had climbed the tree, and recently, on the way to the balcony. Her eyes swung back to ground level. Her mother's window stood wide open.

Without thinking further or reaching for a wrap, she swung herself out into the cold, still air. She was hot inside with curiosity and preternaturally alert with the sting of fear. She followed the sinuous, shallow slope of the trunk, squeezing it with her feet, her knees splayed out like a Clabbert's. With the help of friendly branches, she pulled herself up to the balcony outside her father's den. It was empty. But she heard a sound she remembered from that balcony when her mother had last been home. It was human and wordless, like a sob, only now flung out from somewhere along the balustrade of the battlement another storey above her. And inside herself she knew again the penetrating dread that she'd felt tonight when she stumbled to her knees in the dirt outside her grandmother's house.

The sob lengthened, formed into words: "...patricide...aye...it was that...a crime...unforgiveable..." A voice, weak and babbling, yet its dark, accusing words overwhelmed Minerva's heart, and she fought off the misery they engendered.

"...the visit...should never gone there...wounds reopened...the suffering...oh, mother...can you forgive..."

Minerva looked up at the wide balustrade above her head and saw a figure, clinging to it at its far side.

"...the horror...I cannot..."

The moonglow caught a curve of the sweet, familiar face--her mother's face--staring sightless at the sky. And there was something else: behind her, a shiny oval, like a reflection of the moon's light off the tower. Her mouth moved again. "My daughter...I see her...eager to claim her magical birthright...she needs my strength...and I...have nothing give...

Her mother stood frozen in the breezeless cold, yet the light-shape bobbed and twisted, moving in a rhythm oddly synchronous with the words she spoke. Minerva inched closer, studying the anomaly.

"...and Jupiter...my love...I see you flagging...under the burden of a mate...who has lost her warmth...her luster..."

Peering through the balusters, Minerva realized the oval shape was no reflection, but the face of a creature barely tall enough to see over the banister, its bulbous head, white in the moonlight, bobbling about on a straw-thin neck.

And again came that merciless self-degradation from her mother's lips: "...I see it now...how he takes glass after glass of brose at dinner... more than ever was his wont...eying his wife...once an asset...a comfort...now limping...beaten..."

Minerva edged upward, a new caution suffusing her frame, and observed the intruder through the balusters, its thin limbs clothed in a ragged robe, arms hugging an emaciated torso shivering against the chill. Yet despite its discomfort, the face grinned and nodded at the wretched woman before it. When she spoke, its eyes grew larger, and it licked its lips as if feeding off her torment.

"...he knows, though he will not say it, that my affliction is incurable...I see him hang his head as he tries to hide his disappointment...his disgust..."

Yes, the thoughts behind the terrible words belonged to this creature, and they were communicated directly to her mother's brain. Its very appearance bespoke meanness and despair. Her mother cringed under its soft suasion.

"...best to end it now, and quickly...to rid them of the pain of watching mother...wife... lover...slide slowly down the trough of madness..."

There was a bench built into the balusters, and her mother stepped up onto it, flinging her arms abruptly out, to steady herself, or reaching to embrace the stars. Minerva did not know the purpose of that gesture, but with a jolt of fear, she realized she had to do something before Ma put a foot one step up onto the broad railing.

"...it will hurt them for a time...but the sooner done...the sooner they will have a new start...Donnie...Gerry will comfort them...Oh, my darlings! Forgive me!"

Minerva could not cry out, though she ached to do so. The top of the Keep seemed suddenly to recede, as if her own psyche was repelled by so much pain. The gap between tree and battlement now seemed well-nigh unbridgeable, but her muscles tensed to a hardness she did not know she could muster. Her nails dug into the bark of the tree. Without conscious thought, she sprang in two bounds onto the balustrade and raced across it, throwing herself between her mother and certain death. Her mother gave a little startled cry and fell backwards off the stone bench, and into the shadows. Minerva heard a noise of bone on stone and a sigh, as of release.

Her momentum took her past the end of the balustrade to the west parapet wall and she rebounded off it, landing crouched, near her mother's inert form. She sniffed at, nuzzled Ma's face. A cry escaped her lips, unlike any she ever could remember making, the cry of a bairn hungry for its mother's touch--or of a bitch defending her pups. She concentrated a withering gaze on the thin, white creature--the hunter become hunted--which stared at her, horrified. It turned and leaped onto the stone bench, instinctively making for the other fork of the beech tree and freedom. She closed the gap unthinking and swiftly, like a gryphon in full fury of flight. She leaped and caught it in mid-stride. Her teeth--yes, teeth--caught it at its scrawny neck. She could taste the bitterness of grime and the salt of old sweat in its skin. Her fingers dug into its shoulders and she felt in its rigidifying form the same panic the Erkling had evinced when it overbalanced at the edge of the Hole in the cave. And she would not save it from death, for she hated it so much. She could not save it or herself, for her momentum carried her with it over the stone banister and on past the saving branches of the beech tree.

At first their fall seemed endless. She clung involuntarily to the creature. She had snagged its robe somehow, so that they were tethered together, swinging about in a weird parody of the the lazy spiraling orbit of her collision with Dugald in front of the goal net last summer. But she had no time to reflect on this. The ground approached all too quickly.

She landed on the flagged stones of the courtyard, on a fortuitous upswing of their ellipse, the creature beneath her. She felt a shock of pain rocket up through her limbs, and, barely, the spatter of something on her face as they made contact with the ground. She had somehow managed to land upright, on hands and feet, but immediately collapsed into her shattered limbs, as a fog of agony suffused her brain. As her senses melted into the red haze she had one last thought: all the doors would be locked at this time of night, while Ma lay cold and still at the top of the Keep.

~*~

Minerva woke to sounds of bustling activity. It was morning, cold yet, and bright, and she caught the heavy scent of lanolin, felt the heaviness of a fleece pressing her body into the down of the mattress. It was reassuring, this pressure, holding her in place after recurring dreams of falling, turning uncontrollably end over end in an unrelenting dark. But the pressure also made her hurt. Her hands stung, her feet burned. Her arms and legs ached, but at the same time all her limbs felt curiously detached from the rest of her. The door opened as she was trying to wiggle herself into a sitting position, using back and buttocks alone.

"Dearie, ye shouldna..." Goodie Gudgeon hurriedly placed a tray clinking with bottles on a low table by the fireplace.

Minerva had managed to sit upright, but she couldn't steady herself with her useless arms. Not only did they hurt, they felt like rubber. She swayed to the side, and Goodie caught her. She propped her into place with pillows on either side.

"Ye've had Ike Harry's ain fall, lass. Broke ilka finger, thumb, even yer pinkies, an all yer taes. We gied ye somethin fer the pang, but ye haena been properly mendit yit. Dinna move atall. I'll see gif Healer Doohan's done wi yer Ma."

A woman came in and examined her. She had iron-gray hair gathered in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. She peered at Minerva over crescent-shaped spectacles, and gently felt her whole body, starting with her abdomen and spiraling outward to all her joints and appendages, including her head.

"Seems this child had an encounter of the flying kind last night," said Brianag Doohan. Minerva focused and remembered: she was a family friend who lived in town. She specialized in Veterinary Healing. "Besides the digits, distal radial fractures to both arms and fractures in the right talus. Clearly she jumped from a great height and landed on hands and feet--or more likely, on fingers and toes. Curious, that. But the wonder is there were no dislocations to the larger joints. What's your tale, child?"

By this time, Jupiter McGonagall had joined them in the bedroom, and Minerva had to ask, "How's Ma?"

He was looking anxiously at her, as if torn between worry over her condition and how to tell her what had happened to her mother, but his glance turned sharp at her question.

"Minerva, what do you know about all this?"

She told him what she remembered, and her injuries were sufficient testimony to the truth of the fantastic story for him to breath a sigh and sit heavily on the bed next to her.

"Poor, brave lassie." He patted her wrist. She bit her lip to hide a wince of pain. "That explains a lot. Your Ma's still out."

"Don't worry," said the Healer at Minerva's look of alarm. "It's a Peaceful Sleep Charm, a precaution only."

"Aye," said Goodie Gudgeon. "Whan yer Ma waukit, there wis sic horror on her face, an laughin an blirtin allthegither, Healer Doohan thought it for the best. She'll sleep till the morn's nicht."

Something had just dawned on her father. "She--your mother--climbed that bloody beech tree!! There's no other way she could have got up there. I lock her door every night, but I never thought...the window...the tree...I'll have the damned thing chopped into firewood tomorrow."

"Da, no!" Minerva looked at her father's sagging face. She wanted to reach out and touch his cheek, but her rubber-arms would not obey. "We love that tree, Da. And it wasn't the tree's fault. It was that--that thing that made her do it. It hounded her so. The way it looked at her...What was it anyway?"

"Och, we'll know in a bit. I've sent for auld Filch. He knows his creatures. Canny as the Thane himself in that respect. But," he paused in wonderment at a sudden thought. "You saved your mother's life, bairnie-girl. You saved her..." His shoulders started to quiver, and he clasped her to him in a bear-like embrace. She cried openly, as much to cover her physical discomfort as to release a night's--nay, a lifetime's--worth of tension. For she was sure that the beastie, whatever its origin, was the source of all her mother's troubles. That face, leering hungrily, told her all.

Inachus Filch came in due time. He consulted briefly with Healer Doohan and the Master over a milk-ewe who was off her feed, then together they bent over the carcass which still lay in the courtyard, covered with a cloth. Minerva sat in a chair by the casement window, having downed a glass of Skelegrow, which she was assured would heal up all her broken bones within hours. She strained to see and hear what was going on, oblivious to her own discomfort. The foreman and the Healer poked the creature about for a bit. Brianag Doohan lifted the remains of the oversized head and turned it this way and that. Da, she could see, was barely concealing his rage. It was plain he wanted to tear to bits this thing that had tormented his wife for so many years. For it had been equally obvious to him, as Minerva described its behavior, that it was this pitiful yet dreadful being who had somehow insinuated itself into Ma's mind, gradually eating away at her sanity, making her suffer.

Filch called up to the window. "Miss, did you see any other animals about the parapet?"

She called back. "No, why?"

"There's fresh puncture marks on its neck and scratches on its arms, from something smallish--a badger or maybe a pine marten."

Minerva shivered. Perhaps the thing that had chased her back in the summer was still around. Yetis, being from the mountains of Tibet, would like high places. But it would have been too big to make those marks.

27. REVELATIONS

Later on, Goodie Gudgeon made them all--Minerva, the Master, Filch, and Healer Doohan--a hearty lunch of bread and lamb and potato stew with massive dumplings she called 'doughbuoys,' floating on top. Then, satisfied that her darling was on the mend, and the Laird was as satisfied as he was ever going to be, she excused herself to up check on the Mistress. After she left, Filch revealed the beastie's origins. "It's a Pogrebin, any road, if I know my Scamander," he opined. "Native to Russia, they are, though more than one has been sighted in the west. The nasty creatures follow travelers about and put sorrowful thoughts in their heads. After a while, especially if the target is weak-minded, they just sit down and start crying and grousing about how unfair life is. That's when the creature pounces."

"And then what?" asked Minerva.

"It usually clonks 'em on the head, Miss, and pulls out their liver'n'lights, and eats 'em raw." This scary statement was delivered in the same bland voice he used to report on harvest sizes and herd growth. "That big head is camouflage of a sort. If its victim turns around, it just plops down and hides itself under its noggin. Makes it look just like a big rock, it does. They can follow an unwary Muggle for hours. We think it's been with the Mistress a long time�”that it might be responsible for…"

"For her condition," Minerva exclaimed Oh, I hope so." She looked around at them all with shining eyes. If Filch was right, then Ma was cured. "But, why did it...the Pobberin...why did it never try to pull out her--you know--her innards?"

"That we don't know," sighed Filch, "The buggers aren't known for their patience. It's half a day at the most, before they attack, or lose interest." They ate stew and buttered oat bread in silence for a while and pondered this aberration.

Minerva had another question. "And why did Ma sometimes have the depression, where other times it left her alone?"

"Ah," said her father, chewing slowly, "Filch and I have a theory as to that. You'll remember she seemed to recover any time she was away from the farm. Like those times when we visited St. Mungo's…"

"…and the trips abroad, to the other Healers… it means she would have been away from the creature..."

"Exactly. And even when she was home, I have the feeling that the craven craythur sometimes got locked out of the house, or trapped in the barn or one of the out-buildings."

"Aye," said Filch. "Or held at bay for a time by some animal or other. There were some old scars on its arms and legs as looked like it had maybe tangled with a dog or a badger."

Minerva remembered the summer when they'd looked after a couple of the twins' Crups when Frannie and Philly went off on holiday to Brighton--one of the happy times. The bigger Crup, Chauncey Croptail the Third, whom they all called Chance, was always growling and doubling back on their walks, rooting around in the heather just as if, she realized now, there was some persistent beastie trailing them all.

They thought about this as they ate their bread and stew. Minerva was feeling ever so much better. Although the Skele-Gro healing process had been an unpleasant experience--sort of like having pitch forks thrust repeatedly up your arms and legs--the discomfort was well worth the peace of mind she had now.

Near the end of the meal, Da gave words to her own feelings. "Fearghas's Beard! I feel that relieved." He pushed his chair back, stretched his massive frame, and shook himself like a great mastiff at the end of a long night of hunting, then patted Minerva's hand on the tablecloth. "Your mother will get better, and we'll need never worry about her condition again." He looked off over her shoulderinto the distance, and his face became fierce, even ugly. "But one thing I will do," he growled. "I'll have that filthy thing splayed up on a hoarding out by the gate as a lesson to any hellhound as thinks it can invade my home and hearth."

But Minerva would not be placated by easy gestures of revenge. "We've got to know the whole of it, Da. Why did it stick just with Ma, and not go on? Why her? It's like a spell was on the beastie--you know, a hex, where you're forced to do things against your nature, like a Jelly-Legs or something."

Healer Doohan, who had listened quietly the whole time, broke her meditative silence. "Such spells do not last so long as this. I'm thinking it was a Geas…"

"A Jeese? What's that?" Minerva was intrigued.

But her father was not. "No one does those any more," he snorted.

"I would not scoff, Jupiter," retorted the Healer. "A Geas is the oldest of magicks, and they yet have their uses." She turned to Minerva, whose eyes had grown as wide as saucers. "It is a primitive spell that requires no wand, but only the heartfelt command of a magible being, that forces a creature to perform a single repetitive task over and over again."

"Aye, like forcing a Crup to chase its tail," muttered Jupiter McGonagall.

"And more useful things, as well. It is said that Geases were among the first spells ever cast. Our forbears used them to force plants to follow the sun, for example, a habit that persists to this day in some Muggle flowers. Then some of the more enterprising of our kind started using them to control weaker beings. They found they could make devoted slaves out of the lower humanoids--command each to do a different task: a troll to fetch water from the cistern, an elf to stir the cauldron, a gnome to fan Master in the heat of summer. It is believed that the house elf's persistent need to serve may have come out of the Geasing of generation after generation of their ancestors."

"How can we tell�”if it was a Geas that did it?" asked Minerva.

"I would have to examine the corpse's aura minutely, and do a Legilimentic probe. Even though the little fellow's been dead some time, I may find something."

Minerva finished her stew in two gulps, choking only a little on her glutinous doughbuoy. Her father grunted and had another helping. By the time he finished, she was with child to get started on the probe.

~*~

Filch was instructed to wrap up the 'filthy little corpse' and bring it into the house. They stretched it out on Goodie Gudgeon's immaculate worktable and Brianag Doohan went to work. She studied what was left of its face and put her hands over its pulped crown. Not much there, her frown seemed to say, but she Banished all but four chairs from the table and sat down at its head as she motioned them all to join her.

"I think there's something in there, but it's very weak..." Seeing puzzlement on Minerva's face, she went on. "A Geas is not a true entity or spirit, with a life force of its own, but it can behave like one, much like a flame that can dance and wave about as if it were alive. When the fuel is removed, the flame dies. When the spirit leaves the body, a Geas that was holding it in thrall will take some time to dissipate. If I do a Summoning Spell, I may be able to drive it out. You will all need to hover close and absorb the residuum."

Despite his skepticism, Minerva's father stirred uneasily. "Should we not do this without... hem... you ken... an underage witch in the room?"

"I am sure that it cannot hurt her, Jupiter. It is the merest ghost of a spell, and everyone's perception of its passing will be important in making the final diagnosis. If, as I say, there is a Geas present, it will try to inhabit each of you in turn. But even a Muggle would be capable of resisting its weak magic now." Jupiter nodded reluctantly and they all sat and bowed their heads in concentration.

Brianag Doohan began a chant low in her throat. It sounded like the merest murmur of a single word breathed into the creature's face, over and over. "Veni, veni, veni, veni," she intoned. Then her voice rose in volume, became more urgent, more forceful. Minerva thought she felt something trickling through her, through her mouth and nose, like a poison, searing, then numbing her, like the toxic slime trail of a Streeler. She heard a voice�”not the Healer's�”-but someone else--whispering, cajoling, commanding. She couldn't make out the words, but she squirmed at their scathing delivery. A moment later Brianag raised her head. "It is over. The spell is dissipated."

Minerva looked at the small corpse on the table. It appeared to be swelling in size. And there was a noxious smell of death she had not noticed before. "What...what's happening?"

"Accelerated decay. That's a sure sign of the presence of a magical entity within. It can keep the process of death at bay for quite a while."

"And now it's gone and he can rot in peace," muttered Jupiter.

"We can go outside if you like."

Minerva nodded. The smell was making her a bit sick. They filed out the back door and sat on the steps in the cold light of the winter sun.

"Did you feel anything? Any of you?"

"I'll start," said Jupiter abruptly. "I felt something creeping over my skin, like worms looking for something to devour. Most unpleasant. But it was over in a trice."

"And I felt much the same," said Filch. "But here's something odd. I smelled something too�”like pipe smoke�”mmm�”Auld Beechmast I think it was." Filch was a connoisseur of fine pipeweed, and knew all the best brands.

"Now you mention it, 'Nachus, I smelt something similar, but I thought it was just you." Jupiter nudged his foreman and winked.

Healer Doohan fixed them both with a jaundiced eye. "It's a good thing you kept your thoughts to yourselves while we were working, or we mightn't have had any results at all."

Minerva was dismayed by her father's lack of support. But she waited patiently for her turn.

The iron-haired Healer cleared her throat. "I myself, as the Medium, felt little. But I sensed that the person who invoked the Geas was a fairly powerful witch or wizard."

Jupiter snorted. "If so, why would they need to use such a measly device?"

"I cannot say. Perhaps Minerva can shed some light…" They all turned to her expectantly.

She hesitated. Da was resisting this, and she thought she knew why. He was angry at himself mostly, at having been fooled all this time by a creature not much bigger than his shinbone. Like herself, he was ashamed that Ma had suffered so long, that he hadn't been able to protect her. And he thought they were wasting their time. But she knew they weren't. Someone had forced that creature to do what it did to Ma, and she had to find out who, and why.

"When the...the Geas came out, it tasted like someone was pouring a bitter potion down my throat." Minerva shivered in the sun. "It was disappointed. Like it didn't complete its task."

"And what, may I ask, was its task?" Da was near to shouting. "It drove your mother crazy, nearly killed her! Wasn't that enough?" He was getting a little crazy himself.

But Minerva would not be deflected by her father's frustration, though she felt muche the same as he did. "I think that was its purpose...to kill her."

"Then why didn't it do it right away, when it was first placed? Why make her suffer?" For that Minerva had no answer

Brianag Doohan imposed herself mildly into the argument. "A Geas has the very special property of being extremely long-lived. And it does not require periodic bolstering as do some other words of command. So I would say that the person who imposed it, expected not to be able to revisit his...or her...handiwork."

"Someone who has too much else to do, who travels a lot maybe. Or someone we know, who wouldn't want suspicion to fall on them. But why would anyone want to...punish...Ma like this?"

"We have to go back in time to whenever it was she first experienced the symptoms."

Jupiter was scowling. He didn't like this conversation. He didn't want to remember ten years of pain. Minerva looked at the Healer, this plain, unadorned woman, with new eyes. She was like a Crup herself, steadfast and loyal-- to Truth it would seem. She listened closely to Brianag Doohan.

"If we go back to the beginning, perhaps we can get clues as to who it might be that actually placed the Geas on the Pogrebin."

"A can tell ye preceesely whan it stairtit."

They looked up. It was Goodie Gudgeon, her arms hugging her chest, the scowl on her face matching her master's. "But first, I want tae knaw whit ye expect us tae dae wi this stinkin bit o flesh ye've left on ma board. Should I be makin it intae haggis, ye think?"

The Master stirred himself. "I'm sorry, Goodie Gudgeon, we forgot about that. 'Nachus, would you put the carcass in the barn until we finish this discussion?"

Filch got up and Goodie Gudgeon took his place on the steps, calling to his back, "An dae a Flit Hex in there. The midgies are unco terrible." She squinted at Healer Doohan. "Just wha is it ye maun knaw aboot the Mistress, Brianag?"

~*~

Goodie Gudgeon told all she knew. Iphigenia Wallace McGonagall had been fine, more than fine until the day her father died. Then she started having nightmares, and bouts of depression. Even the birth of her daughter had helped but little. Goodie recounted all the important events she could remember of Iffie's life, starting from the time the 'young Maister' had first brought his bride-to-be to the Keep, introducing her to staff and family. Yes there had been run-ins with some of his sisters. After all, their highly-eligible bachelor brother had to be protected from the predations of female opportunists. And there were the petty jealousies of his male friends, especially his cousin Duncan Macnair. And the usual calumnies among the neighbors about Iffie's Muggle origins. But no one could find in Goodie's story any incident that could be twisted to explain why anyone would want to conjure a Russian demon out of thin air and set it upon the mistress.

And Da was still not convinced a Geas was the cause. He kept muttering about the person behind it all, someone he was sure was still in the neighborhood, though who would play such a terrible trick, he could not, or would not say.

The next day was the first day of the new school term, and Minerva Flooed out, without having had a chance to talk to her mother, though she was able to kiss the peaceful brow and meditate a moment on the clear, untroubled features. She'd throw herself into her studies, Quidditch practice, all the school activities and hope for the best. And by summer, Ma would be well, and they would be a family again.

"Welcome, welcome back to Hogwarts, dear children!" It was Headmaster Dippet at the podium. He launched into an opening speech for the second term, the only memorable part being, in Minerva's opinion, the introduction of the new Transfiguration teacher--who was thankfully not Cuthbert Campbell. He was a tall, grave-looking wizard with auburn hair, a penetrating glance--and a mouthful of a name: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.

Funny name, Dumbledore. It seemed familiar to her. Minerva wondered over its meaning. She knew one thing: that name would shortly be mocked and lampooned and twisted into all kinds of childish nicknames by her fellow students. But she marked his steely-blue gaze and calm demeanor and came away sure that no kind of insult or prank could perturb it.

She was right. She and her classmates quickly learned that, in Professor Dumbledore's classes, unlike his predecessor's, you couldn't get away with anything. Doctor Tofty was very learned--and very old and a little deaf, which was probably the reason he had jumped at that prestigious position with the OWL Examining Board. Who wouldn't choose a job testing students just once a year over the daily force-feeding of knowledge to artful brats who could use that knowledge to turn your chair cushion into a cactus plant just as you were about to sit on it?

But Professor Dumbledore was a canny fellow who seemed to know the worst a student could do and always had an answer for it. Early on, when a group of Slytherin seventh years tried to pull the cactus trick, he had awarded them five points for the cleverness of the maneuver and assigned them a two foot report on the history of the development of inanimate-to-animate switches for the next class.

What surprised Minerva as she got to know him was that her Transfiguration teacher also seemed to value his students as unique and interesting people. He was always at the classroom door, no matter how early one arrived, and greeted each student by name, asking after their families, their pets, their latest obsessions. He seemed to have a great knowledge of the Quidditch League standings and confessed himself a fan of Puddlemere United. He bore the ragging of Wigtown fans when the Wanderers trounced Puddlemere 500 to 80 in a championship match. It came out later that day that he had made a bet with those students that if his team lost, he would stand up at dinner and sing the Puddlemere anthem, "Beat those Bludgers Back Boys and Chuck that Quaffle Here," wearing a chicken suit. And so he did, to resounding catcalls--and not a little sincere applause.

One afternoon, she was leaving his class�”the last to leave, having dropped a book. Her arms laden, she was not having much luck concentrating on not concentrating to Levitate it. Suddenly the book reared up, did a Wronski Feint, a Woollongong Shimmy, and a loop-de-loop, then landed neatly on the stack she was carrying. She heard a chuckle behind her and tossed a "Thank you, Professor" over her shoulder.

"You are welcome," he said to her back. "Did I ever tell you, Miss McGonagall, that I once met your grandfather?"

She turned abruptly and stared at him. "No sir."

Despite the gravity of his eyes, there was always a little twinkle in them and a quirk at the corner of his mouth that made him look as if he had a joke he was dying to share. "If you have a minute, I would like to tell you about it."

Minerva nodded politely and placed her books back on her desk. Laird Cadwallader McGonagall had been a secretive old fart, whose only joys were his great tracts of land and the fact that, after six failures--Minerva's aunts--he had finally produced a son he could pass those tracts on to. Minerva was not particularly curious to know more about Grandfather McGonagall. He seemed altogether hateful. But she was curious to know how Da could have turned out to be such a nice person, having been brought up by that selfish old curmudgeon.

Dumbledore wedged himself into a student seat, folding his long legs under the desk, then waved his wand and turned her desk around to face him. It looked like this was going to take more than a minute, she thought as she sat down. Fortunately there was no scrimmage in the offing, and she had the whole weekend free for her assignments.

Dumbledore looked at her for a long moment before beginning. "Let me say first that I have never had the pleasure of meeting your mother. I am betting you look a good bit like her. You do not resemble your father in the slightest--except for that dimple in your cheek."

