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,

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.

"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,

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.