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.