Minerva blushed and nodded--and the infamous dimple showed itself briefly.

He went on. "Your father I know of from his exploits on the Quidditch pitch. I even have his autograph from years ago when he was in his prime."

"Really, sir?"

Oh yes, he had quite a following back then. Big fellow, shaggy red hair, but not your run-of-the-mage Beater. Rough and tough, and he bent the rules, as they all do, but never a bully."

His words tickled her; they summed her father up perfectly. "Thank you, sir. He'd be pleased to hear you say that, I'm sure."

"Well, I hope to be able to tell him personally sometime. I am sure we will meet up eventually, since we have his daughter's interests in common." His eyes twinkled again. "But to get to the point, as I say, I never had the pleasure of meeting your mother…"

"She's been ill, sir, and she had rather a bad accident over the holidays." The words came out harsher than she intended, but she couldn't bring herself to soften them with a smile.

"I am sorry; I did not know." The twinkle went out of his eyes, as if someone pulled a curtain shut inside them. He wondered, almost shyly, "Did she ever talk to you about her father?"

She shrugged. "Grandfather Wallace, sir? Not much." Feeling a little guilty about her earlier curtness, she searched her memory for facts about that relationship and rambled on to fill in what might otherwise become an embarrassing silence. "He's dead, you know. They lived in Perthshire, outside Blair Atholl. He and my grandmother both were Muggles, and he fought in their War. I think he did some sketching, landscapes mostly. That's about all I know about them." That and the rumor that her mother was responsible for Grandfather Wallace's death, but Minerva wasn't about to admit this to a teacher, especially one who admired her father, and whose respect she thought she might like to earn herself.

After a moment, he murmured, "The War is where I met your grandfather."

Minerva was surprised. Was this scholarly mage going to tell her things about her Muggle grandfather? This she wanted to hear.

"Oh yes," Dumbledore continued, seeing her interest. "It was during one of the final battles, in northern France. The Germans were rather desperate by then, and the Allies--armies from Britain and America... and the Antipodes--were helping the French to pincer them in. Your grandfather was part of the assault. A very friendly fellow. I was in Picardy with some companions the night before the engagement. He came right up to us and introduced himself. Said he recognized us by our clothing. Very proud of his witch daughter, he was. Iffie, isn't that her name?"

"Yes, sir. It's short for Iphigenia. How...how did you come to be there, sir? In France, I mean."

"Ah, that is a story in itself."

Minerva leaned forward. Her grandfather's letter came to the front of her mind. 'Dumb-bell' or 'Door-bell,' he had called one of the wizards he'd met. Could this be the one?

"I can see you are interested. Do you know anything about the causes of Muggle Wars, Minerva?"

"I thought it was all about the need for land and goods. Different countries see what other countries have and, as they can't just conjure or create what they want, they invade and take."

He nodded. "Yes, but countries don't just go to bed happy and peaceful one night and wake up the next day and declare war on other countries. Humans, even Muggles, do not go to war without great compulsions. There have to be seeds of unrest--jealousy, greed, resentment, hatred even--sown in them over many decades before war blossoms."

This shocked her. "Who would do such a thing?"

"Ah, who indeed?" He leaned in towards her, and tapped the desk with his finger, punctuating the words. "It is my theory, and that of a small circle of colleagues, that many recent wars have been the handiwork of a single person. A wizard named Old Grindy. Some believe the name is short for Grindelwald, but I myself..."

"Auld Grinty!" she cried. "Yes, my father's used that name before. He must be very powerful."

"Powerful? Perhaps. But more important, he is very, very cunning and patient, and he understands the Muggle mind like no other wizard in history, except perhaps Arthur's Merlin. He knows their fears and desires and works on their masses to revolt, invade, avenge..."

She studied his hands. They were clenched now, with some inner agitation. Da sometimes got that way. She wanted to soothe it away somehow, but the ideas he was throwing out confused and frightened her. She stammered, "But... influencing Muggles...interfering in their business...isn't that against the Statute of Secrecy?"

"Laws and statutes don't mean much to a fellow like him." He looked up at her, and his stormy brow lightened. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought this up. You're only a child..."

But a vision of a Muggle soldier confronted by an ancient mage on what might have been a battlefield rose before Minerva. "No, Professor, it's all right. I want to understand. What does Auld Grinty get out of it...starting wars and all?"

"A sense of power, of control, of self-worth if you like... They say he comes from a family of magical gadget- and furniture-makers in the Black Forest. But he was not satisfied with keeping up the family business, which, by-the-by, is highly successful. I have one of their watches, in fact. Keeps time perfectly, predicts the weather, calculates tides, full moons...fascinating."

Minerva found herself tapping her foot impatiently. Da got off the subject like this sometimes, especially when it involved some new invention or other. A beady-eye and a loud throat-clearing usually got him back on track.

It worked this time too. Her professor blushed and moved on. "But where was I? Oh yes, Old Grindy. I understand that he is actually rather an unprepossessing fellow. His customers and not a few family members called him der Grinde. It's a kind of scabrous tree infestation common to their woodlands."

"The Grinde. I've heard of that. One of my roommates told me about it. Is it really as bad as Bundimuns?"

"Heavens no! But it is an obnoxious fungus--looks awful, like dried-out porridge. You can imagine why he broke with his parents--not much love lost among them, I imagine. He turned his back on the family business, traveled, studied in Romania and Italy, and along the way befriended a young Corsican officer of the French army named Buonaparte."

Though Dumbledore gave the name its Italian pronunciation, Minerva recognized it. "Napoleon Bonaparte...the one who became emperor of France and gave our...erm...Navy so much trouble?"

"I see you know your Muggle history."

"I'm rather attracted to stories about...ah...ships and such. Do you mean to say that this Grindelwald helped Napoleon?"

"Yes, though I'm not sure that is, in fact, his real name... Doesn't seem possible, in light of... "

Her professor seemed in danger of wandering off on a tangent again, so Minerva prompted him. "Erm, in light of... Napoleon?"

"Ah... yes, he saw all sorts of possibilities in young Bonaparte, who was short in stature like himself,but charismatic and gifted, especially in matters of battle tactics. The wizard nurtured the young Muggle's ambitions like Mami Leek does her hothouse Dragonias. He insinuated, flattered, encouraged, planted ideas, removed obstacles. And with the force of magic behind him, Napoleon could not help but be successful. And many of the European conflicts since--and not a few in the East--have been orchestrated by Old Grindy."

"Is that why you were in France? Were you trying to catch him?"

"Indeed. Usually, when a war is winding down, he likes to make a quick exit. But he needed this war to go on a bit longer. We think he was sowing more seeds."

"Sir?"

"For another war. You see, he knew the Central Powers were doomed. Their alliance was crumbling. Bulgaria and the Ottoman Empire had already given up, though Germany remained recalcitrant. But the longer what we call The Great War went on, the more people that were killed, the greater the resentment towards Germany would be, and the worse the reparations demanded by the winning side when the Kaiser finally surrendered. So Grindelwald was there at the Front, urging the Germans to one more bloody battle...in the forefront, shooting down individuals who got separated from their regiments... We got wind of his efforts and came along to try to trap him. And that's how we met your Grandfather Wallace."

"Did you catch him? Auld Grinty--or Grindelwald--or whatever his name is?"

"No we did not, but I believe he was wounded--badly. He has not been heard of in a long while. We should have been able to capture him easily, but somehow he slipped through our Wards."

Wards. Da had explained them to her: nodes of magical force that could create a kind of huge, powerful shield or wall to keep things out of a place--or lock them in. "You placed Wards around the battlefield?"

The professor nodded. "We searched the area thoroughly. The only person we found was your grandfather, injured but holding on."

Minerva cried excitedly, "Oh, he might have seen something. He, better than any Muggle, would have known a wizard as soon as he saw him."

Her professor shook his head. "Alas, we questioned him discreetly, but he could tell us nothing. He was out of his head, and his vocal cords and lungs were much injured�”mustard gas, you know."

"Oh yes. I forgot about that."

"They carried him off to a field hospital and from there, home to Scotland…"

Minerva's mind was whirling--the vision--the Muggle--the wizard--"Professor Dumbledore, sir. The British soldiers…what color are their uniforms?"

"Tan to olive drab, I believe, depending on the dye lot."

"With little vees on the sleeves? And round metal caps that sit high on their heads, with a brim all around?"

He looked startled. "Ah--yes. I take it you've seen pictures of your grandfather in uniform."

Minerva thought she might have figured out the truth about the Muggle she'd seen in the Seeking Glass. Could she trust this teacher to help her understand the meaning of her vision? She decided to take the gamble. She told him what she had seen, about the soldier confronting the mage, the spell, and the mirror going black.

He did not speak for a moment, then: "The Connghaill Seeking Glass is known to me. It is a very powerful artifact, fashioned by a most inventive witch or wizard, whose name alas is lost to us. As I understand it, its magic is triggered by the close presence of some intimate possessions of persons whose history one wishes to view."

"What do you mean?"

"Let us say that I needed desperately to see what happened at a meeting between my brother Aberforth and--erm--the Headmaster. I could go to Scotland, taking some cherished possession of Aberforth's--his pipe perhaps--and one of Professor Dippet's favorite potted mushrooms and--with your father's permission, of course--place them both up close to the Seeking Glass. Then I would step back, and the Glass would show me any and all interactions between those two--and those two alone."

Minerva's mind was working furiously, but she held very still to take in her professor's every word. The truth was very near now, and she didn't want to miss a particle of it.

He went on. "Now the puzzle is, why did it show you that particular scene? For there must have been something in your possession that belonged to the men you saw, otherwise no link could have been forged. Think, Minerva, what were you wearing or carrying when you walked into that room?"

She deliberated carefully, turning over in her mind everything she could remember about that day, including the horrific confrontation with the Erkling. "We had found something... in another room... a knapsack. It had some papers in it... and an old cloak. I think... I think the knapsack was my grandfather's. There was a letter in it that he wrote to my grandmother."

"I would bet my wand that the Muggle you saw in the Glasswas your grandfather."

"And the wizard?"

"Old Grindy, of course. But do you not see, Minerva? You must have been carrying an object belonging to him too, otherwise you could never have seen an event in which both of them participated."

"It...it had to be the cloak then."

"Ah, the cloak. But now the question is, how did those things--the cloak, the letter, the knapsack--get into the McGonagall Crypt?"

She felt suddenly, unaccountably, furious. "I don't know. But if the vision is true, my grandfather surprised that wicked warlock on the battlefield and he cast a spell on him."

"Did you hear the incantation?"

"No. I remember there was a flash of green light. It almost blinded me. And then everything went dark."

"It makes sense. It would mean that your father was injured by magic, not gas and Muggle shrapnel, as his doctors thought."

"Yes, sir. That must be so." She was gratified that he was including her in his reasoning, and it helped to cool her anger. And the clarity and detail of his explanations reminded her of something else. she decided to play another hunch. "Sir, have you ever written a book on Transfiguration?"

"Oh yes, a long time ago."

"Adventures in Transfiguration?"

"Ah, you know it? Not one of my better efforts, according to my publisher."

"Whyever not?"

His eyes twinkled. "Explains too much. Knowledge is a dangerous thing she says. Students should be kept in the dark as long as possible. I disagree. A little knowledge is dangerous, but if all the facts are laid bare to the student, then, with the right student, Minerva, you have an upwelling of creative thought that can transform the world."

She could not suppress a wide, toothy grin. But, "I see," was all she said.

He tapped the table. "Just as with this little incident concerning your grandfather. It is but one more piece of the puzzle. And I believe it is not potent spells or potions or even leagues of powerful wizards banded together which will finally erase Old Grindy or Grindelwald--whoever he really is--from our world, but knowledge of his weaknesses."

29. LETTERS

Minerva raced back to the Gryffindor common room, delirious with happiness. Here was one teacher who understood exactly how she felt about learning and had an interest in helping her solve the mystery of her grandfather's death. She'd tried to push it all out of her mind thinking it a fruitless task. But now there was purpose, and the possibility of truth, even vindication for her mother. She just had to know what happened at her grandparents' house that day, and she thought she knew how she could find out.

She took the steps to the dorm two at a time, no mean feat with an armload of books. Her legs had lengthened over the last few months, so this was no longer very difficult. She flung the dorm door open, in time to see Suze's cat rise up on its haunches in the far corner, batting gracefully at something she couldn't see. A soft mewing sound came out of its throat, a little like a baby crying. How cute, she thought. In her heightened state, she felt friendly to all the world, even this sleek, sneaky feline.

Minerva placed her books carefully on her desk and tiptoed over to the corner, curious, yet not wanting to disturb Tyger at whatever he was playing with. Suze had brought a large array of toys with her, both magical and mechanical, and all her roommates took turns entertaining the indefatigable feline with them. But it was no toy the cat was playing with this time. A tiny ball of fur, a mouse by the look of it, was curled in the corner, whiskers bristling, sides heaving. Instinctively Minerva swatted the cat's rump, but instead of bolting, it pounced on the little fellow, seized it with its teeth, and scrabbled out of the corner, then across the room, leaping onto to Hildy's bed. Minerva whipped out her wand and fired a Stunner at it. She missed and it glanced off a book propped up against the pillows. In response, the cat bounded out the open door, still carrying its prey. It scampered down the steps with a final arrogant tail flick. Stay out of my business, the tail seemed to say. Your paltry magic is no match for my speed and cunning.

She tried to follow, but tripped over a pile of books that was lying on the floor. "Hateful creature!" she yelled after it when she finally made the steps, firing one more Stunner into the tortured mix of metal that made up the spiral staircase.

Minerva sat down heavily on Hildy's bed. She was sweating profusely--and quivering like the poor mouse. Cats were horrid. She had never much liked them, and here was one more reason for her disgust. She'd have to tolerate Suze's pet, but no more would she play with it, stroke it, bring it treats like the other girls.

A singed odor made her look down at the bed. There lay Hildy's Favorite History Book, a deep burn etched into it from her Stun spell. She sighed. She'd have to confess to Hildy that she did it, and then Suze would find out, and get mad because Minerva tried to Stun her pet... Suddenly weary of all things magical, she slouched over to her desk to dig out some parchment. Better get the letter off first ... On top of the stack of books was Adventures in Transfiguration. It cheered her somehow, just knowing that she could carry around with her the words of her favorite teacher all the time...The thought caught her up short. Professor Dumbledore had shown her a way to help her mother. Maybe he could help her with Hildy's book too. Perhaps she could repair the book, using his wisdom and experience.

She opened Adventures in Transfiguration. This would be a transformation of the simplest kind, a mere change in shape, not in size or composition. And she thought she remembered seeing a suitable spell in the chapter on Metamorphmagic. Yes, there it was, on page thirty-four:

Metamorphmages are able to change their features, and to a certain extent their stature and build, merely by thinking about it, and they do not have to concentrate much to maintain those changes. The prudent Metamorph, however, will check in a mirror occasionally to make sure that his newly darkened hair is not fading and that the Roman nose he copied off that picture of his favourite singer has not taken to roamin' all over his face. Yes, he must be always vigilant, for if he is excessively tired or depressed, or worse, finds himself in range of a Finite Incantatem or an Attenuo spell, his carefully constructed physiognomy may snap back into its original less-than-perfect state.

These minor pitfalls notwithstanding, an ordinary mage might ask himself: "Can I with a decent knowledge of the theory and practice of Transfiguration do Metamorphmagic on my own face?" The answer is both yes and no. It is easy enough to manipulate the surface of any object by using a simple spell like the Attenuo spoken of above. Repeating this incantation over and over will, in a short time, relax the bonds that hold any solid in its rigid crystalline structure. It becomes plastic and can be re-formed at will, in much the same way as a Muggle sculptor shapes clay, or a baker spreads icing on a cake. The cant must be repeated continually so as to keep the surface in a molten state. This makes it quite easy to smooth, roughen, lift, depress, pinch, poke, or otherwise affect the surface in question. When the desired appearance is achieved, the caster says the freezing cant "Klikitat!" and the surface will solidify and will hold its new shape indefinitely.

Now you might say, "Wonderful, that means anyone can be a Metamorph," but you will find that this is not so. For the surface resulting from the Attenuo/Klikitat combination is relatively firm and unyielding, like scar tissue, far from the subtle pliancy that allows for the infinite variety of expression inherent in living epidermis. So, while it is easy enough to change the surface of inanimate objects, when it comes to human skin, only the true Metamorph has the power to make such changes and retain a mobile, life-like quality in the result.

Perfect, thought Minerva She was not in the least interested in changing her features, only the cover of a book, and the more rigid the result, the better. She first tried the incantation out on a section of flooring under her bed. Under the rhythmic repetitions--Attentuo, Attenuo--the stone turned to a spongy mass, something like bread dough. She poked her initials into it with her wand and made an impression with her hand. Then she said the counterspell "Klikitat!" and the sponge turned back to stone, keeping the record of her autograph and handprint.

Now she turned her attention to the book. The cover softened at her command and she was able to draw the edges of the slit together and smooth them by rolling her wand over them. The burn color all but disappeared as it blended with the undamaged part of the leather. Fortunately, as it was the back cover and not the front, she didn't have to worry about manufacturing letters for the title. Then "Klikitat" and it was as good as new. The only trouble was that the repaired area did look a little darker than the rest. She thought she'd better confess to Hildy after all, but she'd say she had only been practicing her defensive spells and would not mention the incident with Tyger.

Duty done, she remembered what she had come upstairs for in the first place. She got out quill and parchment and drafted a letter to her father.

Dear Da,

How are you and Ma? I hope she's out of her sleep now and growing in strength every day. I think of you both all the time.

How is Goodie? Don't forget to remind her that the Augurey feathers go in the stain-removing potion and make sure she uses milk vetch, not milkweed. She always mixes the recipe up with the one for inducing tears.

I have a question to ask you. Has anyone ever tried taking one of Ma's belongings and something of Grandfather Wallace's to the Seeking Glass? I was thinking maybe that would reveal what really happened to Grandfather, although perhaps it would be better not to know. I would love Ma just the same, no matter what. But the Truth is important too, don't you think?

Your loving daughter,

Minerva

She posted it immediately, and begged the owl to wait around to remind Da until he answered back.

~*~

She expected a quick reply, but another message of great import arrived at breakfast the next morning, though it was not addressed to her. The owl who had carried it was obviously weary because it skidded out of control down the table and knocked a glass of juice out of Mina's hand before landing in the bacon and eggs. It was a young bird, so they knew it wasn't past its prime, as was true of many Hogwarts birds. In fact it was an eagle owl, the hardiest of its race. It must have come a long distance to be so tired. Minerva untied the letter it was carrying, and saw that it was addressed to Susannah Yorke.

"Bats and rats and calico cats," muttered Suze under her breath, as she read the orange-juice-spattered writing.

"Must have come from China," opined Raymie, who was craning over Minerva, trying to get a look.

"Not nearly, but far enough all the same," said Mina. "This is a Siberian subspecies. See the barred tail feathers?"

"Aha," cried Hildy Bagshot. "And the bird's leg strap is marked with the seal of the House of Blagsgorod. The family was very active in the hunting of lycanthropes before the establishment of the Werewolf Code of Conduct in 1612."

"And there's a bit of sap and green stuff caught in its feathers," continued Mina. "Hmm--looks like pine needles and larvae of Neodiprion sertifer--the common sawfly. It mostly attacks northern European conifers--"

"Who's it from?" shouted Raymie, exasperated by all this enlightened female conjecture.

"Petey Macnair, of course," said Minerva.

"Right," said Susannah.

"Remarkable insight," said Hildy, "To take just these few bits of evidence--"

Minerva shrugged. "I recognized the handwriting."

"Listen," said Suze. And she began to read:

Suze,

I've had about as much as I can take of this place. I tried to send you a letter by my own owl, but it got caught by the school guards. The Headmistress--her name is Frau Groll--just loved telling me that. It seems my father doesn't want me sending messages to anybody but him. I can't even get a letter through to Mum. I had to borrow this eagle owl from my friend Zoltan, though I'm not even sure it will get through.

Groll the Troll told me I'd be staying here over the summer so I can practise my Dark Magic. I don't get to come home at all. Apparently I don't have the guts to do an Avada Kedavra. In case you don't know it, Suze, that's a killing spell, instant and unblockable. Well, in order to do most of these spells they're trying to teach us, you have to really hate the person you're aiming at, and I just can't do it.

I'd better go. They're serving real meat tonight�”dried Ironbelly. But I'm not particular anymore.

Your friend,

Petey

"Well, what do you make of that?" said Suze.

"He's going to try to escape," said Raymie.

"How do you know that?"

"Because I would. Imagine, nothing to eat but old dragon. Bleccch!"

"And wormy oatmeal," said Minerva. "But, Suze, what was that spell he talked about? Avada something, was it?"

"Avada kedavra. I've never heard of it."

"I have," said Raymie. "It's just like Petey described it. You say the words and this green light comes out of your wand, and the person just snuffs it. And not a mark on him."

"But it's illegal in Britain," said Hildy. "The Ministry of Magic passed the Comprehensive Restriction of Dark Arts in 1912, in response to an upsurge in the use of the Imperius Curse at Quidditch matches."

"Fans trying to influence the referee, I bet," said Raymie.

"It would seem so, wouldn't it? But mostly it was coaches using it on their own players to get them to do dangerous things to win, like head-butting Bludgers to keep them from getting to the Seeker or flying into thunder clouds to retrieve the Quaffle or the Snitch."

"Well, Minerva'd probably do that anyway, Imperius or no, hey Nerves?" said Raymie.

But Minerva would not be distracted. She had something more important to think about�”the spell that had killed her grandfather. Her grandmother said it had sounded like 'Abracadabra.' What if it was this killing spell, this Avada Kedavra Petey talked about?

~*~

Finally Da's letter came, and none too soon. After Petey's letter, she was ready to break into one of the teachers' offices and Floo back home to ask the question.

Dear Minerva,

Your mother is well, though not up to writing yet. Goodie takes good care of her. She asks after you, and sends her love.

Everything is going well here at the farm. I've taken your Aunt Donald on to help me with the accounts. Charlamaine's son Cuthbert has pretty much taken over the running of the mine. He's installed some new safeguards that he learned abroad. The twins have finally perfected that Crup-Collie cross-breed. At least the pups are single-tailed and haven't yet attacked any of the Muggle tradesmen.

As to your question, I must say it's a good one. I thought of it myself about a year after your grandfather died. I took a brooch of your mother's and Grandfather Wallace's favorite cap up to the Crypt. The only trouble with the Seeking Glass is it doesn't always show you what you want to see. It showed me scene after scene of the two of them together when she was a wee bairn: walking in the woods, collecting herbs, cleaning fish, flying kites, playing chess, shelling peas out under a tree, shopping for her school books, sketching, but nothing of that last day. I did come away with one important piece of information. Your ma and her father were very close. He taught her so much. I'm sorry I never got to know the man. He seemed an awfully good sort, though I understand the war changed him a great deal.

I've got a new project. Perhaps you saw the article in the Daily Owl that the MoM may be getting ready to ban flying carpets. It's a first phase of a general embargo on imports pending a possible Muggle war. In reponse, Horton and Keitch have commissioned me to work on a multi-seater broom for family use. So far, I've made one with enough power and speed for three. If I'm successful, they might finance a limited edition. They want at least a four-seater though, since the average wizarding family contains one point nine children.

By the by, they're not going to put the One-Sixty into full production as they originally planned. The type of wood they're using in the shaft tends to get brittle and that, coupled with the extremely high length to diameter ratio, causes it to break up when the G-forces are too strong. Even the new finishes don't seem to be able to help. See if you can get Walden Macnair to sell us his, will you? I'd like to have one for my collection. There were only about a score ever made.

We're all looking forward to the summer when we'll be together. Until then, try not to worry too much about these things. They have a way of working themselves out.

All my love,

Da

So that was a dead end. Minerva was disappointed, yet heartened by her mother's progress. She sent her love. That was all that mattered. She would try not to think about the past.

Practicing with the team helped some, though it wasn't nearly the same thing as playing in a game. Gryffindor won their second game against Slytherin in February, so they had a virtual lock on the House Cup. Miranda Goshawk scored five goals in that one. Minerva forced herself to congratulate her rival at the celebration and continued to practice with the team two nights a week without fail, and on Saturdays too. After all, she had promised Stephen she would, and it seemed a mean thing not keep her word.

She'd thought Magnus MacDonald would be glad of a chance to scrimmage, but it seemed he'd found a new sporting interest over the holidays. He and his parents had visited the Swedish branch of the family�”the Donalssons--and they told him about the famous Kopparberg-to-Arjeplog Broom Race. He came back to school on fire to enter the competition coming up that spring and said that he had a revolutionary idea about how to win the trophy. He told Minerva about it over breakfast and invited her to a meeting he was having that afternoon with older students who were interested. It sounded exciting, she thought. It was so boring, sitting on the Gryffindor bench.

~*~

"Going to the Swedish broom race meeting today?" asked Dugald Macmillan as they cleaned up after Potions that afternoon.

"Yes, are you?"

"It sounds a bit suspect to me. Unsafe, you ken?"

"It can't be any worse than flying about in thunderstorms and blizzards like we do in Quidditch." She stopped short of calling Dugald a cowardly wretch, though the thought crossed her mind.

"Well, I might stop in, but I've got some research to do first."

~*~

"Welcome, racing fans!" Magnus addressed the crowd of diehards that crammed the small classroom on the main floor. He had placed an ad about tryouts in The Daily Owl, so there were adults present as well. And sitting in the front row of desks was none other than Walden Macnair with several of his Quidditch mates, all looking eager to join up.

Gaining confidence from the excellent turnout, he peered at his notes and continued: "The Annual Broom Race of Sweden has been a sporting tradition of the Magicosm for almost a thousand years."

