"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!"

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.