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.

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.

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.