His audience nodded approval. They were all for tradition and longevity. If nothing else, the kinks in the course would have been gotten out by now.

"Before we go outside and get on with the tryouts, I'd like to give you all a bit of background on this stupendous event."

Everyone settled in for what they hoped, but did not expect, would be a short lecture. The MacDonalds were not known for their brevity. There was some scuffling, as broomsticks were eased to the floor, and a burly latecomer edged inside the door.

"Usually only individuals enter the event, but I think a team would have a much better chance of winning."

Nods of heads. The Wizarding sports tradition was all about team solidarity.

"The point of a team would be partly to provide companionship because the course is over three hundred miles long."

The students cheered this. They were all there because they loved flying and the longer the fly, the better. And of course everyone knew there was safety�”and lots more fun--in numbers.

"And the prize is this wonderful great silver trophy shaped like a dragon that we would get to keep in the school trophy room."

More cheers, and a question from Walden Macnair. Would the names of the participants be engraved on the trophy?

"Of course," replied Magnus, and he hinted that there might be a school-wide celebration if they won, and exemption from exams for all the racers. The Slytherins started slapping each other on the back.

One of the adults, the red-nosed proprietor of the Hogsmeade pub, offered to spring for drinks for the celebration, and hoped that he'd be allowed to display the trophy behind the bar during holidays.

Another question, from a muffled voice at the back of the crowd: was there any special reason why the trophy was made in the shape of a dragon, and not, say, a racer on his broom?

Magnus thought for a moment, then opined that, since dragons fly, and are known to be well nigh invincible, a dragon-trophy would be an apt metaphor to represent the winner of such an arduous event.

But the questioner�”-it was Dugald Macmillan--would not take that for an answer, and slowly bulled his way forward through the crowd. He raised his voice and it resounded loudly throughout the room. "Isn't it true that the race takes the fliers over a reservation for Swedish Short-Snout dragons?"

Heads turned, and the crowd observed the interloper's progress with some rancor. It was that first-year Macmillan, putting in his oar again. A real wet-blanket.

"Uh, well, it's only a small reservation�”I believe they raise the young dragonets there…"

"And isn't it true," Dugald continued, dodging a foot that was placed in his way, "that the Short-Snout is a bright blue in color?"

"Well, yes--"

"Making it able to blend in with the sky."

"That makes sense."

"So it can sneak up on an unwary broom rider at any time?"

"Um�”I don't know about that."

There were grumbles from the audience. Know-It-All Macmillan was showing off again. Didn't he know that his family wasn't cut out for heavy thinking? He should sit down before his brain exploded from the effort.

Dugald was up at the podium now. He muttered softly, "You should pay closer attention in Creature Care, Magnus."

"But Short-Snouts are rather small as dragons go." Magnus countered. "My uncle Thorvald told me--"

"Did he tell you that the average Short-Snout weighs over a ton, is twenty feet long, and can spit fire at a range of twenty to thirty feet?"

This brought hoots and whistles from all sides. "Coward," the Slytherins cried and "Fatso," and "Farty-Smartie!" Waldo produced an emaciated chicken from his backpack and threw it at Dugald, but the big redhead dodged it undismayed.

"Well no," Magnus squeaked, "but--they're not very fast."

"That's true. They are among the slower species. They can only do about a hundred miles an hour, tops. But no racing broom yet devised can do over eighty-five, even with a tailwind."

The crowd's grousing dimmed to a mere murmur.

Dugald turned to the audience. "And Short-Snouts of almost any age have a fire-breath so hot it can turn a wizard to toast in a matter of seconds."

The crowd became so silent you could have heard a Bowtruckle squeak.

"I have here a news article that states that the most dangerous sports in the Wizarding World are the American sport of Exploding Quaffles--also known as Quodpot--Troll Bloodball, Free Fall Carpet Diving, and at number one, by far, participation in the Kopparberg to Arjeplog Broom Race, with an average yearly mortality rate of twenty-two point seven percent."

At this point, Magnus lost his audience. The once-eager recruits picked up their brooms and began to edge away from him, murmuring angrily. Walden Macnair was among the loudest, calling Magnus a string of names his teachers would never have countenanced, as he made for the door. His cronies followed him and the room emptied quickly.

A few faithful friends, including Minerva, lingered to hear his strategy�”-how team members would fly about daringly and distract the dragons to make it easier for their captain to get through. However, even they quickly lost interest when they realized that Magnus had designated that position for himself. No amount of shouting about "taking one for the team" could persuade them to volunteer to be target practice for a horde of flame-throwing drakes. Even Minerva was dismayed at the thought. She was fast, but not that fast. In fact, she was mad at Magnus for not researching his subject a little better, but curiously madder still at Dugald who seemed to be sticking his nose more and more into her business.

30. RUNAWAY!

Later that week, Susannah came to her dorm mates in tears. It seemed Raymie had been right about Petey Macnair. He had tried to escape from Durmstrang--and apparently succeeded. And now he was missing--again. She had it from Lord Macnair himself, who had come to the school to grill her and others of Petey's friends on his possible whereabouts. Minerva realized her friend's distress wasn't entirely due to the questioning, though knowing Lord Macnair, it must have been very harsh. When she finally calmed down, Suze admitted that she was afraid that Petey might be frozen to death in a cave somewhere. Or if he wasn't, when his father found him, he'd wish he was. They had to do something, she cried, but what, she wasn't prepared to say. Nor was Minerva. It seemed an impossible challenge.

So she was surprised when Hildy Bagshot beckoned her and Mina Grubbly to a nearly empty corner of the common room that night and asked what they could do about it.

"This Peter Macnair. I want to help him. I've never met him, but I'm confident he's a decent fellow, and Susannah seems quite taken with him...."

So 'taken', thought Minerva that Suze had gone through a drawerful of handkerchiefs already, had interrupted three classes with her tearful outbursts, and now could be heard wailing away upstairs in the dormitory through two feet of granite. But Minerva felt the need to defend her friend, even if she was acting a bit Muggle-headed. "She and Petey were really good friends. And she sometimes gets�”emotional...."

Mina shifted in her seat. "Emotional? I'd call it 'hysterical'. She's making Bubo very nervous. And her cat scratched her three times today."

"This Peter must be a very brave and resourceful person," Hildy continued. "I read that Durmstrang has so many spells around it that no one's ever escaped before."

"You make it sound like a prison," said Minerva.

"It's a well-known fact that parents send their most recalcitrant children to Durmstrang. It's like what Muggles call a 'military school'."

Whatever that is, thought Minerva.

Hildy went on. "He's made history you know. The first student ever to foil the defenses of the most secretive school in the Magicosm."

"Well, he is pretty good with spells."

"No doubt. The youngest son of the Wizard-Thane of Perth, with a pedigree as long as Merlin's beard..."

And she's looked that up too, thought Minerva. Probably knows the whole family tree by heart. But she just said, "I don't see how we can help him...."

Hildy bulled right on. "I've given this a lot of thought. You're an excellent aviator, Minerva, and Mina here knows all about wild animals, and I know lots about foreign countries. I thought, if we put our heads together, we could come up with a way to rescue him. What do you say?"

Minerva stifled a snort of laughter. How could they, three first-year witches, do what Laird Macnair and all his minions could not?

Of course, she knew what lay behind Hildy's idea. She loved geography almost as much as history. The idea of visiting a foreign country--any country--put all thoughts of danger out of her mind. And if they succeeded in finding Petey before anyone else did, they'd make a little bit of wizarding history themselves. Maybe even become the first entry in The Bagshot Book of World Records or any other such nonsense Hildy might be working on.

But Minerva said yes--if they could come up with a workable plan. Under all her skepticism, she really wanted to help Petey because she felt at least partly to blame for his incarceration at that hateful school.

Mina took her time before answering. Minerva had come to know her as a dispassionate sort, who could kill and dissect a Streeler without a thought as to its pain or the danger to herself. She had an insatiable curiosity about all things animate, and all but worshiped Newt Scamander, the famous magizoologist. She finally said 'yes' too, and offered an idea that was to become the foundation for their ultimate plan.

It was so simple: they would send Mina's owl Bubo out with a letter for Petey, and they would follow him on their broomsticks. But, objected Minerva, neither Hildy nor Mina was any great shakes on a broom. But they argued that they both had other assets of knowledge and experience that would make them invaluable to the expedition, and that there was no way they would let Mineva make such a dangerous trip all by herself. So she thought long and hard about possible ways around her own objection.

~*~

In the end, Minerva wrote to her father and asked him to send along that three-seater prototype broom he was working on, on the pretense of volunteering to do some trial runs for him. Its delivery made quite a stir in the Great Hall at breakfast two days later. It took the four barn owls carrying it five minutes of maneuvering to find a landing place. It was over seven feet long and weighed at least five stone. Hildy christened it The Dreadnought. They practiced on it the next weekend and pronounced it serviceable, despite being heavy and rather rigid. At least it would hold up well in cross-currents and nasty weather.

Hildy spent some time searching for clues to the location of Durmstrang. These were few and contradictory. She also looked up the geography and peoples of the lands they would most likely be traveling to, and even memorized some choice phrases in a variety of languages. At the top of her list was "Do you speak English?" and "Where's the Ladies', please?"

Minerva studied maps of Europe. She would be the pilot, and their safety would rest in her hands. She kept pushing out of her brain all the logical objections to the plan, chief among them the fact that they had no idea how far they would be flying.

Looking at a map of the Swiss Alps with Hildy, she pointed out a place called Grindelwald. "That's odd. I thought Grindelwald was from the Black Forest."

"So he is," said Hildy, "but there's no connection between the two actually. Odd, isn't it? A charming little ski resort that gives pleasure to thousands of people every year has the same name as a Dark Wizard who has been responsible for the deaths of untold numbers of Muggles."

Minerva, who had assumed that the true nature of Grindelwald the wizard was a deep, dark secret, known only to Professor Dumbledore and his little band of avengers, wondered how her dorm mate knew all this. But then 'Batty' Bagshot, as her classmates called her when she wasn't around, subscribed to Wizard News and World Report, Minutes of Ministry Meetings, and Today's Magicosm and had probably read every history book in the school library. She had to be much better informed on the true state of magical affairs than the average witch-in-the-street.

Mina concentrated on collecting supplies and reading up on the possible animals they might meet. She would also be responsible for keeping Bubo in sight on their trip. To this end, she made friends with Raymie Sykes, who had a set of Multi-oculars that she thought would come in handy in tracking her pet. They were made for watching Quidditch matches, and she asked to borrow them on the pretense of needing them for a birding expedition her parents had planned. They looked like Muggle binoculars but had a number of interesting knobs and dials, the use of which Raymie explained to her and Minerva enthusiastically.

"See this button?" he said. "If you press it, it identifies the type of Quidditch formation or ploy you're seeing."

"Would it recognize the Hurdle, do you think?" Minerva asked, purely to make conversation.

"The move your dad invented? Probably. But no one uses it anymore, at least not that I've seen."

Mina, who had no interest in Quidditch, demanded to see a feature that could help her observe golden eagles in flight.

"Oh, here. The Tracker. Homes in on whatever you tell it to, and doesn't let up. You've got to be careful though. There's always the possibility of severe whiplash if your favorite player--er--bird--makes a sharp turn."

"Does it have a Close-Up feature?" asked Minerva.

"Of course." He led her over to a Common Room window and told her to look through the lenses. When he hit the Zoom button, Minerva got a view of a female teacher undressing in the next tower over.

"That's--erm-- pretty good, Raymie."

"Oh, I don't know. It'd be better if it could slow things down or play back what you just saw."

Minerva just nodded. A magigadget that could manipulate time? That kind of advancement would take another millennium to develop, she was sure.

They prepared to launch over the Easter holidays. Each had forged a note with Suze's Enhancement Pen to give to Professor Binns, saying they had permission to go home to celebrate the Equinox with their families.

~*~

Now they were on the Dreadnought, following Bubo through an endless fog bank. Behind Minerva, Mina watched the flight of her pet through the Multi-oculars. Hildy, in the back, holding a turnip-sized compass, called out a string of seemingly unrelated numbers, somehow related to the map shehad spread out on herknees. Minerva peered into the grayness around her.

Messenger owls are trained to stay in the clouds during the day to avoid Muggle eyes, and Bubo held closely to this rule. Minerva and Hildy had expected him to land occasionally to relieve himself, but after several hours of non-stop flight, Mina informed them that all birds defecate 'on the fly,' and that they'd just have to hold it until he alit for a rest.

The first stage of the journey passed like a boring dream for Minerva. Bubo flew an almost straight line. But all too soon it started growing dark and very cold. It got harder and harder to pick out their guide in the mist, and they even lost him at one point. Minerva urged the Dreadnought to the limits of its velocity. They were catching up to something, but it wasn't an owl or any kind of bird. It looked more like a figure on a broomstick. and she thought she recognized who. She had pursued him often on the pitch out back of Macmillan's. It was Petey. It had to be. She looked over her shoulder to shout the news to her companions. But the back of the broom was empty. What happened? Had both Hildy and Mina slid off when she accelerated? She had heard no cries, felt no lightening of the load.

She tried to go to ground, to look for her friends. Forget Petey. He was obviously fine if he had his own broom. But the Dreadnought would not obey her mental command, and in fact speeded up towards the other broomstick. Perhaps its weight was just too much for the Braking Charm. She'd have to tell Da…She was right behind the other broomstick now. She could, if she reached out, touch its twiggy tail. But the tail had changed. The twigs were whitish, like they'd been burned to ash. But no, they weren't twigs, but bones, small and thin, like the bones of the Pogrebin her father had nailed up over the front gate of the farm. And now the flyer turned around. Reached around and broke a bone off the end of the broom. It wasn't Petey at all. It was a creature with silvery white fur and long narrow feet. The yeti. She heard again the slavering breath, the screaming howl. It took the bone into its mouth and crunched it. She looked into its eyes. They were ringed with black circles. This made it look like the creature never slept, ever. There was an impersonal, implacable hatred in those eyes. It reached for her with an abnormally long arm. She lurched back and lost her balance. Now she too was falling. Oddly she passed Mina and Hildy on the way down, as if she were a rock, and they just leaves in the wind. "'Nerva, 'Nerva," they called, reaching their arms out to her.

~*~

"'Nerva, Greatrakes alive, 'Nerva!"

"Wha--don't call me that...."

"Sorry. That must've been some dream." Minerva opened her eyes. Suze Yorke was staring into her face, her long curly hair dangling perilously close to Minerva's mouth.

"Dream? But I was...we were...."

"When you didn't come down for breakfast, we got worried." Mineva turned her head. It was Hildy talking now. "We've been trying to wake you for the longest time."

"Nineteen seconds to be precise," said Mina who was studying her like an interesting variation of flobberworm.

Hildy hugged a blanket to herself. A plaid blanket. Minerva's blanket.

"What are you doing with my plaidie?"

Hildy tossed it back to her. "When we couldn't get you up by natural means, we tried cooling you down. Mina was just about douse you." Mina held up a pitcher of ice water.

Minerva sat up. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Well, you were thrashing about so at the end, we were afraid you were having a fit."

So it was just a dream. And from the look of the sky, it was about eight a.m. They were way overdue to start their journey.

"I need to pee, and then we've got to get going--"

Hildy put a hand on her arm. "No, Min, Susannah has news, wonderful news."

"I got an owl from my dad," Suze gushed. "They found Petey!"

"What?"

"It's true. Dad was so angry when I wrote to him about the Laird yelling at me, he went up to Macnair Castle to have it out with him. That's where he got the news. Saw Petey himself. He's fine."

"How did they--?"

"Oh, Walden's been crowing about it all through breakfast. Says it was his idea. Can you believe it? They sent out an eagle owl with a letter for him, and a legion of the Laird's men followed it. Too simple, really."

Minerva looked at Mina. She looked mildly put-out. But Hildy was livid.

"Which one of you told?" she hissed after Suze left the dorm.

"What are you saying?" shouted Minerva, equally indignant. But she quieted immediately as Mina held up her hand.

"We none of us would tell. For one thing we haven't had time to talk to anyone with the preparations and all. I'd say our behavior was enough to make someone suspicious. You know--borrowing Raymie's Multi-Oculars, smuggling food up from the dining room...."

"But that wouldn't make them guess your idea, Mina, about following Bubo," retorted Hildy. "There must have been a spy in our midst."

"Who," said Minerva. "Suze? She's been too busy crying."

"Raymie. It's Raymie I bet!"

Mina chuckled. "That one couldn't put two and two together if you waggled four fingers in front of his face."

"Oh..." A look of comprehension came over Hildy's face. "That first night in the common room when you explained your idea, Mina. There was a boy... that chalk-cheeked twerp with the big space between his teeth... sitting a couple of tables over from us. I thought he was engrossed in his homework, but...."

"You mean Magnus? Magnus MacDonald? But he wouldn't," said Minerva. "He despises Walden."

"Loyalties change," said Hildy. "I'm going to have a talk with him. Magnus, you say?"

~*~

In the end, it was Minerva who approached Magnus. Under all his swagger and boasting, Minerva thought him to be very sensitive about his mediocrity. The plain-spoken Hildy could shatter his pride with her careless questions. And Mina made Hildy see that it needed an old friend to broach the subject, to keep the 'rat' from bolting.

Minerva cornered him in an empty classroom where he was practicing the Leviosa charm. "Why are you doing that?"

"Getting ready for O.W.L.s. I know they're still a year away, but Miss Trumulo says if I practice an extra hour every day..." A flush crept over his cheeks as he said her name. Apparently Vivi Trumulo had not 'charmed' only Raymie Sykes.

"Looks pretty good," Minerva remarked as he sent a quill wafting into the air for the third time in as many tries.

The flush grew brighter and spread to the tips of his ears. Magnus lapped up any little bit of praise. He heard it so rarely. "Miss Trumulo says it's all in the wrist."

"Um, Magnus, I don't want to interrupt you or anything, but I have to ask you something important."

"That's all right, Minerva, what do you want to know?" Appealing to his superior knowledge was second only to praise in satisfying his thirsty ego. Minerva regretted that she would shortly be snatching that cup from his lips, but she had to know the truth.

"You know how Petey was found, right?" Magnus nodded. "And they're saying it was Waldo's idea to look for him, following the owl. But that doesn't sound like him, does it? I mean, he's not known for his brains or imagination…"

"Uh, well, that's not entirely fair, do you think? He is a prefect after all…that must mean he has some intelligence…" His blush was beginning to congeal into red blotches, one on the tip of his skinny, pointed nose.

"But you said..."

"I know I talked about him being the best of a bad bunch, but that's just a joke. Everybody says that, even his friends. But I--I've got to know him better, and he's quite a decent chap really." Magnus was fidgeting with his wand now, his face drained of color.

Minerva suddenly decided she'd had enough of diplomacy. "You told him, didn't you?"

"Told him what?"

"About Mina's idea. You overheard us talking in the common room... and told Walden Macnair... about us planning to follow Bubo...."

Magnus hung his head, but she could see he had his eyes tight shut. Tear droplets were squeezing out and getting caught in the almost-white lashes. It was this finally that drove her anger away. "It's all right, Magnus. He's a bully, Walden is. If he threatened you..."

"He didn't! I went to him myself. He was angry about the Swedish race thing. Had his heart set on competing--just like I did. I didn't mean to keep the part about the dragons dark, I just...thought everyone should hear about the good parts first, you ken? I thought I could make peace with him, so I told him…about your--your friend's idea. I thought it would patch things up between us. I'm sorry, Minerva. I shouldn't have done it. It didn't seem like such a good idea anyway--kind of dangerous, you ken? I didn't really want you to try it...."

"What? Are you my mother or something? First Dugald, now you..."

"Aye, that one. He...he really likes you, Minerva."

"Who?"

"Nothing. Forget it. But listen. I've got a bit of advice for you. You know Waldo--well--he's been seen around with your cousin, that Campbell fellow, and they say..."

"What?"

"I shouldn't tell you."

She didn't want to say, "You owe me, Magnus," but her glare must have looked the words because he sighed and went on. "Your aunt Campbell has been very friendly with the Macnairs lately, and I overheard Walden bragging that Milady and your aunt were going to make you sorry you were ever born."

"What are they going to do?"

Magnus quailed under her sharp stare. "I--I wouldn't worry about it, Minerva. It's probably no more than telling your dad that you're a nasty little nit. You know Waldo. Always exaggerating things, especially unpleasantness."

Minerva nodded. That was the difference between Magnus McDonald and Walden Macnair. Magnus's boasting was of the pleasant guess-what-I-know variety. Walden's was just plain nasty.

31. HOMEGOING

The term was almost over. Minerva sat her exams with something like relief. She'd worked hard all year, and she'd be going home soon. She hadn't heard from Da in a while, and hadn't written him, except to report on the in-flight behavior of the Dreadnought. Ever since it had arrived so conspicuously in the Great Hall, students�”even some sixth and seventh years�”had been clamoring for rides. Her conscience, if not their whining, prodded her into letting the more experienced fliers try it out. They all loved it, especially the boys. It was big and impressive-looking and would be perfect for picking up girls. They promised to pester their parents to order one as soon as it came on the market. She herself was a bit more critical and talked technicalities in her letters: the need for a kind of harness or Sticking Charm for younger children, a gyroscopic spell to counteract the rather high moment of inertia caused by so much extra weight above the shaft, and a heftier braking charm.

News about Petey came to her ears gradually. Unfortunately the most reliable source�”Walden Macnair�”was also the least sympathetic. No, his spoiled brat of a brother wouldn't be going back to Durmstrang, Waldo complained to anyone who would listen. After the stupid baby had 'blubbed to Mum' about all the stuff that went on there, she refused to let her 'darling boy' go back.

Walden gave out every detail of the Durmstrang regimen with disgusting relish�”the punishments, the unheated dorms, the meager diet, the vermin in the bedclothes. He also boasted that the Laird would not give an inch; he refused to have Petey back at the manor. So they were going to send the ungrateful little bugger to stay with some distant relatives in the U.S. Apparently they had schools of magic over there too, although they were far inferior to the British system. Savage types, those Americans. At one point, Walden wondered aloud if he could get his baby brother to send him some specimens of exotic Western beasts, like Clabberts or a Dugbog. Or maybe he could smuggle in the egg of a Peruvian Vipertooth, a smallish dragon with a particular liking for human flesh. He kept going on about the cage dimensions necessary for a ten to fifteen foot drake as well as what he was hoping to feed it (half the student body at last count). It was Dugald who finally shut him up with a casual mention that Peru was in South America, and that that was about as far away from where Petey would be living as the moon.

~*~

Minerva sighed and read the final statement of her Transfiguration exam: For extra points and a chocolate frog, describe one transformation that has not been covered in the above questions. She smiled. It was typical of Professor Dumbledore to give students a last chance to redeem themselves, a way to eke out a passing grade if their other answers were lacking. She knew what Raymie Sykes would write about: the toothpick-to-needle change they'd learned the first day of class. It was still the only one he could perform reliably. She herself would choose a more advanced topic, something not even covered in first year. The Surface Softening spell she'd used to fix Hildy's history book would be perfect. It technically qualified as a first-year spell as it only involved a change in shape. But before she could marshal her thoughts, Professor Dumbledore appeared at her side.

"Are you near to finishing, Minerva?"

"I've only the extra points question yet to do, sir."

"I wonder�”could you go with young Macdonald now?" He beckoned to the door where Robbie the Prefect waited, fidgeting. "I'll keep your paper until you get back."

"What's it about, Robbie?" she asked as they approached him.

"Headmaster wants to see you, Minerva. Something about an urgent message from home."

She felt a sudden thrill of fear and it must have shown on her face because Professor Dumbledore did something then that she had never known him to do with any student. He took her by the shoulders, and gazed long into her eyes. She thought she heard for a moment the sound of a bird singing. The song and the gesture warmed and strengthened her. It alone kept her from collapsing as she trailed out of the classroom after Robbie. The message had to be from Da, and he was going to tell her that Ma had had another relapse.

~*~

But it wasn't Da's head in the fireplace of the Headmaster's Office. It was the last person she'd ever expected to see: her Aunt Charlamaine.

"I hope you are well, Minerva."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You should sit down. I have unfortunate news."

Minerva gulped. Anything Aunt Charlamaine had to say could not be pleasant for her, but why wasn't it Da who had come to tell her? Between breaths she realized why, and two tears were already rolling down her cheeks, even before her aunt made the pronouncement.

Headmaster Dippet, looking very grave, conjured two chairs and sat down beside her.

"I'm sorry to say, Minerva, your father�”my brother�”is dead."

Minerva bowed her head. She had no reason to disbelieve this woman, who, however selfish, however boastful she might be, had never lied to her outright.

"How�”how did it happen?"

The answer came almost too quickly."It was an accident."

An accident. Jupiter McGonagall, twenty-third Lord of Connghaill Keep, didn't have accidents. He was alert and strong and magically powerful…

Her aunt went on. "You know that execrable display your father has�”had�” out by the gate�”the corpse of that creature that supposedly caused your mother's mental condition?"

Minerva registered nothing. Even the hateful implication in the word 'supposedly' could not touch her. She was seeing Da's face, nothing else.

Aunt Charlamaine sighed and plowed on. "Something�”some creature�”tore down the corpse overnight. This enraged your father, and he took off after it. Its footprints I understand were very large. His dogsbody Filch followed him. According to him, the footprints led to the mine. Your father didn't hesitate, but followed the creature inside. Filch followed, but couldn't keep up with him. Jupiter was always so impetuous; he just couldn't wait for help. He chased the creature�”whatever it was�”through the mine, shooting spell after spell at it. Some went awry and somehow�”apparently�” undermined the Propping Spells my Cuthbert had placed on the supports. The ceiling caved in on the two of them�”tons of rock. There was nothing could be done."

"Have they found him yet?"

"Yes, the bodies were recovered about an hour ago." Minerva watched as the face in the fireplace paled and crumpled. She thought at first it was a premature dissolution of the Flooing Charm, but Aunt Charlamaine did not vanish, at least not right away. Was it possible her aunt was actually crying?

~*~

Minerva emerged from the kitchen hearth, her face clean and carefully wooden. Ma would need her more than ever now. She dropped her bags on the floor. Outside the window, she could see a chair in the sunlight, and her mother's head bent over something, a letter perhaps. She ran out to her and rounded the chair. She meant to be strong, supportive, but when her mother looked up, she melted instantly to the ground. Grasping her mother about the waist, she buried her head in her lap, like a little child.

"Ma�”Mama." Her voice was muffled in the soft folds of her mother's apron. She felt she could sit here all day, swathed in the warm, sweet-smelling cloth, shutting out the harsh, unforgiving light, the fierce pain.

Gentle hands lifted her face. The warm, familiar voice washed over her. "My dear girl. I don't believe I've had the pleasure…" The words shocked Minerva to the core, like a sluice of cold water.

She looked up into the hazel eyes, which were clear and frowning in puzzlement, not red and puffy with grief. She pushed herself back onto her heels.

The voice continued, cool and courteous. "I'm sorry. Pleasure is a terribly inappropriate word to use at a time like this. You're Jupiter's daughter. Minerva, isn't it? My dear child, I'm so sorry for your loss. He was a good, generous man."

Minerva looked again�”hard. It was her mother, down to the last freckle. The voice was her mother's too. But the words were those of a stranger�”or of a woman denying a grief too great to bear. She wanted to reply, but words stuck in her throat like dry bread. Then something, some motion, caught her peripheral vision. Her eyes were swimming with tears, yet she managed to discern a dark figure at the kitchen window beckoning to her. Goodie Gudgeon it was, it had to be, white-faced, looking timidly, fearfully, sadly out at her. Dear Goodie. Minerva gathered herself and nodded to the stranger in her mother's chair. She walked stiffly back into the house.

Goodie took her arm and steered her to a place at the work table. Minerva realized that her nurse had shrunk quite a bit since Christmas. She had a sudden irrational, horrifying thought. Was this too part of some deranged spellwork that had planted a stranger who looked like her mother out there in the courtyard? Was it perhaps not Goodie there in front of her, but a dwarf, a few inches too short, and badly Transfigured to look like her? It took all Minerva's self-control to curb the fantastic scenarios that ricocheted about her mind. Only her memory of gentleness in the strange witch's voice, the care of the dwarf's touch, stopped her from spilling her suspicions out in a howl of grief and anger at the mockery. She sat automatically when prompted, and when a steaming cup was placed before her, blew and sipped. It might have been water for all she could taste of it.

The dwarf-crone took a seat across the table from her. She looked at it. Eyes very like her nurse's gazed out at her. The wrinkles were almost perfect, but the lines at the corners of the mouth were much deeper, and the skin over the forehead was stretched tightly as though there hadn't been quite enough to complete the disguise. Minerva almost laughed. Who was it playing this cruel trick on her? She thought back to the face in the Headmaster's fireplace. That wasn't really Aunt Charlamaine either. She never cried, no matter what. It had to be an imposter, just like the woman in the courtyard and the dwarf pretending to be her nurse. But who would do this? As she was coolly running down the list of her real and imagined enemies, which ranged from evil warlocks unknown to renegade goblins overrunning the countryside to a plot by Cuthbert and the Macnairs to take over the estate, something touched her hand, stroked it. "Lass," said a voice infinitely sad. She looked up. Goodie was looking at her. It was she, there was no use pretending. And her father was dead, and the woman outside who didn't know her was her mother. She knew all this in a wink, by the touch of that hand, that rough, aged, loving hand.

~*~

In the end, it was not Goodie Gudgeon who answered Minerva's questions. The old woman was simply incapable of putting more than two words together without breaking down. They came together and sobbed in each other's arms for a long while, and there Donnie found them.

"Come, my dear, let us go for a walk." She took Minerva's arm and led her through the Great Hall to the front entrance. Minerva was relieved to be going out that way. She didn't want to meet the strange woman who looked like her mother, who was her mother, but who didn't know her from a sprig of heather.

They walked in silence down the road towards the fields, past the gate where the Pogrebin's corpse had been spread-eagled. There were just a few remaining bits of gray flesh and tendon nailed to the hoarding, which a farm hand was now removing. A heap of cloth lay next to him, black crepe to drape the gates and walls with.

"I'm so sorry you had to hear about this from our sister. Was she very…cold about it?"

"Aunt Charlamaine? No she seemed actually sad."

"She was the first one to hear, and rushed to contact you before any of us could…"

"It's all right. Oh, Donnie, what's happened to Ma? She didn't recognize me. Is she�”is she in shock?"

Her aunt bowed her head. The words, when they came, were a mere murmur. "No, it's not that. She's been that way ever since that night�”when she tried to kill herself."

"Oh no�”Aunt Donnie, did I do that to her?"

"What are you saying?"

"When I pushed her back off the ledge�”I heard her skull crack against the stone."

"Oh no, dearie, no." Donnie seized her hands. "You saved her. Saved her life."

"But her memory is gone�”she doesn't know me�”"

"The Healers don't know how it came about. They tried for months to restore it�”with all kinds of tonics and stimulants, soaks, sedatives… There's no way of telling if it was the blow to the head that did it, though that is a common cause of Muggle amnesia. Healer Kirke thinks the Geas somehow managed to wreak one last bit of havoc on her brain as the Pogrebin died. In any case, she's at peace now."

"She doesn't remember…anything?"

"She knows she's a witch. But she has no idea about her family."

"So she doesn't know she's married. Doesn't know about me."

"She knows you as the daughter of a very kind man who took her in when she'd suffered an accident on his property."

"And he…Da…never said anything more to her about it or tried to make her…"

"The Healers we consulted, including Magus Kirk�”especially her�”thought it best to let her memory come back naturally. The calming sleep Brianag Doohan cast on her lasted about a week. When she came out of it and didn't recognize your father, we called in specialists. They assured us it was a temporary state, that in time, she would remember."

"And now? Shouldn't she be told? So she can mourn him?"

"Healer Kirk believes that so much painful truth would, in fact, destroy what sanity she has left, that no good can come of trying to force her to remember."

"I still don't understand. Da wrote to me back in March. He said she was fine."

Once again her aunt hung her head. "I helped him with the wording of that letter. I'm sorry, dearie. We misled you."

"But…it says Ma asked about me."

"No. If you read it carefully, you'll see…oh it doesn't matter. The point is, we lied, and for that I'm so very sorry."

Minerva was angry. "But why did you not tell me? Am I not to be trusted with an understanding of my own mother's health?"

"We thought you should have a normal time at school, with no worries for a change. And of course we expected that she'd be better by the time you came home. We never…never dreamed…"

"And now, they're both lost to me, and it's all my fault."

"What do you mean?"

"It was me that caused her to hit her head. Oh, Donnie�”and Da too."

"What about him?"

"I knew about the monster he followed�”the yeti. Petey told me. It escaped from Laird Macnair's collection. I should have roused the countryside, as soon as I found out."

Now it was her aunt's turn to be angry. "Laird Macnair had a yeti on the grounds of his home? And it escaped? Why didn't he rouse the countryside?"

"I don't know. But I should have told. And anyway, I should never have gone back to school. I should have been here, to take care of Da. Where is he…his body?"

"Down in the undercroft, being prepared for the viewing. Brianag Doohan kindly volunteered to supervise in light of your mother's…indisposition."

"When…when is…"

"The wake? The morn's night. And the burial the next evening."

"In the Crypt."

"Of course. He'll rest beside our father and mother."

"With his wand."

"Yes."

Minerva didn't know why this knowledge affected her so. Or perhaps she did. Their last intimate act together had been the Wanding. She could see her father's face: by turns quizzical, proud, angry, and finally, jubilant. She'd never see it that way again.

She looked out over the fields, small stubs of plantations rising out of them: barley and rhubarb and oats. His fields no longer. Soon to be whose? Hers. Oh no oh no oh no oh no…

She put her hands to her face. "I can't do it, Aunt Donnie."

"What?"

"What he wanted. I can't take over. I'm too…too…"

"Young?"

"No…yes…no it's not that. I don't…care…enough. And I can't live here. Not with Ma. I can't look at her."

"I understand."

And now I'm to take his place as Laird…Lady of the Keep. I can't do it, Donnie, I can't."

Her favorite aunt drew her close and stroked her hair, her compact, energetic body supporting her niece's limp, gangling frame. "You needn't think on that, dearie. Not just yet."

32. A BURDEN IMPOSED

They climbed out of the sunshine into the coolness of the Keep's vestibule. The doors to the Great Hall were open. At the far end, she could see the coffin--the mort kist, as Goodie would call it, and a figure--no two figures--in Healers' robes bent over it.

They walked slowly towards the bier, their footfalls echoing in the big room. One figure straightened up. Healer Doohan, hands cupped together at her waist, observing the vital signs of the bereaved without seeming to do so.

"Mistress McGonagall, we are all so very sorry..." Minerva's small, sad smile and nod stopped her. "Have you met Magus Kirk, your mother's Healer?"

The other woman turned away from the coffin and looked at her now, her gaze enigmatic. Minerva remembered her from when her mother arrived home on the carpet, back in August. Healer Kirk was taller than Brianag Doohan, with dreamy, protruding eyes in a gaunt unlined face, and short, almost colorless hair. "Iphigenia's daughter." Her voice was flat. "You've grown tall since we last met. You look a deal like her."

Minerva remembered. This was the witch who didn't want the truth told to her mother. "Where is she?"

The bulbous eyes, which had seemed unfocussed at first, turned wary. "Resting--upstairs. You're aware of her state?"

"Aunt Donnie told me. How is she?"

"She remembers nothing at all of her life, but, wonder of wonders, she still retains her magical abilities. You understand the importance of discretion at this time." Not a question. To Minerva, it sounded like a command.

"Not entirely, no."

The bland voice sharpened. "Know this, Minerva McGonagall. Your mother's mental health is poised on a knife's edge. Any upset may throw her into permanent, gibbering oblivion."

"How can you know that?"

"I've studied many cases like hers. For many years, the magic of self-hatred worked its way into her core like a slow-acting venom. Her psyche is grievously injured, flayed skin whose wounds were reopened daily, throughout those twelve years. It must have time--not to heal--but to allow experience to slough off the scar tissue and let new, healthy memories grow in its place."

"How--how long?"

"There's no knowing. A lifetime, perhaps."

A lifetime. Minerva stifled a groan. "How can you be so sure? Have you ever actually treated such a case? Perhaps--perhaps the truth is what she really needs."

Brianag Doohan interrupted their conversation, which was showing signs, at least on Minerva's side, of deteriorating into the tone and intent of a Howler. "You must not speak that way, Mistress. Magus Kirk is pre-eminent in her field--"

"It's all right, Brianag." Healer Kirk's voice was soft now. "Child, I got to know your mother well during her treatment. She is a very special, very gifted witch. I consider her not only a patient, but a friend. You must trust that I know what is best for her. I want you to promise that you will do as I ask."

Minerva set her jaw. "And if I will not promise?"

"Minerva--" Donnie caught her niece's arm, but she would not be turned aside. Her eyes bored into Healer Kirk's.

The Healer drew herself up and matched the younger witch's stare. "I will do what I must to protect her. But there will be no harm done if you promise that you will not tell your mother about her past."

"You cannot stop me."

The Healer took a step towards her, her voice still calm, but raised slightly, as if she didn't believe Minerva had heard her. "You will not tell your mother about her past."

"You should listen to her, Mistress," said Brianag Doohan. "She has your mother's best interests at heart."

"And you think I do not? Anyway, how do we know her diagnosis is correct?"

"Because--"

But she was silenced by the raised hand of Healer Kirk who, never taking her eyes from Minerva's, took a breath and spoke more slowly, enunciating each word, as if speaking to a small child. "You...will...not..."

"I will do what I think best."

"...tell...your...mother...

"Aye, my mother, not yours."

"...about...her...past."

Minerva was not cowed. She was not a child, not any more. "And if I do speak to her?"

Healer Kirk gave her a brief smile. "You will find yourself unable to make a coherent explanation." With that, she walked swiftly across the hall and out into the vestibule. Minerva just stared at her, her mouth open. She had half a mind to follow the old hag, to give her a real piece of her mind.

As if she sensed Minerva's intentions, Donnie stepped in front of her. "You are upset, dearie, but you should not have spoken that way."

"I know, but everyone's been so--" She didn't finish the sentence. She was suddenly ashamed of her loss of control, but she hated being treated like an ignorant witchling.

Casting about for a change of subject, she looked into the coffin. What she saw did nothing to soothe her agitation. She recognized her father by the fine lawn shirt and coatee, the formal kilt, the delicately tooled sporran he had worn the night of the Reckoning, by his wiry hair tamed finally and forever into a soft reddish aureole about his face. But the face itself was like a bad, bland portrait. And its dimensions were all wrong, the chin weak, the brow shortened, the lips not so generously full as she remembered them. She wanted to touch it, but something held her back, a faint shimmer in the air between them like a loch ruffled by a puff of breeze.

"Is that a Glamour over him?"

"Yes," said Brianag Doohan. "My Transfiguration's not so good. Healer Kirk and your aunt helped with the features. I hope it's all right."

Minerva's mouth quirked into a sardonic grin. Magus Kirk might be quite the Healer, but her artistic abilities left much to be desired. "It's...not permanent, right?"

"Oh, don't worry," said Donnie. "It'll last as long as we need it to."

"Does he look so very bad?"

"His back bore the brunt of the cave-in," said Healer Doohan. "One side of his face is...maimed. Both arms were pulverized, worse than yours were when you fell off that battlement. He probably tried to shield his head with them. That's the only reason the face doesn't look even worse than it does. And the rest of him is..." She paused, gauging how much she should say, but Minerva's features did not waver.

"Can I see him as he is?"

"Are you sure you want to? It might be better to remember him as he was."

"I need to."

"All right." Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the Healer exchanging a glance with her aunt. Now the voice was patient, humoring. "Just keep in mind that he's gone from this body. He can't suffer any more."

"I know. Go ahead. Remove it. I'll be all right."

Healer Doohan waved her wand over the coffin and the Glamour lifted, like a mist, sparkled, then diffused in the light of the clerestory windows. There was her father, his real skin, excoriated, raw-red, and bruised-black, but tenderly cleansed--by whom? Goodie? Donnie?-- of the stones and grit that must have been driven into it as the mountain fell on him. It would have been Ma's job to minister to his poor broken body, had she been...aware.

His jaw was dislocated and his mouth hung awkwardly open. His forehead looked as if a troll had stove it in with a cudgel. One cheek had a Galleon-sized hole in it, through which she could see glints of something. Tooth shards probably. An eyelid was torn and sunken. And the whole head was warped, like an overripe pumpkin sagging in the heat of the sun. She glanced at the rest of the body. The knuckles of the hand she could see were split and showed the whiteness of bone. The arm crooked awkwardly at his side, and there was a seepage of serum through the shirt, which lay concave on a chest once burly and heaving with life.

"Could I have a moment alone with him?"

"Certainly. I'll be in the undercroft if you need me."

Donnie also breathed a final word of encouragement and retreated to the office to receive condolences from the owls flocking into the Owlery. Minerva could hear them scuffling and mewing in the tower overhead. She concentrated on the figure in the bier. No, this was not her father. He had gone on to another life, to create his inventions with starfire and the dust of planets, to Beat meteors and Seek comets in a Quidditch game spanning the universe. She would not again feel the squeeze of those affectionate arms, relish the booming, infectious laugh, tremble at the onset of a stern lecture.

Had he suffered in the cataclysm? There was nothing in the damaged visage to indicate it, no rictus-quirk of pain at an undamaged corner of the mouth, no worn-down, bloodied fingertips, which might have betrayed a last-ditch struggle to escape the rocks that pinned him. One thing was sure: he had died as he had lived: impulsive, righteous, brave.

She retraced in her mind the events that led to the fatal decision, information she had extracted from her aunt--not without pain to both of them--during their walk. They'd met up with Inachus Filch on the way and he filled in some of the gaps in Donnie's story.

Aunt Charlamaine had been after Da for months to tear down that 'execrable display' at the front gate. They'd had words about it the week before. Hearing raised voices, Donnie had joined them and questioned him about it. But to her at least he gave a coherent explanation.

"That evil wizard, whoever it is, is still out there somewhere. He's got to come back someday to check on his little spawn. I've put a spell of my own on those bones. Anyone disturbs them, I shall know, and then I'll have the bugger. Aye, I'll have him."

And the magical alarm had rung in Da's brain early this morning. He followed tracks and a trail of small bones up the road, towards the mountains. Filch, on his way to work, saw him racing along like a hound on the scent and went to back him up.

He caught him at the entrance to the mine and Da explained his reasoning in quick clipped sentences as he lit his wand. He had the fellow trapped now. It was no beast. The footprints were human. It was just the two of them. He'd make him pay, and pay dearly, for the Mistress's pain. Filch followed him inside, though gingerly. He'd never before been inside the mine. He was an outdoorsman who could barely tolerate sleeping under a roof. The mine was incredibly dark and close and as such, oppressive to his spirit.

Da soon left him behind, but Inachus could hear the Master's footsteps ahead, then an exclamation and a roar as of some crazed animal. It might have been Da making that sound, finally confronting, as he thought, Ma's tormentor, though Filch thought not. Now there were two sets of footfalls--unless one was an echo--and the sound of blasting. He hurried onward, although stones were now dropping out of the roof, and a smell of sulfur filled the air. He heard a final booming noise, and a cloud of dust and stones blew at him out of the dark. He was nearly suffocated in the miasma, but he recovered and staggered on to confront a wall of loose rubble. He was able to clear away the smaller boulders with magic, but was afraid to try a Blasting Spell, in case it would do further harm to the Laird.

He sought out Charlamine first as the mine's operator. She it was who'd summoned the Muggle workmen to go in with pickaxes and shovels, along with two wizard foremen to supervise and to use judicious magic to shore up the walls and ceiling. Cuthbert himself was away on the continent--on business it seemed. It took all the morning to dig out the bodies, the Master's first, and close by, a curious wonder to the men, a long, lean silver-furred creature, which Filch tentatively identified as a yeti, bones of the Pogrebin still in its mouth. It had simply been hungry for the marrow. But where it had come from, no one knew.

A wave of guilt smote Minerva. Indeed she should have told someone the identity of the creature that had chased her in the woods last summer, once she had the knowledge of its origin from Petey's lips. They might have sent out a search party to capture it, and Da would be alive today. But self-recrimination was bootless. Da and Goodie both taught her that. Learn from your errors and move on. But what an error! How could she ever forget this?

She knelt by the bier. "I'm sorry, Da, for everything," she whispered huskily. She could almost hear his response: "It's all right, dearie. We all make mistakes--even me." It made her smile a moment at the thought of his big hand on her shoulder, looking down at her with mischievous, twinkling eyes. And she felt at peace for the first time that day. She'd honor his memory by staying dry-eyed and in command to comfort his sisters and the many shocked friends who would come to the wake tonight.

Then she stared at the ruined features. The people who come tonight, she thought, they deserve to see my father as he was, not this tragic remainder or some cosmetic freak. She knew what she had to do. Restore his face. And she could use Transfiguration to do it, specifically that simple Surface Softening spell. Or could she?

Steady now, you're good at this, she convinced herself as she slipped her wand out of her robe pocket. Tops in your class. It sounded like Da speaking to her again in her mind, or was it a memory of something he might have said with that unshakeable pride in his 'bairnie-girl'? I know, Da, she thought back, but what if I make a mistake? You could end up with the head of a Sphinx or something. Naw, naw, said the voice, Better that than a fuzzy Glamour that could be mistaken for any of a hundred Muggle-types. Just make sure I don't end up looking like a slobbering cave troll. That would give a certain branch of the family a bit too much satisfaction.

She waved away the intruding thoughts. It would take all her concentration to do this--and a powerful memory of her father as she had known him. She, like Healer Kirk, was certainly no artist.

She chanted softly, rhythmically, "Attenuo, attenuo, attenuo, attenuo...".The flesh of Da's face softened and sagged. She concentrated first on the lacerated eyelid, which was the most hideous injury. She bent and breathed ever so gently into the flattened eye and it plumped up, blue again, and filled the socket. She drew the ragged edges of the eyelid together, and smoothed them with her wand. Then "Klikitat", and the structure stabilized. Still chanting, she ran her free hand along the dislocated cheek and jaw, felt for and loosened bone fragments. These she pieced together, working them under the skin, straightened and hardened each newly re-formed process by running her wand tip over them with a series of imperious Klikitats! Then she rolled the tip of her wand over the cheek, still rough with splinters of rock and turned it smooth and pink. She pulled at the hair over the crumpled forehead and it expanded into the broad brow she remembered, though peaceful now, and unlined, except for a deep burn mark, possibly from a ricochet. This lightened as her wand touched it. She rearranged the bruised lips to the beloved half-smile, restored the crumbled teeth under them to their brose-stained straightness.

She placed an arm under her father's back and arched it a bit. Here she hesitated, so close to him. She ached for him to throw his arms about her just one more time, to give her a last crushing bear hug. Dear Da, she cried inside, I hope you didn't hurt too much. I hope this doesn't hurt you now. Then she coaxed his mouth open and breathed deeply into his chest, making it swell. She followed the lines of fractured, misaligned ribs, kneaded them into place in their sheathing. She completed the cant with one final "Klikitat" and the body seemed to settle a little deeper into its bedding, as though finally at rest.

Her mother might have done this, cleansed his face, bathed his limbs, clothed her man for his final journey. But she could not--or would not. Were there really things inside her that cowered, afraid to come out, stoppered-up memories too cruel to bear? Yet she still remembered her magic. There were, Minerva supposed, always some things even the most deleterious spell could not wipe out. And what, she wondered peripherally, was that special talent of her mother's of which Healer Kirk spoke? Everyone had one, from Billy Bones to Dumbledore. Was it Transfiguration perhaps? It didn't matter. They were not related--not any more.

She sensed someone behind her.

"What are you doing, my girl?" It was Donnie. She glanced at the casket and did a double-take. "Oh, I say. Did you do that? It's miraculous."

Minerva gave her a wan smile.

"It was very brave of you," continued her aunt, giving her a bracing hug. "That Glamour was rather awful, wasn't it?" I did pretty well on my Transfiguration N.E.W.T., but I've never been good at the details. My first teakettle-to-tortoise transformation ended up looking like a garden glove with a shell. And I must confess they never taught anything like that..." She nodded at the coffin. "...when I was at Hogwarts. Speaking of which, the rest of your luggage has arrived. Where do you want it to go? Your room?"

Minerva followed her into the office. There was her trunk and her withywand broomstick...and Da's last project, the Dreadnought. "I'll take care of them, Donnie. My Leviosa's pretty good now."

~*~

Minerva dressed in a black velvet coatee and a long black skirt for the wake, with a plain white blouse and a sash in the McGonagall plaid draped over her left shoulder. She stood at the head of the bier with her aunts strung out next to her. Aunt Charlamaine's face was an obvious mask, heavily cosmetic-charmed, undoubtedly hiding a blotchy complexion and eyes bloodshot with sleeplessness. Perhaps her aunt was reproaching herself for all the criticism she'd laid on her brother over the years. Minerva examined her own feelings and surprisingly found no hint of smugness in them, only a numb indulgence grown out of emotional anomie.

They greeted the first visitors. Charlamaine already sounded weary and at the end of her tether. The twins, their faces glazed with tears, clung to each other as if terrified of the pressing throng. Bobbie was used to crowds pressing in, begging autographs. She easily handled distraught fans who remembered her and her father on the pitch. Gerry, with Argus, now about eight, in full Highland regalia fidgeting at her side, just nodded and smiled her empathy and thanks. More than one man knelt down and chucked her son under the chin, declaring that he might step into his uncle's shoes some day. Donnie murmured grateful nothings, clasped neighbors' hands, motioned them towards the tables of food and drink. Minerva imitated her as best she could, trying to stave off the feelings crowding in on that emptiness that had kept her steady for most of the day.

Mourners straggled past the bier in an endless line: townspeople, servants, farmhands, miners, fellow inventors--including Horton and Keitch's entire Comet assembly team--former teammates and fans. Some of the Magpies wept openly at the sight of their old mate's corpse, others just nodded, somber and silent. Goodie Gudgeon, recovered somewhat and bolstered with three fingers of whisky, remarked that the Master had the luck of the Irish, caught in a landslide that should have crushed him to a pulp, and coming out of it looking like he did the day his father handed him the keys to the Keep. It was a miracle, it was.

There was a delegation from the school, led by Headmaster Dippet, gentlemages, including Lord and Lady Macnair and their sons, the Gwynns, Macmillans, Sykes, and Yorkes. Giggie Gwynn hugged Minerva extra long and hard, her small, sharp face shining with rheumy sadness. Her straw-colored hair stuck out every which way, as if she had been trying to pull it out. "Come to us, 'Nerva," she whispered hoarsely as she clung desperately to her friend, her best friend. "Mama says there'll be a bed for you as long as you like--if this gets to be moo touch."

All the natives made soft obeisances to Minerva as the new Lord of Conghaill, and many well-wishers asked after her poor mother. Every word was like a red-hot needle stabbing her heart. She was beginning to loathe this place; she wanted nothing more to do with the farm, with the Keep. Her mother had retired early to her chamber upstairs, the one she occupied as Iffie Wallace, a stranger who did not want to intrude on the family's sadness, dry-eyed, not mourning the husband she did not remember, not comforting the daughter she did not recognize. None of the visitors knew the true story; they thought her prostrate with grief.

Cuthbert Campbell and his father came forward to offer condolences. Cuthbert looked deeply shocked as he took Minerva's hand. She felt a pang of guilt. They really were sad, these people she had always thought of as the Enemy. "It--it's a sorry thing--that it happened--in the mine," he stammered. Minerva heard a gasp behind her. Aunt Charlamaine was now close to collapse, weeping uncontrollably, and had to be led away from the receiving line by her husband.

As Minerva watched them go, she glimpsed a tall figure at the Hall doors, and became for an instant, calmer, more composed than she had felt all evening. His auburn hair shone in the torchlight. His black traveling cloak flowed out over a plum-colored velvet suit. As he made to remove the cloak, his suit jacket swung wide, showing a wand stuck in his belt, like Rowdie Flynn's dirk, ready to hand. His thick-heeled travel-stained boots clashed discreetly with his civilized, Muggle-like attire. They looked to be made of green dragonhide, the footwear of a hardy adventurer. But he seemed weary and sad, beyond the sadness of this tragic event, as if he had recently faced an enemy far worse than Death.

She excused herself and walked towards him, as if she had been awaiting his arrival, although she'd had no thought of him, none at all, throughout the funeral preparations. She hadn't even remarked his absence from the Hogwarts contingent, though she remembered now Headmaster Dippet saying something about his being away on some business involving a new student. They met in the middle of the hall. And he looked into her eyes as if he wished to draw the pain out of them into his own body. His own eyes, she saw, were a deep, piercing blue. She had never seen such eyes, fierce with righteousness and justice, yet softened by compassion. He would, she knew, shoulder any burden of any student desperately needy of counsel, of comfort, as she was now.

"My dear child, I am so very sorry..." His breathing seemed labored.

"Th-thank you for coming, Sir...you look tired..."

"It is nothing...a mere problem of logistics...London to Perthshire in fifteen minutes...fighting a stubborn head wind...I shall be fine in a moment...but you, Minerva...your poor father...I had such great respect..."

"I know, I know," she whispered, the tears running freely down her face. The thought of her teacher racing on his broom to be with her, put her in mind of her father, careering about high above the Keep on his own home-made stick, showing her the moves that made him famous...

Dumbledore hesitated, seeming at a loss as to what to do at first, perhaps thinking to pat her on the shoulder as he had once before. But finally he engulfed her in a fatherly embrace, there in the middle of that somber gathering. She rested her cheek against his chest, and heard again that ineffable, joyous bird-song, as if it was coming from within him, accompanied softly by the beat of his heart. She allowed her heart to come into sympathetic reverberation with his, and it soothed and strengthened her. After a moment, she remembered where she was, who she was, and pulled back. She knew they would talk at length about everything, but not yet, not until her duty was done. She bowed to her teacher and turned back to the receiving line.

~*~

After the last mourner was dealt with and everyone had settled in with food and drink, comforting each other and honoring the deceased with memories shared, Minerva and her teacher met in the parlor off the vestibule and sat together on a straight-backed sofa. He took out a large handkerchief and dabbed gently at her eyes, which were threatening to fill up again. Minerva, disarmed by his gesture of affection, forgot her own suffering for the moment.

"How are you feeling, sir? You looked rather winded when you came in."

"Oh that. Bit of a long trip. The Headmaster asked me to meet with a new student--a boy, Muggle-born, and unacquainted with our ways. A bit of shepherding you know. It's a duty he spreads about the staff, and not an onerous one--usually." He stared off into space, looking wearier than ever.

"Let me get you something to drink, sir."

"I could do with a dram of your fine whisky. But don't trouble yourself."

He drew out his wand and accioed a glass and a bottle of Auld Hielander from a nearby table. But his hand trembled as he tried to open the bottle. Minerva took it from him gently, poured and passed.

"Are you sure you are all right, sir?"

He took a sip of his drink, rolled it around in his mouth, swallowed, and sighed. "Yes, Minerva, I am. Though not as young--or hardened--as I used to be, it would seem."

"Hardened, sir? You are never hard."

"Sometimes I think I've lived too long, seen too much. Muggles are lucky, you know. They get what--Three score and ten years at most? And at that age, we wizards have only scratched the surface of our existence. We see so much more, experience highs and lows they never come close to. It can be very--wearing."

"This student you saw--will he be coming to Hogwarts this year?

"Yes. As I said, he's Muggle-born and an orphan to boot. We had quite a few orphans in the last war. Back then, I helped arrange adoptions for some of the poor mites. Did a bit of interviewing and counselling. Professor Dippet felt that my experience would make me an ideal first contact for this particular young--wizard." He downed the rest of his whisky, which would ordinarily be considered a grave insult to its mellowness and fine aging, but Minerva could see that her teacher was not himself. It was almost as if he were trying to wash away some bitter taste in his mouth. But he recovered quickly and murmured, "Tell me, how are you feeling?"

Minerva came straight to the heart of her grief.

"My mother doesn't remember my father...or me."

The statement, so baldly rendered, put him at a loss. "How can that be?"

Minerva told him everything: her mother's suicide attempt on the parapet, her head striking the pavement, the nature of the Geas, the amnesia, and Healer Kirke's interdiction.

He shook his head slowly. "You have been through a great deal for one so young."

"It doesn't matter." She was silent for a moment, governing herself, then whispered, "Oh, Professor, I do miss him so."

"And your mother?"

Her voice rose uncontrollably. "What do you mean?"

"You must have some feeling for her."

She could not bring herself to lie. "I hate her for not remembering, for making me face all this...alone."

Somehow her professor managed not to look shocked or disapproving at her confession. His words were calm. "She endured a great deal as well. Mountains of opprobrium. A Geas can be a terrible thing, relentless, like a permanent Cruciatus...Sometimes the mind has to find a refuge in forgetfulness."

"But why couldn't she have held out against it...just a little while longer?"

"The spirit has its limits."

She groaned and clutched at her head with splayed fingers. "I know, but I can't help feeling angry..."

"And cheated perhaps--and bitter."

She nodded reluctantly. The words made her out to be a mean, ungrateful child, but she knew they described her feelings perfectly at that moment.

"Do you still want to know what happened to your grandfather? To clear your mother's name?"

"I don't care about that anymore. Nothing matters to me, not even the farm."

"The truth always matters."

She bowed her head, squeezing her eyes shut, not to hold back tears, but to shut out light and pain and memory. "Help me, Professor. I don't know what to do."

He drew her hands up from her lap and warmed them in his own. The blue eyes searched, caressed her face, just like a mother's loving touch. "Let us go back inside. I'll stay, for as long as you need me here."

The interment the next night was a solemn and touching affair. There was a procession of friends and neighbors, the wands of those magically endowed glowing blue, lighting the way. It was led by two ghosts playing bagpipes, Lester Mor and Evan Mor MacCrimmon, who had come from Skye to offer their services. Inachus Filch followed, guiding Da's coffin with a Mobiliarca Charm. Then came the family, the twins now wailing openly, threatening to drown out the strains of Flowers of the Forest, Mist Covered Mountains, and The Skye Boat Song.

As they entered the Crypt, Minerva was reminded painfully of the last time she had been there, to claim her wand, with her father reassuring her that his propping wards were intact on the high earthen walls, imbuing them with strength inside and out, though she could not see them. Now they would protect him, body and soul, as the wards of the mine had not.

The coffin was placed in a plain stone sarcophagus between Da's father, Cadwallader McGonagall, and his mother, Johanna Macnair McGonagall. Lord Macnair stepped up to it first, and with no need for a Sonorus charm to magnify his powerful voice, spoke with real affection for his childhood friend, cousin, and fellow mage. Other witches and wizards followed him, giving testament to the goodness, the honesty, the solid friendship of Jupiter John Cadwallader McGonagall. Inachus Filch spoke for the field hands--plain and brief. None could remember a fairer employer, a more generous hand at table, a readier refuge in time of need.

At the end, each of the sisters said a spell of blessing over their brother's body. As they did, fragments of stone flew off the sarcophagus, as if being chipped out by an unseen hand, and scenes from Jupiter McGonagall's's life appeared in relief on its sides. There was Jupiter the Beater, lofting a Bludger towards an unseen foe, Jupiter the Inventor with compass and straightedge poised over a sheet of parchment, Jupiter the Farmer, guiding a team of oxen over a rocky patch, the Lord of the Manor giving orders, the Host dispensing drinks at harvest, the Father, holding his new bairn up for all to admire, the Master of the Estate, sitting in judgment. These were his sisters' testament to their brother. It touched Minerva deeply and stirred her family pride.

Most of the crowd returned to the Great Hall for refreshments. As the evening went along, Minerva found herself feeling the healing love of family and friends as she never had before and believed she might almost be ready to accept whatever role her aunts might place on her. They had just opened another bottle of the best whisky. Toasts had been given and echoed, memories rehashed. Most of their neighbors and friends had long since gone home. The remaining company seemed resigned, almost content. Then Minerva heard a commotion at the far end of the Hall. It was Goodie Gudgeon, three sheets to the wind, arguing with, of all people, the Wizard-Thane himself. She made her way in the direction of the tirade, catching a word here and there.

"...toast...the new Laird..."

"...not yet time, Madam..."

"..now's the pair-fect time...yer ain father toasted my master at his faither's wake...

"...nae, nae...not with the succession in doubt..."

Minerva arrived at the site of the altercation just in time to catch her nurse as she swayed unsteadily about and guide her to a nearby chair.

As she settled in, legs splayed and head thrown back, Goodie shouted for all to hear, "In doot? Ye hae the laird's ane daughter right here. Say it to her face, if ye think she's no worthy..."

"What's the trouble, my Lord?" It was Charlamaine, tonight very much in command of her feelings and the situation.

"It's nothing, Mistress Campbell, only an old ha--er--witch who's had a little too much to drink. She needs a lie-down I think..."

"I'll not be goin anywhere till this is settled. Is my Mistress, or is she nae, to be proclaimed Laird of the Manor?" It took Minerva only a few seconds to realize that the 'Mistress' Goodie referred to was Minerva herself. All eyes turned to her scarlet face, then to the Thane's purpling one.

"That will be decided at the Reckoning I believe," he replied through clenched teeth.

During the quarrel others in the room had gradually ceased their conversations. The Thane's judgement rang out loud and clear in the silence. Charlamaine's lips parted in a half-smile, as if this was something she had been hoping for. Her son Cuthbert stepped forward, placing himself at Laird Macnair's right hand. He looked imposing in the Black Watch tartan, tall, almost regal, and at sixteen stone, thrice Minerva's weight. His jowls scraped clean, looked almost shiny like his hair, oiled and slicked back behind his ears. The two warlocks exchanged a brief glance that spoke worlds of approbation and manly understanding. In that moment Minerva saw she could not stand up to that tacit entente. It would be years before she came into her own magically. She knew nothing of farming, of ownership, of the politics of the landed gentry. Cuthbert's lips were parted, dark with the wine of success, as if he had already claimed the McGonagall fief. Minerva ducked her head and excused herself, pleading weariness. Unbidden, she retreated up the stairs to her room, like a little girl who has been told she's too young to stay up with the adults.

~*~

The next morning, Minerva woke in a fit of fear. She had slept like a corpse herself, but felt not at all rested. She knew that she couldn't raise the needed energy to fight both Cuthbert and Charlamaine. She confided her feelings to Donnie who was working in the office, owling thank-yous for the support and the flowers and other gifts.

"Don't let your mind run on it, dearie. If you're sure you're not cut out for farming, then perhaps it's just as well."

"But I feel like I'm letting Da down."

"Don't you think Cuthbert would make a good Laird?"

"No, I don't. He really doesn't know that much about farming, and he doesn't care about the workers. You saw how he treated that house elf at the last Reckoning. And Aunt Charlamaine's not much better. I wouldn't be surprised if she decided to dig up the whole mountainside, looking for more of her precious coal."

"You know she brought out a Mowser last week..."

"A what?"

"A Metal-Dowser. A wizard who's especially good at sensing underground minerals. He's supposed to send a report in time for the Reckoning tonight."

A witch whom Minerva recognized as one of the clean-up crew came to the office door. "One of the guests, Mistress, the tall one with the beard, he's come down to breakfast and wonders if you'd join him."

"Oh. Professor Dumbledore. I forgot he was staying over."

She walked into the kitchen. The table was laid sumptuously with scones, butter, and marmalade, a platter of sausage and eggs, hot porridge, and an assortment of dried fruits, and nuts to garnish it with. Belda Filch was just pouring their guest a cup of tea. Goodie Gudgeon was likely sleeping off her tipple, and not at all ashamed of it.

"Good morning, Professor. I hope you slept well."

"I did, although your gallery ghosts were rather overexuberant. They were hosting the MacCrimmons and kept calling for song after song. I was tempted to use a Silencing Spell on them."

"How ever did you manage to fall asleep?"

"Moss. And you, did you have a good night?"

"I slept like a log. But excuse me, Professor, did you say moss?"

He took a small tin out of his pocket. The letters MOSS were printed on the top. "Musikalisch �–hrenschützer für die Schreiende Stimme--earplugs," he explained. "An invention of a friend of mine." He turned the key and rolled back the lid. The contents looked greenish and fluffy--very like moss. "Just put a wad in each ear and it turns loud noise into a soothing lullaby--Brahms, mostly."

"Did your friend also invent a kind of fish that translates German?"

"LOKHS? That was his brother. Talented fellows, both of them. But they are not having a very good time of it these days."

"Why not?"

"They--and others of their kind--have made themselves a great enemy."

"Others--who are they?"

"Jewish emigrants, settled in Austria."

"And the enemy?"

"A man named Adolf Hitler." Minerva did not recognize the name and her face showed it. "But that is a story for another day. Let us address ourselves to Mistress Filch's excellent breakfast."

~*~

Afterwards, they went for a walk. It was a cloudy day, but no storm threatened.

"I met your aunts at the wake. They are a hardy and charming lot, with a great variety of talents and interests."

"Yes, it's good for the farm. Each of them is an expert at one thing."

"But none fit to rule the roost."

"There's at least one as would like to."

"Your Aunt Charlamaine. Yes, like most first-borns, she is ambitious, if I may say so."

"Aye, she'll be putting her son Cuthbert forward to run the farm at the Reckoning. He has had quite an advanced education."

"Yes, he told me that he studied under a host of learned magi: Pickingill and Petrovna and Clutterbuck. And met with Regardie in Paris and Weschke in Alsace...not to mention Mother Redcap..."

"And he just finished an apprenticeship in alchemy with someone named Flamel."

"Nicolas Flamel? Are you sure?"

Minerva nodded. "So you see, Professor, he's all that the family could ask for in a Laird of the manor: young, educated, well-spoken..."

"You talk as if he is up for the title. But I would think the law would require Lord Macnair to appoint someone only to be steward of the land...until you came of age."

"Oh, I'm sure Cuthbert is telling everybody he just wants to be of service to his dear young cousin. But I know my aunt. Once she gets control of the farm, she'll look for any way she can to keep it. And now that she has a son who's magically powerful, I fear she'll succeed."

"Is he really?"

"Is he what?"

"Magically powerful."

"Well, he says he--"

Professor Dumbledore waved a hand at her. "Oh, I know what he claims: Divination with Helena Petrovna, Dark Arts with Weschcke, et cetera and so forth. But Dorothy Clutterbuck doesn't take students so far as I know--she says she'd 'hex 'em as soon as look at 'em.' George Pickingill has been dead at least thirty years, and I shall eat my wand if your cousin is much over forty. And Nicolas Flamel? A course with him alone would take decades to complete. I ought to know. I have worked with him myself. A most demanding taskmaster. I tell you Minerva, here's no way on this green earth that your cousin studied under all of those people for the length of time needed to master their respective fields."

"But he--"

"No, my dear child. At best, Cuthbert Campbell is a dabbler, a jack of all trades and master of one--the art of braggadocio. My guess is he spent a few weeks with each of his so-called mentors, and when the work got too hard or proved to have no immediate reward, he moved on."

"But he's been experimenting with all sorts of spells to protect the mine. And Aunt Donnie thinks he may have discovered new minerals. He must be a decent alchemist at least."

"I am not saying he learned nothing at all in his travels. I am sure some of his teachers' art--if not their wisdom--rubbed off on him. But as the Muggles say, 'a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.'" He looked at her for a few seconds and smiled. "And it would seem that some of my own paltry knowledge has rubbed off on you, Minerva. I understand you were responsible for your father's facial transformation."

Minerva blushed. "Yes, I used the description from your book."

"Quite remarkable. He was badly maimed, was he not? Your mother was also impressed."

"My...you spoke to her?"

He nodded. "She visited the Great Hall privately after the wake. She wanted to thank her...her benefactor for taking her in...and wish him a happy afterlife."

"She still--she showed no signs--?"

"Of returning memory? I am afraid not. Of course, I am no Healer, but I would say that given what she went through, and for how long--what was it, twelve years?--of mental torture, she is lucky to have retained her sanity."

"Do you think there's a chance of her memory ever coming back?"

"There are patients in St. Mungo's who have suffered far less than she who are in much worse condition: completely unaware of themselves as mages or even as human beings. Lying in rows on their narrow beds, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, muttering sounds with no meaning and no thought content behind them. I think we should be grateful that your mother can function normally, and that, wonder of wonders, she yet retains her powers. Now I have a question for you. Do you think you can find it in your heart to forgive her her weakness, and move on to help clear her name?"

Minerva felt a great wave of heat pass through her. The heat turned to a feeling of strain in her forehead, her throat and her chest. Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, "How can you ask that?" She took a breath and tried to calm herself. "I'm sorry, sir, but I've spent my entire life holding in my feelings, waiting, hoping for a normal mother who can teach me things, help me, just...be with me. And she's not here. She's deserted me. She doesn't know who I am, doesn't care about me. She's just a Mudblood, confused and...and ...weak. And how do I even know that she's innocent of Grandfather Wallace's death? Maybe my grandmother is right: maybe my mother went crazy that morning and thought she saw a demon or something and tried to kill it--but it was her father she killed. If so, I don't want to know that either."

Dumbledore looked at her for a minute. "And I ask you again, as I did the other day, is not the truth the most important thing?"

"Yes, it is, but I can see no way of finding it. Our last hope was the Seeking Glass, but my father tried that. He took things of my mother's and my grandfather's to the Crypt. All he could see were happy scenes of my mother as a child with my grandfather--nothing at all about that...last...day."

"But he was assuming that only your mother and grandfather were present on that day."

"What do you mean?"

"Let us consider for the moment that your mother's account is true, however hysterical she may have been when she told it. That there was someone else with her and her father that day, that she tried to defend herself and him against it, and that out of malice or revenge, this person placed a geas on a Pogrebin to haunt her for the rest of her days. That would explain why your father could not see that particular vision in the Glass."

"But what difference does it make? We don't know who the third person was and even if we did, we have no hope of finding something of his or hers to use."

"But we might make an educated guess. And there may be one such 'something' in my possession. Just an old man's idea, mind you, but a possibility. Will you trust me in this, Minerva?"

She looked at him for a long moment. "I will, Professor. I'll get Ma's brooch...and Grandfather's bag."

~*~

On her way down the stairs, with the knapsack over her shoulder and the brooch in her hand, she met her mother ascending them, The Stranger, as she had come to think of her.

"Hello, Miss McGonagall."

"H-hello...Miss..."

"They tell me my name is Wallace. But I'd very much like you to call me Iphigenia."

"I don't think I could do that."

"All right. Miss Wallace it is. I wanted you to know how sorry I am about your loss."

"Thank you."

"Did your father tell you about me--while you were at school?"

"Yes...um...no, he didn't."

"I seem to have been traveling over your property on my broom and I hit a downdraft and crashed into the roof of your home. Your family kindly took me in. Healer Kirk tells me I'm almost well enough to resume a normal life."

"What is--a normal life?"

"I don't know. I've been pretty much confined to the Keep all this time. Healer Kirk said I oughtn't to be left alone. She was afraid I might have some kind of seizure from the head injury. They tell me I have a mother in Blair Atholl, although I don't remember her. Healer Kirk has been most kind. She contacted her back when I had the accident and explained what happened. I'll be visiting her next week. Healer Kirk has offered to accompany me."

Healer Kirk this, Healer Kirk that. Didn't the woman have anything better to do than to dog her mother's footsteps? Minerva swallowed her resentment and forced a smile. "Do you know where you were heading when you crashed?"

The Stranger laughed. "I don't even remember where I was coming from. Perhaps my mother will be able to help me sort it out. She's a Muggle you know."

"Yeh...no, I didn't know."

"I'm looking forward to talking with her, though I must admit, I'm a little scared too.

"Why would you be scared?"

"I'm not sure--there's this feeling--oh--the past, you know. It can hold such--surprises. Why what's this?" She reached out and touched the brooch. "Something of yours? It looks somehow familiar."

Minerva's heart beat faster. She placed the brooch in her mother's outstretched hand. "You recognize it?"

Iffie Wallace turned the heavy oval of silver over in her hand, fingering the griffin rampant etched on it, holding a rose in its claw. "What is this?"

"It's part of my family crest. The griffin for courage, the flower for--um--loyalty." She could not bring herself to utter the word 'love'.

It is very much the shape and hue of one your father showed me, but his had an arm clasping a sword rising out of a rose like this one, and a motto arching over it. Something in Latin, I think." She laughed. "Languages were never my strong point...or perhaps it's the amnesia." She gave the brooch back to Minerva. "He...offered it to me...but of course, it was obviously a family heirloom...so...I couldn't..."

Minerva felt hollow and dry and cold inside. Her mother and father had worn the brooches at their wedding. They'd designed them together: her father's had the symbol of clan Wallace nestled in the McGonagall rose. He had added to the motto of William Wallace, "Pro Libertate," the words "et Amore"--for Freedom and Love. And he had offered it back to this witch--The Stranger. But she didn't remember. She didn't even recognize the sign of her own clan.

Minerva took a deep breath. "Well, I hope you have a safe trip...safer than that other one."

She left the Stranger standing there on the steps, crossed the Great Hall, and found a servant, polishing sconces by the front door. "Fionna, please go down to the gate. There's a man there, waiting for me. Professor Dumbledore. Please tell him I can't come with him today. Tell him...I...forgot I have to get ready for the Reckoning. Tell him, I'll owl him...when--if--I'm free."

It was time. Minerva dressed simply in her school robes with a tartan scarf. She would not contest the passing of the Lordship to Cuthbert Campbell. She had not the energy, nor the will. The farm held only the darkest memories for her, the Keep only heartbreak. She would be back in school soon, and there she would make her home, as much of a home as she could. Goodie Gudgeon, who knew nothing of this decision, trailed her through the Great Hall for support, as well as curiosity.

As usual, the Reckoning was held in the receiving parlor, just off the Great Hall. Lord Macnair stood in the midst of the gathering, flanked by his sons Walden and Conall, who looked like a pair of bodyguards, their wands jutting conspicuously from their robe pockets. He had with him an acquaintance of his, a legal scholar from the Ministry whom he introduced as Madam Bedelia Bones. She wore the plum colored robes of the Wizengamot, the High Court of the Ministry of Magic, and was treated with awe and deference by the whole McGonagall clan. It had been long known that Duncan Macnair sought to extend his influence outside the glen. Appointment to the High Court would be quite a feather in his cap. On this night, the Wizard Thane wore robes of sober black, with the Macnair plaid draped about his neck like a stole of office so long that its tassels swept the floor. Lord Macnair and Madam Bones settled into two throne-like chairs at one side of the room. The Thane called the meeting to order and asked if the whole family was present.

"Everyone, my Lord," said Charlamaine, the self-proclaimed Mistress of Ceremonies, "except for our youngest sister, Donald." There was a stir of unease. No one had seen Donnie all afternoon. "But it hardly matters, does it?" Charlamaine continued.

Lord Macnair started to reply that it certainly did matter and what did that young woman think she was doing, holding up an important meeting such as this? But his tirade was interrupted by the sound of music overhead, the skirling of bagpipes. Through the high arch of the double doors, Minerva could see the curving stairs that climbed from the Great Hall to the gallery. At the top, there stood a figure in Highland garb. For one crazy moment, she thought that Rowdie Flynn had donned kilt and plaid and somehow crossed the barrier between life and afterlife to stand in defense of the McGonagall fief. But, no--this figure was slight and decidedly feminine.

Now the figure moved in time to the music. Donald McGonagall, youngest daughter of Cadwallader the misogynist and the redoubtable Johanna Mcnair, marched down the steps like a warrior, a bright claymore at her waist, flanked by the MacCrimmon pipers, who were playing Cogadh No Sith (War or Peace.) She strode through the Great Hall with a slight smile on her lips and stepped up to the thrones. Her kilt and plaid was not the dress tartan of the McGonagalls with its cheery, bright colors, designed in Victorian times for peaceful and politic meetings and celebrations. No, this was the ancient hunting sett of clan Connghaill, its blues the dark underside of storm clouds, its greens not of sun-streaked forests, but of the shadows within them, with thick bands of black and a redder red stripe crisscrossing the crimson background, like a wound reopened and beaded with fresh blood.

"My Lord, Madam Justice, I hope you are both well."

Madam Bones inclined her head indulgently. Her eyes were bright and shrewd, and a slight smile twitched her lips. Lord Mcnair was not so complaisant. "We are, Mistress. Please take a seat, so we can begin."

"I will stand, if you don't mind," she replied, "here--" she crossed to take a place beside Cuthbert Campbell and his mother "--with the other claimants." Her own eyes were alight with mischief, as she surveyed her sisters' reactions. Gerry's face went red, and she looked about to burst with pride in her baby sister. Bobbie swore delightedly under her breath. The twins stared into their glasses as if the dregs might divine the outcome of this event for them. Charlamaine made disapproving sucking sounds through her teeth. Minerva kept a straight face, but she wanted to run across the room and hug her aunt for her mad scheme. For it was mad--and impossible--but wonderfully daring all the same.

"Excellent," said Lord Macnair sourly, "let us begin. We have here a dilemma. Your dear brother, your father"--he nodded to Minerva--"and my excellent friend, has died untimely, leaving all this." He gestured at the walls of the Keep and presumably the fields and buildings beyond. "In his will, Jupiter McGonagall stated that he wished the arrangement that you have all used these many years to continue, and he named his daughter to hold the title of Lord and take his place, representing the family as its head. But he could not foresee that he would die while she was still so young. Therefore, it is necessary to appoint a guardian for her and the estate until such time as she is ready to take over the reins of power."

"Hear, hear," rasped the two ghostly pipers, who had taken up stations at either end of the arched doorway.

"The only question is who should take on this task. I see that there are two who are willing. Is there anyone else?"

Silence. "Then, it would seem that the family members should vote on it... after appropriate discussion, of course."

"Hear, hear," whispered the ghostly pipers once more, and Lester Mor MacCrimmon, began a spritely tune, which Minerva recognized as a series of variations on Sweet Molly MacCleary. Not surprisingly toes started tapping. The MacCrimmons were said to be able to stop battles with their tunes. She could see Lord Macnair seething, but he dared not interrupt the preeminent exponents of the Piob Mor, The Great Highland Bagpipe. When the tune was finished, he went on quickly.

"It would be fitting for each claimant to state his case. Why don't you begin, Mistress McGonagall?"

Donnie flushed and cleared her throat. "You all know me. I've lived on the farm since birth. I've worked the fields with the rest of you. The orchards and berry patches are my handiwork. No other farmer in the valley, nor the entire islands can boast fruit so fine as our brambles, our Gonagolds and Purple Pippins, not even the McIntoshes across the ocean. And as you all know, I've been our brother's close associate in the running of the estate these last months."

"Well said, Mistress." Lord Macnair turned to her sisters. "Do you have any questions for her? Any comments?"

"You're a rare one, Donald. You've caught the Snitch, you have," said Bobbie.

"Aye to that," said Gerry. "You're our girl."

"Ye'd hae my vote," said Goodie Gudgeon, "if I hae'd a vote."

Everyone laughed at this.

"Master Campbell?"

Cuthbert strode to the center of the room. He smiled genially at the twins, who blushed and tittered, bowed smartly to his Lordship and the honored guest, nodded to Inachus Filch, winked at Goodie. His eyes were bright--with billywig juice thought Minerva unkindly.

"My Lord, Madam Bones, kinfolk, and friends. I do not pretend to have the years or the wisdom of my good Aunt Donnie, but I believe youth is an advantage here. Why? Because progress and far thinking are important to making the McGonagall estate yield its maximum profits. If you think you've a comfortable life now, just imagine what it could be like if you had the cash reserves to invest in... say... a hippogriff breeding station or new types of fruit trees or the like. It can happen you know. I have here in my hands the report of a friend of mine, one Master Colqu'hon of Worcestershire. He is a metal dowser and he detected on our land not only additional coal reserves, but iron and copper and... even silver. Yes, silver. If I had control of the farm, I could hand you within the year such a profit in precious metals that you would never have to raise another crop, never train another Crup, but sit and devote your efforts to the cause or avocation of your choice. And that's but a small part of my contribution, should I be made Lair--erm, Steward--of the McGonagall fief. As you all know, I also possess magical power in abundance, and though I am loath to boast, I can say I'd be able to do a better job of protecting you all from magical attack than your poor brother was able to do. For example, recently I learned the exceedingly difficult and dangerous Homorphous Charm from a famous werewolf hunter on the continent. You may have heard of him--Maitre Roydore Coeur-Serrure. So, if you're looking for a richer, safer life, you have only to look my way." He bowed and stood back.

Lord Macnair inclined his head and asked for discussion. Aunt Frannie gave it as her opinion that the guardian should be male, given that the Lordship had always been held by a wizard, and that it had been the wish of their own dear, departed father, who was a very wise man, that the Lordship should stay with the males of the line. Philly added that she always felt better when a man was in charge of things, especially a young, virile man.

Then Bobbie said their father didn't know everything and that it might be a good time for a change. Gerry agreed and added that there had, in fact, been several witch-lairds and that the fruit crop had never looked so good. Charlamaine looked as though she would like very much to comment, but restrained herself for a change. Discussion languished, and the Thane called for a vote. The twins and Charlamaine predictably voted for Cuthbert. Bobbie and Gerry sided with Donald. Minerva sighed. Cuthbert had won, three to two.

The Thane spoke. "Good friends, it seems you have made a wise choice..."

Donnie cleared her throat and spoke. "Pardon me, my Lord, I believe there is one vote not yet counted."

"May I remind you, Mistress McGonagall, that claimants may not vote for themselves."

"I don't mean myself, but the legitimate heir to my deceased brother's portion, Minerva McGonagall."

"I'm afraid she's underage."

"As a magic user, yes, but as the declared heir of a Scottish Lord, I believe she qualifies."

"Hear, hear," whispered Lester Mor MacCrimmon.

"'Tis so," said Evan Mor MacCrimmon. The ghostly piper laid down his pipes and floated up to the thrones. His wispy hair waved in an unfelt breeze. "Begging my lady's pardon." He made a little bow to Madam Bones. "In the days of my father, a similar thing occurred. Although it involved not only land, but the protection of the Piob Mor itself, did it not Lester?"

"Aye, brother," Lester wheezed. "The Great Highland Bagpipes were ever our care since the days of Donald Mor, and also the school and its lands as granted to us by the King of Scots himself."

Evan explained, "When the first Laird died, leaving the fief to his infant son, a vote was taken among the septs to decide who would be chieftain until he came to maturity. The vote was tied between my father and my uncle. 'Twas thought they'd have to fight to settle things. But just as they were getting out their wands, the nurse brought up the babe to be kissed for luck by both participants. When my father touched the babe, it cooed and clapped its hands. When his brother approached, it cried and wouldna be consoled. It was decided then and there that the bairnie's vote should count, and my father became his guardian."

"Well that may be the rule on Skye, but--" said Lord Macnair.

"I beg your pardon, my Lord." It was Madam Bones. She had not spoken much since she arrived, and not at all since the official proceedings began, but her voice rang out clearly now. "I believe it is necessary to read the will to determine if Miss McGonagall has the right to cast a vote in her father's... absence."

It took but a few moments for Goodie Gudgeon to find the will. It appeared to Minerva that she deliberately entered by the door nearest Madam Bones, though it meant going the long way round, as though she was fearful that if she got too close to him, Lord Macnair would snatch it from her hands and fling it in the fire.

"Ah, yes, it is clear," said Madam Bones after a careful perusal of the parchment. "The intention is that the heir, regardless of her age, be required to take on the responsibilities and privileges incumbent upon the estate until such time as changes are made by agreement of all parties concerned. That includes voting, I'm certain."

Lord Macnair, possibly envisioning the plum robes of the Wizengamot in his future, reluctantly agreed.

"Well, Mistress McGonagall, how do you vote?"

"With Donnie...I mean, Aunt Donald, of course."

"Then we are tied, and unless one party yields voluntarily, there will have to be a Wizard's Duel."

"Naturally," said Lester Mor MacCrimmon. And the two ghostly pipers broke into a chorus of The Desperate Battle.

~*~

It was determined that the best place for the duel was the open space just beyond the courtyard. It was quite large, almost as large as a Quidditch pitch, and grassy and flat. The two combatants retired for a time to make their preparations, then met at the edge of the greensward with Lord Macnair. Cuthbert had been given the choice of weapons, and, not surprisingly, picked wands at a hundred paces.

Lord Macnair turned to Donnie. "Mistress, have you chosen your Second?"

"My Second?"

"Your back-up."

"I don't understand."

"Lord Macnair heaved a sigh. "It is customary to have another mage to help you, should you falter in battle. Master Campbell has chosen my son Conall to be his Second. Whom do you choose?"

No wonder Walden was looking so hang-dog, thought Minerva. Lost out to his sainted brother again.

"Well, I haven't given it any..." For the first time in all the long evening, Donnie seemed at a loss.

Minerva surveyed the possibilities. Could Donnie ask one of her sisters to do this? The twins obviously did not approve and would likely refuse--on grounds of feminine delicacy of course. She could not take a chance on Gerry being injured, for then what would happen to Argus? And the best that could be said about Bobbie's spell work was that she was a great Quidditch player. There seemed only one solution. "I'll do it," Minerva said.

"What?" said Donald. "You can't. You're underage."

"You said it yourself--and Madam Bones. I am the declared heir of a Scottish Lord, and I claim the right--"

Donnie's face turned crimson. "Excuse me, my Lord, may I have a word with my niece?" And without waiting for his reply, she grabbed Minerva's arm and steered her into the shadows of the beech tree.

"Please, Aunt Donnie," Minerva whispered, "it's the least I can do. I feel like this is all my fault. If I had spoken up right away and demanded the Lordship, Cuthbert would never have had an opening."

"You don't know what you're getting yourself into. Duels are serious business, and you've only had one year of schooling. Conall's of age now, and I understand he was a top-level student."

"But you've seen what I can do in Transfiguration, and I have other skills as well. Please trust me on this. I--I can't let Cuthbert and Charlamiane take Da's place--without trying to do something to help."

Donnie looked up at her niece for a long moment. "I understand how you feel. Very well." She walked back to the dueling ground and announced her choice.

Lord Macnair's eyes held a triumphal gleam. "Very well, but you understand that as an underage witch, she cannot wield a wand out of school."

"Um--my Lord," said Minerva. "Cuthbert got to choose the weapons for himself and my aunt, isn't that so?"

"Yes."

"Then I should be allowed to choose for the Seconds. Isn't that fair?"

"It is the norm, in fact. Of course, the use of wands is practically de rigueur. But what is your pleasure, my lady?" Lord Mcnair smiled at her, almost sweetly. He had good reason. There were few other magical weapons available.

Minerva looked straight at Conall and said, "I choose... broomsticks!" There were surprised murmurs all around. And a 'Tch' of what she hoped was dismay from Conall.

"I--well--I don't know about that--" blustered Lord Macnair.

"Broomsticks... och aye, they've been used before," intoned Lester Mor MacCrimmon.

"As have staffs, cauldrons, capes, and athames," said his brother. He looked around at the crowd. They all--except for Lord Macnair, Cuthbert, and Charlamaine--seemed to want to hear more. "I remember the time a Campbell challenged a MacDonald over a tax dispute. Neither was much good with a wand, and they wanted to give a good show, so they chose dragons. Well, they are magical creatures, you ken."

"That was an exciting battle, that was," said his brother. "Neither lad survived."

"Aye, Angus Campbell fell to his death when his Hebridean Black made a sharp bank right, and when Ronald McDonald alit to celebrate, he was roasted alive and eaten by his mount."

"A Swedish Short Snout, it was. Bad choice."

At this point, Madam Bones cut in. "I too remember such a precedent. A relative of mine, Sir Grimbauld Pauncefoot, chose broomsticks as Second to his brother Chauncy. And interestingly enough, the principals used, not wands, but Lobalugs at thirty paces."

"All right!" Lord Macnair was now almost shouting. "Broomsticks it is. But you may not Summon them until a contestant is down: either through grievous injury or having lost her... or his... wand. And after Summoning your broomstick, you must give your wands into my care."

Madam Bones added, "And the Ministry will excuse Miss McGonagall if she uses her wand just this once for a simple Accio."

Donnie and Cuthbert took their places on the field. Conall and Minerva stood straight and grim, flanking Madam Bones and Brianag Doohan, who had been called in to help with casualties. Nearby, the aunts' poses showed their personalities to the full: Bobbie, the Quidditch player, leaning forward, mouth open, eager and approving, Charlamaine, the mother, seemingly confident of the outcome, yet clasping and unclasping her hands in a worried, maternal way, the twins, clinging to each other, torn between wolfish glee and feminine horror. Only Gerry was missing. She and Goodie had taken Argus up to bed, kicking and crying that he wanted to see the show. A duel was not a thing for a small child to witness, no matter how much he protested his wizarding maturity.

Lord Macnair stepped between them and muttered, "On my mark." Out of the corner of her eye, Minerva could see the ghostly bagpipers shouldering their pipes. Lord Macnair waved his wand and a stream of sparks spurted out, spelling the word 'GO!' As he hurried out of the line of fire, the strains of Black Donald's March wafted through the air.

35. THE DUEL

Minerva watched in silence as the battle raged. She heard murmurs of approval all around her when Cuthbert launched a series of colorful Firewheels. Donnie put up a shield, which caused one to ricochet into the crowd. Frannie cried out for someone to put up a Barrier, but Lord Macnair said the rules of dueling forbade it. So the twins retreated to the relative safety of the kitchen steps. Aunt Bobbie laughed and started a crisp, shouted play-by-play so her sisters wouldn't miss any of the action.

"Lookit, Donnie's trying a Double-Forked Body-Bind. They don't teach that at Hogwarts, I can tell you. But Cuthbert's ready for it. He's set up some kind of Warding or Repulsion Field. Yes, it looks like a variation on the patented Campbell Coal Mine Truss-Shield. He says he learned it from George Pickingill, the only real wizard in that bit of Muggle claptrap they called The Order of the Golden Dawn. See? You can tell the Truss Charm by its pinkish glow. The miners all complain it makes them look like a bunch of chorus girls, but it keeps them from getting turned into haggis, I can tell you. Holds up tons of mountain. Little Sis'll have a mort of trouble getting past that one. But sooner or later, old Cuthie is going to have to drop his little pink halo if he wants to do some damage. You can't send an offensive spell through a Shield that powerful. That's the first rule of dueling, folks."

And at her word, Cuthbert did just that. He Vanished the Shield and went after Donnie with a wave of Conjured weapons: swords, spears, axes, daggers, maces, and chunks of stone. She wasn't quick enough with her own Shield and had to dodge the weaponry while she shouted the cant. An ax caught her on the ankle and bit deep, shattering her concentration. She moaned and sank to the ground. Cuthbert took aim and sent a purple Blast Ray at her face. She turned away, but it grazed her cheek, leaving a mark Minerva remembered having last seen on her father's forehead. Something about that wound--and something Bobbie had said earlier started a chain of logic in her mind. But she stopped it in its tracks. Donnie was in trouble. She tried to get Lord Macnair's attention, but he was glued to the battle, a leer of incipient triumph on his face. She had to pull on his arm. He glared at her.

"I'm sorry, my Lord," she tried to keep her voice calm, "but may I enter the field... now?"

"Oh, yes... all right... summon your broom, girl." Much good it will do you, his look seemed to say.

She thought hard a moment. What would she do when the withywand stick appeared? She could fly at Cuthbert and try to distract him while her aunt pulled herself together. But no, that was too chancy. What she really needed was to get Donnie off the field, so she could heal herself and rest. But that would take...

"Accio Dreadnought!" she cried.

There was a crashing sound behind them and shards of glass spattered the courtyard--right in front of the twins--as the great caber shot out through her bedroom window. The noise warned the crowd, and everyone scattered. It dropped to earth where a moment before Aunt Charlamaine had been trying to persuade the MacCrimmon brothers to play the battle dirge Day Is Done. Minerva straddled the Dreadnought and kicked off, racing towards her aunt who was fending off a horde of Doxies, on her knees in a pool of her own blood. The venomous creatures scattered at the sight of Minerva charging at them on a broomstick the size of a Peruvian Vipertooth. Heartened, Donnie managed a decent Shield while Minerva helped her aboard.

"Go, go--GO!" someone shouted from the crowd--probably Bobbie. This was followed by a commanding male voice: "Accio, Comet 160!" as the Dreadnought shot into the sky.

Minerva wasn't too concerned about Conall following them. He was a very good wizard--won all kinds of awards for his spellsmanship--but was a complete Squib where flying was concerned. Now if Walden had been Cuthbert's Second, Minerva might have worried. Whatever his shortcomings, he was an excellent Beater.

She could hear Donnie pronouncing the words of a Stanch-Flow Charm over her bloodied leg. She turned to grin at her aunt and saw a long way behind, the Comet 160 bearing--not the slight form of Conall--but someone much meatier. Walden? But surely it couldn't be fair to change Seconds in mid-duel. She shouted as much to Donnie, who also turned to look at their pursuer.

"That's not Walden. It's Cuthbert."

"What? Is Conall up behind him?"

"I doubt it." Donnie had to be right. No racing broomstick was designed to hold more than one person, and the Comet One-Sixty had that additional weakness: the brittle shaft her father had once told her about. So Cuthbert had seized the broomstick Conall Summoned and was pursuing them alone. A smart move and probably legal. At least there were no Stunners shooting up at him from Madam Bones or Lord Macnair. She hoped he was no better flier than Conall, but Donnie quickly disabused her of that notion. "He Beat for Slytherin for five years," she shouted. "He can fly all right."

And he was catching up to them. The Dreadnought was relatively slow and had a huge turn-radius. This was going to be a challenge.

~*~

Down on the ground, Bobbie continued her expert commentary. She occasionally filled in for the Magpies' play-by-play announcer on the WWN, and a flying battle was meat and drink to her. And just so that everyone would be able to hear, she cast a Sonorus on her throat, so her voice could be heard for miles around. Naturally it, and the display of flashing lights and booms from the spellwork, attracted curious folk, who drifted up the hill and through the gates to the source of the excitement. Soon there were dozens of mages and Muggles-in-the-Know, camped out under the aerial battle, cheering, jeering, and making bets on the outcome.

"Magnus MacDonald is giving eight to five odds on Campbell," announced Bobbie, "but he's only got about ten Galleons on him, so if you want a piece of the action, you'd better get over here quickly." Hearing this, Minerva felt a little miffed. After all, she had supported Magnus in his quest to be the first Hogwarts contestant in the Swedish Broom Race. But she hadn't long to be angry because Cuthbert was bearing down on them, firing Stunners. She lost him briefly by circling around the Keep. The turn was so tight she actually scraped up against the corner of a tower. When she got back to the duelling ground, he was nowhere to be seen.

"Bludger coming--duck, you witches!" shouted Bobbie from the ground, and Minerva realized almost too late that she meant the enemy was overhead. And indeed, there was Cuthbert, flying down out of the constellation Leo, like a meteor. He had taken a short cut over the roof. She couldn't dodge, so she did the only thing she could, waited until he was so close he couldn't change course, then braked hard and let him run right into her fag end. She'd hoped that would break up his sweep, but he just glanced off the springy tail and bounced back a few yards.

While he recovered, Minerva took the opportunity to put as much distance as possible between them, so she could discuss strategy with Donnie. "I'm going to wait until he closes with us, then do a vertical loop," she explained.

"What are you hoping to accomplish?"

"There's a design flaw in the Comet 160. I'm hoping to break up its shaft with the extreme G-forces. Hold on. Here he comes."

Cuthbert approached at speed, firing hexes. Minerva urged the Dreadnought into a steep ascent, and he followed. She pulled on its head, starting a backward loop. She had to concentrate hard on keeping a consistent curvature. But the Dreadnought was too long and heavy for the tight turn radius she was trying to effect, and halfway through the loop, it started flipping end over end like a pinwheel.

Cuthbert, on the small, lithe Comet, came out of the loop with not so much as a faggot out of place and bore down on the Dreadnought and its passengers, who were by now cross-eyed and green from the spinning motion. His first spell set its tail afire, but Donnie, who was being sick just then, had the presence of mind to puke on the blaze, which put it out, though it smelled terrible. His second spell barely missed Minerva's head and she shouted to her aunt to for-Merlin's-sake-please-put-up-that-bloody-Shield-Spell. She did so, and they sped off back towards the Keep.

Minerva had by now decided the only advantage the Dreadnought had was its weight, so she was going to try to ram the smaller Comet One-Sixty. She shouted to Donnie to get ready to Vanish the Shield on her signal, and she once again rounded the Keep, hoping that Cuthbert would try the same overhead attack he had before. He did, but this time, Minerva went to meet him. His spells glanced off Donnie's Shield. Good, the bastard didn't have a Shield of his own up. She aimed for his midsection. There'd be no brushing the Dreadnought aside, as Dugald had once done to her withywand broomstick. At the last second she motioned to Donnie to drop the Shield, and she buried the head of the Dreadnought right into the front of Cuthbert's robe. It drove through to the broom handle and the Comet sprang back under the impact. She thought she heard the faintest of cracks and then a clearly recognizable, agonized scream as the Dreadnought lumbered on past.

She felt a tug at her arm. It was Donnie. She looked, if it was possible, both white and green at the same time.

"I'm sorry, dearie, I just can't go on." She pointed at her leg. It was spurting blood like a fountain. "It won't stay healed," she whispered.

Minerva shrugged and made for the roof of the Keep to unload her passenger. "Get inside and find Goodie Gudgeon. She's probably reading to Argus. She'll have some potion that'll work. But keep a look-out. Conall is still in this and he might come looking for you."

"But he gave up his wand, remember?"

Minerva nodded and scanned the sky for her cousin. Had he given up and run off? She knew she had given him a bruising he'd remember for a long, long time. Then she heard Aunt Bobbie announcing to all and sundry that Master Campbell was 'polishing the Family Jewels', to which there were embarrassed titters from her aunts and guffaws from the male audience. There he was, on the ground, pointing his wand between his legs. Apparently she had hit him a little lower than she'd planned. He was probably doing some kind of Numbing Charm on his privates. The polite thing would have been to let him finsh his self-ministration, but Minerva was way past feeling merciful. She went into a dive, straight from the roof, and Cuthbert had to cut his spellwork short. He kicked off and sped away over the fields in obvious fear. He wanted no more close encounters with the Dreadnought. But her sweep was still too slow and he put a great deal of distance between them in a short time.

She pursued him for a long time over undulating hills and patches of woodland and finally lost sight of the Comet altogether. She could see mountains in the distance, and in front of them a remnant of the Old Caledonian Forest. They must be near the Crypt--or the mine. Minerva smiled grimly. She wished she could get him to fly inside and then call down some wandless magic to bury him in it, the way he had buried her father. Yes, it all came clear to her riding out in the fresh, cold night air, air that Da would never breathe again because of Cuthbert, and likely his scheming mother.

It was that remark of Bobbie's that did it, about the pink color of the mine's Truss-Shield Spell. But Inachus Filch had said the mine was black as pitch when he and Da entered it. There was no spell holding up the mountain's innards that morning. And that meant...

Now she saw something moving in the distance. It was the Comet. Cuthbert was patrolling the cliff face, as if looking for something, a place to hide, perhaps? Hardly. He still had his wand, and all that high-level education. More likely a niche to ambush her from. He was bent over, clutching himself, as if in pain. She chuckled nastily. He was probably still hurting from her ramming attack. She dropped down into the trees. At this point, the forest would provide cover until she was almost upon him. She would try to surprise him from the side and ram him again before he could complete a spell, Even if he managed to dodge her, she had one other maneuver she could try, which might possibly even disarm him. She waited until he crossed her line of sight, then charged him with a vengeance. She was only a few yards away when he saw her. His Quidditch reflexes kicked in; the Comet started to rise. At that second, she leaped up into the air and vaulted over him, giving his wand hand a hearty kick as she arced by. She completed the Jumping Jupiter ploy, settling herself firmly back on the Dreadnought as it completed its pass under the Comet 160.

But then she realized that the Dreadnought's momentum was going to carry her right into the cliff face, which was now only a short distance away. And far beneath it, she saw the entrance to the Crypt. This whole section of mountain was reinforced with her father's Shield Spells inside and out. She could feel their power, radiating from the very rock itself, threatening her and her sweep. There was no chance the Dreadnought would survive the collision with those forces, even though she had been able to slow it down considerably. The great log met the implacable warding, buckled, and split longways. Minerva was thrown onto the slate facade, and stunned by the impact. She slid senseless down the sheer wall, caught in the fastness of those spells, but the pain of friction brought her quickly back to herself. She tried desperately for a hand-hold, but she was moving too fast. A ledge stopped her feet abruptly--the upper border of a frieze of runes which topped the great bronze doors to the Crypt. And something, perhaps a strong sudden gust of air, stopped her from then tumbling backwards off the ledge. She leaned into the wall and tried not to breathe. She knew the doors themselves were over two storeys high and the frieze another six feet tall. One false move and she'd be in free fall again, and the only thing left to stop her would be the sharp, stony steps below, carved into the foot of the mountain.

"Well now, cousin, you seem to be at your end, do you not?" Cuthbert was right behind her, and fairly close from the sound of his voice. "Are you ready to surrender?"

Minerva had to turn around, to face her enemy, though she knew it would be a very tricky, dangerous maneuver. "I'm not the person who should be surrendering," she rasped, as she began the turn. She crossed one leg behind the other as if she was going to do a curtsey, then pressed one shoulder hard into the wall and swung the other out, her feet pivoting in the sandy scree of the ledge. Only then did she feel herself in danger when so much of her weight was off the cliff face, and that moment, surprisingly, she felt once again, something pressing in on her, like a breeze or--no--more like a gauzy netting, spread out over her body, keeping her from falling. She completed the turn and tried to relax, breathing deeply with her back to the wall.

"Very good, Coz. You could be a tight-rope walker in that Muggle circus your Squib uncle is with. But to get back to our negotiations, I think that we can assume your Aunt Donnie is effectively out of it. There's only you--and me."

"What do you mean? Donnie's fine." She tried to make the bluff sound like the truest thing she ever said.

"No. She's not. That ax I hit her with was coated with a strong anti-coagulent salve. And the wound was very deep. She'll have been bled white by now."

Minerva sagged inside momentarily. But she had faith in Goodie's potions. Perhaps Donnie was cured and even now racing to her aid--some way or other. She wouldn't be allowed to commandeer another broom. Nevertheless, Minerva sought to buy time. It wasn't right that she should surrender, not until she knew for sure that Donnie was defeated. "So, what do we do now?"

"It's entirely up to you. If you give up the guardianship to me--now--you can ride with me back to the Keep. If not, I'll have to go back by myself--and leave you here, since you're still technically the enemy and could try to sabotage me on the trip back. Then, when I hear the words from Donnie's own lips, I'll send someone back for you."

"You won't even help me down?"

"I wouldn't trust you as far as I could Banish you."

Minerva almost laughed. This great warlock was afraid of her--even if only a little bit. By moving her head a trifle, she could see that the ground was a long, long way down. She knew she'd never survive an hour out here, standing like this, in the cold, her legs numb, having been astraddle the Dreadnought half the night already. But she couldn't bring herself to say the words, "I give up."

"Well, I won't yield!" she shouted.

She felt suddenly helpless, and it made her angry.She might as well tell him what she thought of him. At least she would die with the truth on her lips. The Truth is always important, Professor Dumbledore said.

"Have it your way." He made to turn the Comet about.

"Wait! Before you go, tell me, how did my father die--really?"

"What do you mean?"

"It seems such a coincidence, you ken. The yeti dragging those bones up to your mine, your so-called impenetrable Truss-Shield failing, and the scorch mark on my father's forehead."

"I don't know what you mean. Are you trying to say I had something to do with my uncle's death?"

"I am. You see, there was no force field holding up the ceiling that morning. Inachus Filch said so, though he didn't realize what he saw--or didn't see--since he's never visited the mine before. That means that all it would take was a little disturbance to bring the whole mountain down."

"Hush, girl--"

"Why did you do it? Just couldn't wait to take over the estate?"

"I never--the Shield wasn't supposed to--"

He was blustering, like the coward she knew him to be. That made her angrier still. "And that mark on my father. It looked just like the wound from a Blasting Spell. What did you do: put some kind of Geas on the yeti, to force it to steal the bones and bring them to the mine? You knew it would trigger an alarm spell Da had set on the hoarding, because he told Donnie and your mother about his plans to trap the Pogrebin's master. Was it your idea or hers for you to hide in the dark, waiting to knock my Da out with a Blast Spell, and then Apparate away as the rock started to fall?"

"No, she wouldn't--it wasn't like that--"

"What was it like then?"

"How did you think-- Never mind. You know, I wouldn't put it past you to tell this fantastic story to your aunts and that old biddie from the Ministry. They'll not believe you--hysterical underage witchling--but I couldn't take the chance--the Laird of Connghaill Keep must have an unblemished reputation."

"You'll never have the Keep. I'll fight you--"

"With what?" He laughed. "You're so like your mother. Stubborn, both of you--just won't give up. It looks like I'll have to do a Memory-Wipe on you. That way, you won't be spreading any lies about me. Now you'll be even more like her--clueless, but happy."

"How will you explain my memory loss?"

"I'll arrange you on the ground and give you a judicious bump on the head. They'll put it down to Muggle amnesia, I'm sure. The apple never falls very far from the tree." He raised his wand and straightened up in his seat, gathering strength. "Obliviate! he shouted.

Minerva shielded her head with her hands as she watched the bloom of energy spread out from Cuthbert's wand. It engulfed her, and she cried out against the oblivion to come. But as quickly as it had come, just as quickly it rebounded back to its caster, and lit her cousin up as if his clothes were on fire. He plummeted to the ground, missed the stone steps, and landed in a patch of heather, bounced slightly in the springy turf, and lay still. His falling as he did, backwards away from her, pushed the Comet towards her until it hovered just out of reach. She was afraid to grab it at first, but as she made a tentative motion towards it, she felt again that safety net tugging on her, steadying her, so that she was actually able to stretch out her hand without wavering and grasp the shaft. She climbed aboard and kicked off the ledge, feeling an infinitesimal snap, as if a cord holding her to the wall had broken. She flew to the ground and examined her cousin. He was unconscious and breathing shallowly.

She flew quickly back to the Keep. Minerva had a whispered conference with Brianag Doohan about her cousin's condition and his resting place. Healer Doohan called for volunteers for a rescue party. After they'd flown off, Lord Macnair unceremoniously handed the keys to the Keep officially to Donnie. There were cheers as Bobbie relayed the announcement of Aunt Donnie's victory to the crowd, even from the many who had bet against her.After a quick consultation with Goodie, Donnie invited everyone inside for an impromptu celebration.

But Minerva had no desire to join them. When her Aunt Charlamaine approached her to ask what had happened, Minerva just looked at her coldly and walked away. She knew now: this was the mother of the man who'd murdered her father. Yes, she knew this, and her ambitious aunt was likely in on the plot.

But she would wait to make her accusation until Cuthbert was brought back. Then she would proclaim it to everyone in the Great Hall. That way there could be no cover-up, no excuses. It would have to be investigated. The only question was, would Cuthbert remember any of it?

"Why are you sitting out here in the dark, my girl?" It was Donnie. "Reveling in your victory?"

"Our victory, Aunt Donnie. I'm so glad you're all right. Your wound was so--bloody."

"Goodie took care of it in a minute, and Conall did come for me, but I made short work of him. For all his skill, there's still a lot he doesn't know. What happened out there?"

"I'd rather wait and tell everyone at once. I'm waiting for Cuthbert, the coward."

"Why do you say that? He put on an excellent show. Everyone will be talking about those fireworks for weeks."

"I... I just realized something about him. Something horrible."

"What's that--other than that he's a big fraud?"

"What?"

"You didn't notice? Most of his spells weren't even O.W.L. level."

"What about those weapons he Conjured?"

"Hmph. That was merely a multiple Accio, barely third year. Filch just now checked the Armory and every last bit of steel has been torn off the walls, along with some stonework, and the windows are all broken. That doesn't take power, merely persistence. Even the doxies were likely Accioed from some cave or other--not conjured out of thin air or Transfigured. The Truss-Shield was his best work all evening."

"Yes. Too bad it wasn't up when my father went into the mine."

Donnie just looked at her. Minerva told her aunt her suspicions. "I wasn't going to say it until I could say it to his face, but it's true. Aunt Donnie, he killed my father, and I wouldn't be surprised if Aunt Charlamaine put him up to it." She expected Donnie to be surprised and as incensed as she was, but her aunt just stared at the ground for a few moments.

"Minerva, you can't make that accusation."

"What?"

"Your father's death... I'm convinced... was a tragic accident."

"But... "

"It's true, there were no wards, no strengthening of the supports in the mine that day. I worked that out after Filch told us his story. I'm afraid the death of your father was due to your cousin's shoddy spell-work and laziness."

"NO!"

"Yes." Donnie met her gaze and bored into it with her own smoldering eyes. "I feel as angry as you over what happened. I confronted Charlamaine with our findings, just before the wake, and she broke down, admitted that Cuthbert had been having trouble keeping his new-fangled strengthening charms in place, and he didn't check on them periodically as he was supposed to or put up any kind of barrier at the entrance. You saw how distraught she was."

"It could have been just a clever bit of acting." She thought back to Charlamaine's tear-streaked face, her heart-rending sobs as her husband led her away from the receiving line. "Or all right, maybe it was all Cuthbert's idea."

"It's not likely, my girl, given his personality. He's weak, Minerva, lazy, a charlatan, a liar at worst, but no killer. He hasn't the guts... or the brains for it, I don't think."

There was a commotion in the yard. The rescue party touched down with Cuthbert in a sling tied between two broomsticks. He was carried into the keep. Donnie stopped Brianag Doohan.

"How is he?"

"He's conscious. He'll live. But it's odd."

"What?" said Minerva.

"You told me he tried to do an Obliviate on you, and it rebounded back to him."

"He did. And it did."

"But his memory is just fine. He recognized me as soon as I did an Rennervate on him. And he denies attacking you."

"He would," said Minerva.

"Did you test his wand?" asked Donnie.

"Not yet. Here it is, if you want to. I'd better see to my patient. Let me know what you find."

Healer Doohan rushed into the Keep. Donnie took the wand and gave it to Minerva. She touched her own wand to Cuthbert's and said the words "Prior Incantato." A bit of smoke curled up out of Cuthbert's wand. It formed a small question mark.

"I know that mark," said Minerva. "It's the sign of a botched spell."

"Need I say more?" asked Donnie.

"So he's not a very good mage. So what?"

"He didn't kill your father. Not intentionally."

A small sob escaped Minerva's lips. "I don't believe it."

Donnie put her hands on her niece's shoulders. "I know how you feel. You want your father's death to be for an important reason. I do too. If he was killed because of his beliefs, or because someone was jealous of him, or wanted his title and lands, or hated the McGonagall name, that at least would mean he died for a reason that you can understand. But for him to have died because someone was lazy and stupid and careless is just about unbearable."

Minerva allowed herself to be pulled into an embrace, but she did not cry.

After a long, calming moment, her aunt released her. "Well, at least now we know the truth."

"Not all of it," said Minerva. "But we will. Is there an owl available, Aunt Donnie?"

"Certainly. Branagh and Ironbeak are both well rested. Why?"

"I need to get in touch with Professor Dumbledore."

36. SECOND VISION

They reached the Crypt doors. Minerva pointed to the ledge where she had been trapped by her cousin Cuthbert. Professor Dumbledore nodded. "And you say you felt as if you were being held in place by some kind of force?"

"Yes, it was almost like a net, but invisible, you ken?"

"There is indeed powerful warding in place, to keep trespassers out I imagine. I can feel its energy from here."

"My father's work. And it didn't treat me as a trespasser."

"Because you are his daughter, the heir to the Keep and the land."

"Not anymore."

"Nevertheless, I think it was that energy that held you fast, and perhaps even repelled your cousin's spell."

"A spell that didn't work anyway."

"Yes, as I said, your cousin is much less a mage than a talented trickster." He paused a moment, then continued. "You will forgive me if I sound a bit forward, but was not that Shield something like a last fatherly embrace?"

"Aye." Minerva smiled, even as her eyes filled with tears, and she waved her wand. "Gonagallohomora," she murmured huskily, and she led her teacher through the wide-flung doors and on into the Crypt. He waited patiently while she visited her father's tomb and thanked him for her life. Then she took Professor Dumbledore quickly through the other rooms to the Seeking Glass.

"Ahhh, wonderful. Do you know the origin of this device, Minerva?"

"Aye, it was my ancestor, Auld Fearghas, who discovered it. It's said that he heard a voice calling him to free it. And he dug and dug into the mountain until he found it." She took out her mother's brooch and placed it along with her grandfather's knapsack in front of the Glass. Dumbledore had insisted that they do this first, even though Minerva knew it would show them nothing her father had not already told her about. And indeed the glass randomly revealed scene after scene of Iphigenia Wallace with her father from a very young age up through her years at school.

After almost an hour of happy father-daughter outings, Minerva sighed heavily. "My father saw all this too. But nothing about that last day."

"But we have learned something important, I believe."

"What, sir?

"We saw scenes of your mother as a baby and as a young girl and in school, but there were no scenes of her beyond a certain age, about fifteen, I would say."

"Well that makes sense. Grandfather joined the army around that time."

"True, but after he came home, did your mother not ever visit him?"

"I'm sure she did, but perhaps Grandmother was always there too, so we would need something of hers to be able to see those scenes."

"Yes, that is certainly possible." He stood in thought a moment, as if weighing her observation, almost as if she were no student, but a colleague, an equal. Then, "Well, shall we test my own theory?"

"What is your theory, sir?"

"As I told you, I think there may have been a third person present when your grandfather died, and that, if so, that person was responsible for both his death and your mother's condition."

"It would take a very wicked mage to do such a thing. He or she must have had something against my mother, some reason for wanting to make her suffer."

"Excellent reasoning, but let me correct our approach to this enigma in one small detail. What if a certain person, X, (let us refer to the object of our inquiry by that title for the time being) had something against your grandfather to begin with? And what if your mother made herself the enemy of X by getting in the way of his or her plans?"

"That makes as much sense as the other, I suppose. But my Grandfather was a Muggle, a farmer. How could he be a threat to anyone in the Magicosm?"

"That is what we must determine. Now, in all of your grandfather's life, did he ever, so far as you know, come into contact with a mage who might have wanted to do him harm?"

"How would I know that? I never knew my grandfather. But, oh, there was the Vision I saw in the Seeking Glass of the soldier."

"Yes. Your grandfather met a wizard on the battlefield near Saint-Quentin and was seriously injured by him. And we are pretty sure who that wizard was."

"Grindelwald! Oh, Professor, perhaps he found out he hadn't killed Grandfather Wallace and came back to finish him off."

"Well reasoned. Though how he could track your grandfather down is an enigma of some importance. But to your point: why would he need to 'finish your grandfather off' as you say?"

"Because he was afraid Grandfather could identify him. But, weren't there other soldiers nearby that could have seen him as well?"

"Not many. Your grandfather had been separated from his battalion, an outer flank of the Allies' thrust, in a heavy mist, which we believe was magically generated. We searched the area thoroughly. Not a sign of our quarry, except for one thing. A wand. I found it not too far from where your grandfather was waylaid."

"That was a careless thing for a mage to do: to just drop his wand where anyone could pick it up."

"Actually it seems to have been magically hidden in a blasted oak tree. A paltry bit of work and easily detected."

"Why would he do that? If Grindelwald wanted to escape, wouldn't he need his wand to Apparate?"

"Most mages do. And if he did try it, he would have been unsucessful. You see, my comrades had set up Containment and Detection Wards on the battlefield, the same type we have around the school. No one can Apparate into or out of them, though anyone could walk through them. We had promised the Allied commanders that we would not interfere with the battle. So it was important that our warding should not inhibit the Muggle soldiers in any way."

"That seems a poor barrier."

"Ah, but we made the warding field one whose energy would attack any magical object carried through it,like a wand, for example."

"You mean it would destroy the wand or give out a warning if a mage tried to pass through the barrier?"

"Not exactly. The energy of the field would be drawn to the magical item and concentrate its destructive power there."

"Would it destroy the wand?"

Possibly not, but it would likely do violence to any nearby soft tissue: skin, muscle, even bone."

"So Grindelwald's hand might have been injured?"

"Or his leg, if he had pocketed his wand, or his abdomen, if he carried it in his belt, as I do."

"And it was Grindelwald's wand that you found. Perhaps that's what he came to the house for. He thought Grandfather might have it. That would explain why he had to use the Geas if he didn't have a wand of his own."

"But he could have used your mother's."

"Oh! No, perhaps he couldn't. Can't a wand sometimes rebel when someone tries to use it against its owner?"

Dumbledore looked at her and smiled. "Yes I believe it can under certain circumstances So, shall we try out this theory of mine?" He brought a bag into the room and removed from it a thick, scabrous, crooked stick.

"This is the wand I found in that oak tree at the Front in Picardy, the day your grandfather was injured. If we are right, if it belongs to Old Grindy, and if he was in fact involved in your grandfather's death, we should see that scene shortly." He placed the wand next to the brooch and knapsack. He stepped back, and they waited. But though they waited several minutes, there came no flicker of light from the Seeking Glass.

"It's hopeless," said Minerva. "Ma must have,done it."

Dumbledore tapped his head with his forefinger. "Tell me, when you saw the vision of your grandfather confronting the wizard with his rifle, did it vanish the moment the spell was cast?"

Minerva nodded.

"You waited to see if it would start up again."

"Yes, I wanted to see more of what happened. I must have waited at least a minute."

"And the Glass was unable to show us any meeting between your mother and grandfather after he got back from the war." He frowned. "It all fits. I dread the thought, but it seems the only solution." He picked up Bill Wallace's knapsack, walked to the doorway and laid it gently down in the next room.

Immediately, the whirling vortex of lightning-energy filled the Glass and separated into two figures. Minerva recognized her mother though she must be little more than twenty years of age. A man who could only be Grandfather Wallace was sitting on a bed, toying with a glass of dark liquid.

"Hello, Dad. I hope you're well," said the young Iphigenia Wallace McGonagall.

"Sure I will be soon after I drink this." He held up the glass and made a face. His voice was halting and hoarse and painful to listen to.

"Your medicine? Don't bother about that." She took the glass from his hand and put it on the bedside table. "I want to show you something."

"What is it, lass?"

"This is my wand, see? I told you I can do magic, real magic. You knew about that long ago before the war, but you've forgotten so much."

"Aye but I remember that My daughter the witch." He laughed. It sounded almost like a dog barking. "This wand, what does it do? Looks like an old stick."

"It's not. It's made of birch wood and has a bit of a magical feather inside. It helps me to cast spells and charms."

"You all have them. Your husband too."

"Yes, Dad, Jupiter has one. It's oak and dragon heart-string."

"Sounds wonderful. But do you not have many wands? A collection at your farm?"

"Yes, did Jupiter tell you that?"

Her father nodded. "We talked at the wedding."

"Well, it's not really a collection. There's a cave on the property where all the McGonagalls are buried and their wands with them."

"Must be v-very wonderful."

"Actually it's rather dreary. But in the center of the Crypt,that's what they call it,there's this great black stone that marks the grave of the first McGonagall wizard. And his wand is said to be the most powerful of the whole clan."

"You m-must take me to it some day."

"Aye, when you're better. And that's why I'm here. Dad, I think I can help you."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, they say the German Kaiser had some Dark Magic, evil wizards, on his side. So, your wound and your cough mayn't have been caused by Muggle weapons. I think they might be magical. That's why the Healers, I mean the doctors, couldn't help you."

"But what can one, can you do about it? That wand will it cure me?"

"Perhaps."

"Let me see it."

Iffie showed the wand to her father. He touched it and smiled.

"Do you now point it at me and say 'Hocus-pocus-dominocus'?"

"Not at all, Dad. Mostly I use medicines,herbs and such. What do you think?"

"Well, it can't be worse than that stuff I take now." He winced. "But your mother, she won't like it."

Iffie patted her father's hand. "It'll be our secret then."

"Ah, I remember now. She put water on for tea before she went to the market."

"I'll get it, Dad." Iffie left the room, and Bill Wallace rose heavily and limped to a clothes chest. He rummaged around in it looking for something. After several minutes he drew out a long flat object, made of some kind of leather.

Dumbledore inhaled with a sharp hiss.

"What is it?" whispered Minerva.

"It looks like a scabbard for a bayonet. It's a kind of Muggle weapon, war issue by the look of it."

Iffie came back with a tray and settled it on the bedside table. "What's that you have there?"

They sat and had tea. He showed her the bayonet, a longish knife that looked familiar to Minerva. He explained how the bayonet worked; it fastened onto the end of another Muggle weapon called a rifle. Then he put it back in its scabbard, and his daughter told him a little more about the healing process, which involved potion therapy mostly.

"Shall I begin?" she asked.

"Yes, best to do it before your mother gets home." She picked up a bag and brought out several vials. "What're those?"

"A course of strengthening tonics. I had them from my old Potions Professor. But first, I'm going to remove any residual spell effects that might still be on you." She raised her wand. "Attenuo!"

"What's that? What are you're doing?"

"Don't worry. It's a Relaxing charm, Dad." Iffie's voice trailed off into a gasp.

The face of Bill Wallace began to change. The nose lengthened, the cheeks hollowed, the lips thinned, and a network of wrinkles spread over the forehead, down the cheeks, around the mouth. The throat became ropy, and veins popped out in the hands. When the transformation was complete, she saw a man far older than her grandfather, but incredibly alive, with eyes shining like a child's.

Dumbledore stiffened. "Great Gryffindor! He's a Metamorph. That would explain a great deal But how? I thought I knew him."

"Who, what are you talking about?" Minerva whispered. But her mother's voice, filled with anguish, cut off any reply.

"Dad! What have I done? Are you all right? I don't understand. What did I do to you?" She made as if to take him by the arm, but he turned away from her, picked up the scabbard and swung it around. The butt of the bayonet caught her on the temple with a resounding 'Thunk' and she went down in a heap.

The man poked at her body with his toe. She did not stir. Minerva's brain was paralyzed by what she had just seen and the paradox it generated. It looked like her grandfather had just killed her mother, yet she knew this could not be true. Her grandfather was long dead. Her mother was alive, was back at the Wallace farm, possibly sitting now with Grandmother Wallace in the very room they were looking at, but so many years later.

The man picked up Iffie's wand and gave a short bark of a laugh. He turned his attention to the wall behind her. A picture hung there. Minerva drew closer to the Glass and peered at it. It looked like the one she had seen in Grandmother Wallace's parlor, but this picture showed a figure in the chair under the tree there by the farmhouse, a figure dressed all in dark clothing, head thrown back as if asleep.

"Engorgio," shouted the man in a commanding, not-Bill-Wallace voice, and the picture started to expand rapidly. When it reached the size of a doorway, he stepped into it and walked towards the farmhouse and the person in the chair. He pointed the wand once more. "Mobilicorpus," he muttered and drew the limp body towards him. It followed him out of the picture-portal and dropped to the floor. "Zair goot," he said,or something like it, and reduced the picture back to its original size. With another wave of the wand, he stripped the figure on the floor naked. They could see no wound marks on the body, but it lay very still.

"That is your grandfather," murmured Dumbledore.

Minerva looked on in horror as the man waved her mother's wand once more and exchanged clothes with the inert form. "Who is that other person? Not," She glanced at the brooch and wand at the foot of the Seeking Glass. "Not Grindelwald."

"It is. It must be." Something in his voice, utter resignation or even despair, made her look at him. His face was very white.

"And my g-grandfather," she stammered. "Is he Stunned?"

"I am afraid he is dead, and had been for a very long time. That is why your vision of him cut off when he was hit by that spell. I thought it merely knocked him unconscious, but it must have been a killing spell, Avada Kedavra or the like. That is why having his knapsack in front of the Glass kept us from seeing this vision."

"But there's no decay. Wouldn't he be all dried up or even a skeleton by now, I mean, then?"

"Hiding a body in a picture suspends it in time, like a memory. A brilliant move." Minerva nodded. It was that very spell that had imprisoned her cousin Rowdie Flynn alive for over a hundred years.

Now Grindelwald was dressed in the dark robes and cape. He translocated the body of Bill Wallace to the bed. And he turned to Minerva's mother once more. "Ahk doo leeber," he cried.

Minerva felt her teacher stiffen beside her as if the words burned him. She herself could not understand the words. She had no time to ask a question because she heard her teacher muttering beside her. She quickly realized that he was now translating the evil wizard's words.

"'Pah, soft, weak English words,'" Dumbledore haltingly paralleled the evil mage's German phrases. "'So long it took me to learn you, listening every day to these Scotch bastards, mimicking their craven mewlings, but now I spit you out So good the language of my fatherland again to speak. What must I with you do little witch? You have my disguise too soon uncovered. Ah, if you could that Crypt me to show But I can use your wand. There are many of your English wizards looking to find me. And my servant I cannot allow them,no,allow you to tell anyone. You must lose your memory a result of your head injury. The Muggles will think that your father had a heart attack as he tried to wake you.'"

Grindelwald raised the wand and pointed it at the prostrate witch. "Obliviate." he murmured. But instead of throwing out the energy of the spell into her body, the wand tip began to glow red, as if the Memory Charm was struggling to free itself, but was stopped by some opposing force. The wand started to smoke and the red color crept backward until the whole wand was afire with the pent-up spell energy. There was a bright flash as it reached his fingers, and Grindelwald dropped the wand and hugged his hand to his chest. "Verdammen!" he cried. Dumbledore didn't translate that word, but Minerva had no trouble guessing its meaning. After a moment Grindelwald tried to pick up the wand with his good hand, but it started shooting sparks at him, so shortly he gave up.

"You were right, Minerva," said Dumbledore. "The wand would not let him harm its mistress. I have heard of such phenomena, especially with phoenix feathers, but I have never observed it myself."

Now Grindelwald was speaking again, and Dumbledore continued his translation: "'I cannot erase your memory. I cannot kill you with my hands, for that would look suspicious. But no one will believe a mad woman.'" Grindelwald leered at her, as he rummaged in his pockets. He pulled out three vials. "'Let us see, which is the best for the job? Red Cap? No, I will need you for another task. Erkling? No. Pogrebin? Perfect.'"

He opened a vial. He poured a little water from the tea kettle into it and something inside began to churn and bubble. Presently a froth like soapsuds or ale spilled over the sides. Something inside, something dark, was growing to fill the glass. The vial shattered and the whatever-it-was dropped onto the bed, a small, wet creature, curled up like a new-born pup. It grew rapidly until it was the size of a small child,a very ugly child with a swollen, hairless head. It lay quiet a moment as if gathering strength, then a curious thing happened. Its skin began to darken,unless it was a trick of the uncertain light of the cave,until it almost blended in with the brown blanket it was resting on. Minerva watched as it sat up and shook itself and gazed at its master with grateful, bulging eyes,her mother's nemesis, the Pogrebin.

"'Now, I command you,'" translated Dumbledore, "'to follow this woman. You will cleave to her, you will retail her sins, her inmost fears driving her mad. If you are separated from her, you will not rest until you find her again. Away from her, you cannot live except only in the meagerest sense. But you will not lay hand or weapon upon her, except those feelings of despair which you will pour into her spirit, until she takes her own life. Then and only then are you freed.'"

Grindelwald repeated the German words twice more, his voice rising steadily in pitch and volume. Finally Dumbledore translated in a whisper, "'This you shall do or suffer the pain of excruciating and lingering torture for the rest of your miserable life.'" The Pogrebin stiffened, then shuddered. At the end of the horrible rite, the wizard gathered up his knapsack and walked out the door. The Glass went black.

Dumbledore stared at the glass, muttering. Minerva strained to catch his words. "How is it possible that he needed to learn English? But he might have forgotten. It has been so long."

The words made little sense, and Minerva had a million questions of greater importance, she was sure. "Was that the Geas, Professor? Those last words he said?"

He came out of his brown study. "Yes, the formula is always the same. A clear, unequivocal command spoken with the utmost conviction, then repeated in those exact words in the same order twice more. And at the end, the caster must also pronounce the punishment for disobedience."

She shuddered. "How cold. How-how horrible."

"Indeed. But did you notice? As the creature lay there on your Grandfather's bed? It changed color."

"You saw it too?"

"Yes. This particular Pogrebin seems to have had the quality of a chameleon as well, a most unusual anomaly. I shall have to ask Professor Cavallo-Grifone about it."

"No wonder Ma never discovered it. It could hunker down and just blend into the background like a rock or a piece of crockery or a fold in the bedclothes." Minerva buried her face in her hands. "Poor Ma. She did suffer so. I don't think I realized it until just now."

"Yes, but now we know the truth, and the truth always helps."

"No it doesn't. That evil man Grindelwald, he got away with this. If Da was alive, he'd hunt him down and, oh, Professor, I want to find him and kill him myself. But I can't. I don't know how. And I don't know enough."

Dumbledore put an arm around her shoulders. "There are many mages who are looking for this evil warlock to bring him to justice. Unfortunately there are at least as many who think he's no more than a myth or a figment of the imagination. And at last, I begin to see why, but there are still so many questions."

Minerva broke into his thoughts impulsively, crying, "How can they think that? That he's not real."

He put a steadying hand on her shoulder. "He's very cunning; he can hide among Muggles like a badger in a thicket,or a Pogrebin in your father's house. One good thing. We now know partly how he does it: he is a Metamorphmagus. Your mother's Attenuo caught him off guard and he was unable for a moment to hold the form of your grandfather. And see, Minerva, how resourceful he is. Wounded at Saint-Quentin while trying to get through the Wards, he stumbled upon a British soldier, Bill Wallace. He knew that our net was fast closing about him. It was only a matter of moments before he would be apprehended. So he killed your grandfather and exchanged clothes with him, took on his facial features. He was probably going to just change your grandfather into a stone or something, but then he saw the painting."

"Why did he need to put grandfather's body inside it?"

"Who knows? Perhaps he could not be sure how long he would have to retain your grandfather's likeness and needed to be able to compare the true image with the one he was maintaining. It is hard to keep up an appearance you are not familiar with."

"I see."

"He hid the wand,disguising it inside a root of that bombed-out tree, an excellent disguise, I might add. It almost fooled even me. Then he was 'rescued' and taken to a field hospital. My colleagues and I were taken in completely. You remember I told you we tried to question him. He just looked at us blankly as if stunned. Battle fatigue, the doctors called it. He was wounded, rather severely in the abdomen and he feigned an additional cough and amnesia. And without his wand, we would detect no magic on him."

"But he didn't have to fake it because he really didn't know my mother or my grandmother."

"But here is something even more astonishing. He did not know the language." Minerva made a face at this. Dumbledore continued. "Yes, remember what he said. He knows quite a few, but did not know English,at least not very well. It would seem that, until he was brought here, the British Isles were a closed book to him ."

"But we just heard him. He speaks perfect English."

"Yes, with a perfect Caledonian accent, though his vocabulary you will have noticed is quite limited. Yes, limited. But, as he said himself, he had to learn it first."

"How could he do that, without a grammar and a teacher and all?"

"It took years to do it, but he had plenty of time to become acquainted with your grandmother and your mother, learn language and customs and all he needed to fit in. And whenever he remained silent or made a mistake, it could be blamed on battle fatigue or his injured vocal cords."

"But why did he need to stay around at all? Why didn't he just leave as soon as grandmother was out of the house and Apparate or something back to wherever he came from?"

"I don't know the answer to that. He did stay a very long time."

"More than ten years."

Yes, almost as if he feared something across the Channel worse than me and my friends." He shook his head impatiently, as if to clear it. "But we can make some conjectures. First of all, as I said, most mages need a wand to Apparate and, second, he may have seen a unique opportunity in his enforced exile. My friends and I were on his trail. It must have unnerved him to realize how close he came to being captured out there on the battlefield. And now he could hide from us virtually in plain sight. No one would ever think to look for the premier Dark Wizard of two centuries on a farm in Perthshire. Yes, that must be it. And he does his evil work best from behind the scenes, charming, cajoling, persuading. Once he had some command of our language, I'm sure he turned to information-gathering. He may even have tried to foment a bit of unrest. I have read that he is at his best turning normally peace-loving Muggles into bloodthirsty warmongers."

"He did just that. Grandmother said he took to starting arguments in the pub and writing letters against the Germans whenever anyone in the government showed signs of softening towards them."

"Yes, he had to keep up the pressure, even if only in a small way. But the majority of the work was already done."

"How so?"

"The Treaty of Versailles, the treaty that ended the Great War, laid such a heavy burden of reparations on the losers, it practically guaranteed a backlash in a people with such a proud history as the Germans. Grindelwald knew he only had to bide his time before hostilities renewed themselves. But I think whilst he was here, he developed a special interest in the British people. We have always posed a great challenge to him, you know."

"How so?"

"We have never been invaded, never been conquered by any of his puppets."

"Why? Has he just never noticed us?"

"Oh yes, he has noticed. I am sure after the Battle of Waterloo, he noticed. But he could not penetrate our chief defenses: the Channel, and the Floo Network. You see, unlike you young folks, elderly warlocks do not much care for riding brooms, especially across large bodies of water, and the Floo Regulatory Commission keeps a close watch on immigrants coming through its fireplaces. And you cannot Apparate to a place unless you have been there before. You have to have a clear picture of the location in your mind, or it is very risky. But now, I fear he has the advantage of us. One he didn't possess in the past."

"What?"

"Now that he has been loose in our land,how long has it been?,over ten years?,he does have a clear picture in his mind of all the places he has visited. He can envision them, Minerva. And that is all he needs to Apparate back here,at will. I must let my colleagues and my contacts at the Ministry know immediately."

"So you think he's gone back to Germany?"

"Yes. He needed a wand, and he got one from your friend Petey. He badly wanted Auld Fearghas's wand. Having lost his own powerful wand, no ordinary one would satisfy him. Too bad for him the third son of the Thane of Perth could not stand up to your ancestors."

"He knew about the Crypt from my father and mother. But how did he find the cave entrance?"

"I imagine he spent a good part of his enforced exile looking for a way. And he did have another creature to help him. Remember the Red Cap?"

"The third vial,yes."

"Another elf-like creature with an appetite for human flesh. They are all related: Erklings, Red Caps, Pogrebins,all petty permutations of evil. Red Caps love to inhabit holes in places where large numbers of people have died, especially old battlefields. We encountered some during the war while looking for Old Grindy. But they are just as content to take a burial vault in lieu of an old trench or shell hole. And they can smell even ancient corpses from miles away. I would almost bet Grindelwald saved that little creature just to look for your family's Crypt."

"And the Erkling?"

"Probably a servant,to carry his things. And for company. A Dark Wizard always has to have some miserable beast to kick about when things aren't going well. I'm sure the Erkling got quite a few of those when Grindelwald realized he wasn't going to be able to just waltz up to Auld Fearghas's monument and take his wand."

"But he did get Petey's. And now, do you think he's gone back to Germany?"

"Indeed. I think he finally settled for a student's paltry faggot. And we know he is back because der Fuehrer has stepped up his demands."

"Der Fuehrer?"

"Adolf Hitler, the new German Chancellor, and undoubtedly Grindelwald's latest protege."

37. FAREWELLS

"So you're off," said a voice at the door. It was Aunt Donnie, or rather Donald Malamhìn Macnair McGonagall, Steward of Connghaill Keep and its lands, and as far as Minerva was concerned, its true Lord.

"Yes, all packed. I just need someone to Levitate my things to the kitchen hearth."

"Going to keep it legal this time, are we?" Donnie grinned. "I'll be happy to take care of it for you." She waved her wand at Minerva's trunk. It didn't budge at first. "What have you got in there--another Dreadnought?" Now she spoke sharp words of command, and the trunk jerked upward and careered out the door.

She stared at the closet, which was open--and completely empty. "You've left none of your things at all."

"Aye. I'll be going right on to school from the Gwynns'. And--I'll not be coming back after that for a good while."

"Whyever not?"

"I--I need to concentrate on my studies--more than ever now."

Donnie raised an eyebrow. "Even the most dedicated scholar needs a break now and again."

"Coming back here wouldn't be a break."

"You're afraid I'll put you to work?"

"No--I'm afraid of the memories."

"All right. Drown yourself in your studies. It's better than whisky--I suppose."

"I wouldn't know about that. But I know one thing."

"What's that?"

"I'm glad you're Laird of the Keep."

"I'm not. Only steward--and your guardian. And happy to be doing it."

"I'll never want to take the title from you."

"You're sure about that?"

"As sure as I am that my father is dead and that my mother is dead--to me."

"That's a harsh judgment."

"I can't change the way I feel." Minerva turned away. She felt that pricking behind her eyes and the constriction of her throat that portended tears. It was always this way, whenever she thought about The Stranger. Even proving her innocence and seeing patent evidence of her suffering--the bludgeoning with the bayonet, the horrible words of the Geas--Minerva could not forgive her mother's weakness. If it had been me, she thought, I would have held on. I'd not let anything keep me from facing the truth.

Donnie came up behind her, placed steadying hands on her shoulders. "I understand. She's here now you know--though not for long."

Minerva turned. "She's back from Grandmother's?"

"And she's going on to Kirk's--today."

"What? Is she not--has something happened to her?"

"Nothing bad, dearie. She's decided that she would like to be a Healer. Her mother put it into her mind, telling her that she once nursed her father--though she went no farther than that. And Magus Kirk has agreed to take her on as an apprentice. She must have talent. Ellis Kirk doesn't normally take students."

If she really is going to be a student, thought Minerva. That interfering woman, Magus Kirk, was at it again, using her status as a Healer to control her mother's life, to keep her from facing her past. And now Ma would be hidden away, ostensibly learning the Healing Arts, but little more than an inmate in that isolated place, a delicate mental patient--again--and likely forever. Maybe Ellis Kirk wanted to 'study' her, as an interesting psychomagical case to add to the others she'd researched. Minerva went cold inside. The tears dried up--or froze--on her face. She wouldn't stand for this. "Where is she now--my mother?"

"In the kitchen downstairs. She wanted to say goodbye to you, but I made excuses, knowing how you're feeling."

"I think I'll see her. It would be impolite not to."

Donnie patted her arm. "That's my girl."

Minerva followed Donnie out of the room. She heard murmurs from the denizens of the Gallery, farewells and a cheerful prognostication from Meg of Dundee, who called after her: "You'll go far, Minerva McGonagall, notwithstanding your Muggle antecedents." Word of her leaving had flown throughout the halls and out into the countryside, though no one but her aunt knew she would not be coming back. She did not turn to acknowledge the goodbyes. At the head of the stairs, she saw Rowdie Flynn. He was standing, centered in his portrait, his sword drawn. He said not a word, but raised his blade gravely in salute, then made a gracious bow. He knows how I feel, she thought. She curtseyed in return, a shy smile creeping over her lips.

When she and her aunt were halfway down the steps, a figure came hurtling up at them. It was Giggie Gwynn, her hair somewhat tamed from the haystack it had been at the wake, her hands full of something--something furry. "I wouldn't cait 'Nerva. I just shad to hoe you. Dad found a 'bandoned nest of keazle nittens at yerk westerday. He said we could teep koo." She held up two fuzzy kittens, one heavily mottled with gray flecks, and one that looked to be pure white. "Albus is mine," she said, nuzzling the white one with her cheek. You can have Specks." Giggie Gwynn thrust the spotted Kneazle at her friend. Minerva took it, though unwillingly. Surprisingly, it didn't claw or bite or spit at her, but nestled in her arms as if it trusted her utterly. She could see it was actually part cat, as it didn't have the lion-like tuft at the end of its tail. But its ears were truly outsized, just like a Kneazle's.

"Uh...thanks, Gig."

"Are you ready?"

"I just have one more thing to do." She handed the kitten to Donnie, who took it with a nod and rested it against her chest. It mewed and squirmed a bit, then kneaded and finally settled into the folds of her tartan. For some reason, Minerva felt compelled to give it a little stroke, to reassure it. There was a sound of commotion overhead.

"Those blasted owls," said Donnie cheerfully. "It's been over a week and they're still coming with flowers and baskets of fruit. And of course, they all have to be first in line lest their gift rot before they get to present it to the steward of the Keep." Minerva frowned at this, but Donnie just breezed on. "Now don't you two leave before I get back." And she turned on her heel and strode off to the office, one hand holding the kitten lightly to her breast.

Minerva turned to her friend. "Listen, Gig. It's good that you came over. I--have something I have to do, and it would help me to have a back-up, you ken?"

"You mean like a Second? You gonna have another dizard's woo-el?"

Minerva laughed in spite of herself. "Not really. Oh--it's a long story." She drew Giggie down to sit on the stairs with her. "You remember I told you how my mother tried to kill herself over the holidays."

"Who could forget it?"

"And after I got back to school, Da sent letters saying she was okay."

Gig nodded.

"Well, she wasn't. She lost her memory that night when I pushed her back off the ledge. She hit her head and--oh Gig, she doesn't remember me or Da or anything." She looked down, away from Gig's eyes, which were wide and a bit frightened. And she realized that she had unconsciously reached her hand out to the kitten in Gig's lap, had started to stroke it as it lay there. It sighed in sleep and bit her--no not 'bit'--took her finger in its tiny mouth and held it there for a few seconds. Then it rolled over and showed its sparsely furred, pinkish belly, which she could see now showed the faintest pattern of pale tan stippling. It opened one eye briefly and looked at her. The eye was blue and mischievous and reminded her of another pair of eyes. It cheered her somehow.

Gig broke into her reverie. "Why doesn't somebody tell your Ma the truth?"

"Ellis Kirk says it would about kill her to know, especially since Da is dead now. But I'm not so sure..."

"You want to tell her, don't you?"

"Yes, Gig. But I don't know how to do it and yet keep her from going crazy--if Kirk should happen to be right."

"Listen, 'Nerva, whenever I have to tell my mum something that she won't like, I sart to stay it and watch her face, you ken? And if she looks like she's setting upget, I just laugh and say it was just a joke and let her find out the truth from somebody else."

"That wouldn't work--I mean who would joke about something like this?"

Gig gnawed her lip, thinking. "I know. If she looks funny at you, you can sop and stay you didn't know what you were saying. Oh--and that you're still upset--about your father. Maybe even cly a rittle?"

"That I can do," said Minerva grimly. Weeping still came all too easily these days, so much so that she wished she could do a Corking Charm on her tear ducts--Ministry restrictions or no--but was afraid to try an unfamiliar spell like that so near her eyes.

"So what do you need me for?" asked Gig.

"Well, if I tell her, but she says she doesn't believe me, I'd want someone there who would say, 'Yes, it's all true, Mistress.' Would you do that, Gig?"

"Of course, I mean, it's the dight thing to roo--isn't it?"

"Professor Dumbledore said so himself, Gig. The truth is the important thing."

Minerva gave Albus a final pat. They got up and walked downstairs together into the kitchen. The Stranger, wearing a starched blouse and a skirt and vest in the Wallace plaid, was there talking to Goodie Gudgeon. The vest hung on her frame and the skirt looked a little on the short side. A small satchel was on the floor by the fireplace.

"Ah, Mistress McGonagall!" she cried. She nodded at Gig. "You must be her friend. Gilliain, isn't it?"

Gig nodded and made a little bob.

"I wanted to say goodbye," said Minerva.

"I heard you're leaving soon too."

"Yes, today. I'm going to stay at Gig's--Gilliain's--a while, and then I have to go back to school early. I've a deal of catching up to do. I didn't get to finish my Transfiguration exam, and there's a Potions practical yet to do."

"Who is the Potions Professor now?"

Minerva just blinked and looked at her.

The Stranger explained: "I'm sorry if I seem so inquisitive, but I've been racking my brains to try to remember some small bit of my past. Mrs. Wallace--I mean, my mother--told me I used to dream about being a doctor, and then a Healer--when they found out I was a witch--but she knew nothing of my school days. It seems that she kept a very strict boundary between the magical and the Mundane worlds."

"Our professor this year was Madam Mandragora." Minerva watched The Stranger for any sign of recognition. There was none. "Well, the new professor's name is Horace Slughorn. I think he's pretty new in the field. I only know his name because I got an owl from him last night."

"Was he wanting to set a date for your practical?"

"No. Oddly enough, he wanted to invite me to tea--with some of the other students."

"The best students, I suppose."

"I don't think so. I'm rather mediocre at Potions. Transfiguration is my best subject. You know--changing things--into other things."

The Stranger looked cheerfully blank. "That sounds fascinating. I hope I'm good at Potions. Healer Kirk says it is a most important subject in the Healing profession. She checked my records and said my marks were decent enough." She picked up her satchel. "So now I'm off to a new adventure--a new life." she held out her hand.

Minerva took it hesitantly. "Before you go, I must tell you something."

"If you say you never want to see me again, I'll understand." A wide, perfect smile brightened The Stranger's face. Minerva winced under its radiance. "I must have been an awful bore, taking up your guest bedroom all this time. They say fish and visitors start to smell in three days, and if that's so--"

Goodie Gudgeon hastened to reassure her. "Ye've been nae tribble at aw, Mistress, nae tribble in the warld. Tell her, Minerva, tell she needna gae. She can bide sae lang as she likes--"

"But I must, Goodie dear." Iphigenia Wallace took the old housekeeper's hand. "I've a calling to pursue, for the good of Wizardkind."

"I ken that. Yer to be a Healer. That's a guid thing. Ye war aye sae guid with potions an wi the ainimals an onybody that wis ill--"

"Whatever are you talking about, Goodie?"

Goodie looked horrified at her faux pas, but Minerva intervened. "Erm--Healer Kirk told us. She--ah--said she had it from the school that you were quite the scholar--and that you helped out in the infirmary--"

The Stranger sighed. "Yet another thing I can't remember."

Goodie still looked embarrassed, and afraid she'd have another slip of the tongue, so she excused herself, pleading a need to 'see to the washing.' She kissed The Stranger lightly on the cheek, murmured a blessing in Gaelic, and Disapparated, presumably to the Undercroft.

"She's a dear," said The Stranger. "I'll miss her very much. Now, what have you to say to me, Mistress McGonagall? It must be very serious. There's a furrow on your brow as deep as Loch Ness."

"Minerva cleared her throat. "What I say may shock you, Miss Wallace, but it's true, every word." She watched The Stranger closely as her tongue poised for the message she had been rehearsing in her mind ever since she had made the decision to confront her with the truth. You were once married to Jupiter McGonagall, you were once married to Jupiter McGonagall, you were once... had been buzzing about the back of her brain throughout the conversation. Now she let her lips form the words unthinking. But, strangely, when she finished, she saw neither pain nor disdain on the Stranger's face, only puzzlement.

"So what do you think of that?" said Minerva.

"Um--I'm not sure. Did you just say I was marinated to a juice- eater Muggle on a golf ball?"

Now it was Minerva's turn to stare. The Stranger was surely mocking her. She turned to Gig who only nodded and mumbled, "That's what you said, Minerva."

Her friend's answer flustered her slightly. "You must have misunderstood. What I said was, 'You were bunch parried to moony purr mug gone in fall.' No, I mean to poop in fur pig bonnet jaw." She shook her head. Her mouth would not say what her brain meant. She tried slower, she tried to say "You're the wife of Jupiter McGonagall" but it came out: "You're--the--white--offshoot--in-- German--gobble--law."

"It sounds like you've been Confunded in some way," said Iphigenia Wallace. She dropped her satchel and looked at Minerva with some concern. "Can you write it down perhaps?"

Minerva tried. She wrote it, tried to sign it, act it out, but every time, her body would not do what her brain wanted it to. Finally, she turned to Gig. "You--tell her--please."

But Gig hesitated, wild-eyed and bewildered. "I--well--you--it's like this--um--Wiss Mollis--hore yuzzban--moo yer warried--I mean--door yaughter--oh, I'm sorry, Vinerma, I can't. What ever hoo yav--I think it bust me toncagious. Spy meech is urse than wevver."

There was a sound behind them, Aunt Donnie entering with little Specks, rooting about her breast and mewing piteously.

"You'd better get these babies off home, my girl, so they can get something to eat," she said as she pried the kitten off her sash and handed it to Minerva.

"Well," said Iphigenia, "I'll leave you two in your aunt's hands. It can't be anything too serious. A Confundus at worst, and they wear off pretty quickly. And as long as it's not a matter of life or death, I suppose I can wait for you to tell me your news. You can owl me at Kirke's." She laughed. "There must be someone around here with a twisted sense of humor. One of your school chums perhaps."

Minerva only shook her head. She could not trust herself to say another word.

Donnie gave the Stranger a quizzical look but only said, "So you're off, Miss Wallace. Got everything you need?"

Iphigenia picked up the satchel and took a handful of Floo powder from the urn on the mantel. "Yes, I seem not to have had much to begin with, but my mother loaned me this outfit. Thank you all again for your help. I'll not soon forget the McGonagall generosity." She turned to Minerva. "Your father was a wonderful man. I wish I'd got to know him better." Minerva only nodded and stared at her helplessly. Iphigenia turned and threw the powder into the fire. "The Kirke Hospice," she murmured, and disappeared in the greenish flames.

Minerva turned to Gig and gingerly essayed a short sentence. "I--don't know--what happened."

Gig looked at her guiltily. "I'm sorry I couldn't say it for you, 'Nerva. I think I was nust jervous, but--."

"It's all right. Now I think I understand a little better what you go through every day."

Donnie surveyed the two. "What did happen, Minerva? Or should I say, what almost happened, or didn't happen that should have?"

"I was going to tell Ma the truth."

"Greatrakes alive! You didn't!"

"No, I didn't. I mean, I couldn't. I mean I wanted to. I tried several times, but my mouth wouldn't say what I wanted it to. It kept coming out all garbled."

Gig grinned. "Actually, 'Nerva, it was kind of funny. 'Juice-eater Muggle', 'Poop in a pig's bonnet...'" She started to laugh.

"No, it wasn't. Oh, all right, it was. But I still don't understand how it happened."

"Perhaps you ate something with jimson weed in it or inhaled some Billywig powder by accident," offered Donnie.

"Or like your ma said: a Confundus--or Brelly Jains," said Gig. "Petey toosed to yalk about wanting to try that one on his buther Cronall."

"Or an Imperius Curse," said Donnie. "But those are forbidden by the Ministry, and anyway it takes too much skill for the average wizard--"

"You know what it felt like?" said Minerva. "Like the way I think a Geas would feel. I felt like my tongue was forced into patterns I didn't want it to form."

"A Jeese?" said Gig. "What's that?"

"Ancient, wandless magic--among the first spells ever used, and incredibly long-lasting."

"I've heard of those," said Donnie. "A Geas. It makes sense. It could have been cast at any time. Perhaps while you were still in school. One of your friends playing a prank. But can a Geas be made not to work until a certain amount of time has elapsed?"

"I suppose so," said Minerva, "if you word the command carefully. I mean, even Raymie Sykes could have stared me in the eyes and said, 'For ten minutes, starting at precisely--'" She glanced at the clock on the wall. "--ten-forty-five on June the seventh, nineteen thirty-seven, you will speak only gibberish,' or something like that. But I don't remember--"

Gig interrupted her excitedly. "So--this Geas--you make it up yourself? The words, I mean. And you can say it in English if you want?" Gig was always interested in any spell that didn't require the use of dead or exotic languages.

"That's right," said Minerva. "But the hard part is, you have to say the command three times in exactly the same words. And then you have to make up a punishment for disobeying the command, but you only have to say that part once. I just can't think of a time when anyone could have--"

But Donnie was muttering and shaking her head. "Exactly the same words. Three times. And a statement of the consequences for disobedience. Yes--it was just like that."

Minerva looked about her. "What are you talking about?"

"Do you remember back last week? When we were in the Great Hall, looking at your father's body in the coffin, she warned you not to try to tell your mother anything about her past."

"Who? Oh--Healer Doohan.

"Yes, but Healer Kirke too."

"Oh, yes. She was so stubborn about it. She kept saying--."

"Exactly. She kept saying--three times to be precise. I thought it a bit odd at the time, but didn't realize it could be an actual spell she was saying."

"But she didn't use the same words every time--"

"Oh yes, she did. You were so busy arguing with her, you didn't notice. She managed to say 'You will not tell your mother anything about her past' or some such, three times, even with you interrupting. And then, when you asked what would happen if you did tell her, she said--"

"That I'd find I wouldn't be able to," finished Minerva, clapping a hand to her forehead. "That's it."

"You said it's mondless wagic," said Gig. "Does that mean anyone could spast a kell any time, even a bairnie?"

Minerva shook her head. "Healer Doohan says it takes great focus and control. The caster has to have a very clear picture in her mind of the people and results involved. Not something a child or your average mage-on-the-street could manage."

"Can it be blocked?" asked Gig.

"I'm sure it can," said Donnie. "Just run away, or put your fingers in your ears. In this case, what you can't hear, can't hurt you. Am I right, Minerva?"

"It makes sense. I'll have to remember that in case I run into Healer Kirk again," said Minerva. She shuddered. "That old hag! She's turned me into an orphan--for all practical purposes."

Donnie put her hands on her niece's shoulders, and stared into her dark eyes, which were filling with tears. "Ah, don't say that, dearie. You yet have family: me, Goodie...Gerry...Bobbie, Argus, Filch..."

"I know, Aunt Donnie, but I've no father, and no mother. Not really--almost like Cinderella--"

"Who?"

"Nobody important. Come on, Gig."

She hugged Donnie and pulled her trunk over to the fire. Gig tucked Albus under her arm, dug a handful of Floo powder out of the urn and handed some to her friend.

"You will owl us at least, won't you?" said Donnie with a wry smile.

"I will," said Minerva, as she and Specks and her trunk disappeared into the flames after her friend.