AN: Not mine.
Dear Readers: This whole thing has been posted without editing beyond a quick spelling check. Thank you for your patience.
Chapter Thirteen
Moggy or Gearra-mhuc*
Minerva McGonagall understood everything to know about magic.
Which was, really, everything to be known.
Other than what was unknown.
For example, she knew that her surname derived from Gaelic for Mac Congail, and was considered Irish in origin, although she herself was quite Scots, thankfully.
Nothing against the Irish, of course, she assured herself. Other than what…
She blinked sharply, and rubbed at the bridge of her nose, and hesitated outside her office.
Did I think, this moment, something rude about the Irish?
It was accepted history that blood links between Ireland and Scotland existed, to accompany the linguistic ones. For Minerva to scorn the Irish was perilously near, in her way of thinking, to deriding the Scots.
Never!
She shook her head to clear it, and moved into her office, skirts swishing. Since her clan had no tartan of its own,** the professor dressed up her office in all things Scottish and Scot and Scotland. The print on the wall was of the thistle; the cushion on her chair was of royal Stuart tartan; scent of heather clung faintly to everything; and her Tunnock's teacakes resided in a treasured place of honor in her quarters, under lock and key, under her bed.
She sat down and peered through her half-moon glasses at the newest list of incoming students.
Another Abbott, I see. Cousin to Hannah. Hmm. That will be a likely Hufflepuff.
Bainbridge? Oh, a muggle-born, yes. And Minerva conscientiously checked off that name for SFV: Special Family Visit. The time was approaching very rapidly for Bainbridge, who turned eleven in merely three days.
Crawley. An old name, not much left of the family. Didn't think they'd have the funds to send him.
Her quill went scritch on the parchment as she ticked off Jason Crawley.
Douglas, a fine name… Mother a squib from the Goyles… Another Slytherin? We need a competent head of House there. I do hope Severus is alive and well.
And her quill went scritch, the aroma of the ink reminding her pleasantly of her student days, and friends, and old times long since gone but never forgotten. She wore black, in fact, to hide the spatters of ink that flew when her quill started moving at speed. She barely noticed stains as a result, though she did wish she had worn gloves this day. So many parchments, so many notes!
Emling? Oh, yes, but they said they had another choice for their daughter. Perhaps it didn't work out?
And scritch went her quill, and a smile spread over her face, as she recalled all the good times she'd had, meeting those new to magic, welcoming them into the fold. Her stern demeanor hid a very soft heart; she adored the wonder and eagerness in those wee faces, the relief in the eyes of parents at having a safe place to send a child.
Hmm, yes, Fulton, Hutton, Jameson… No old families here…
And scritch went her quill.
Somewhere around Quincy, M. Daniel, she asked for tea.
It came.
With it arose remembrances of her childhood, high in the hills, racing barefoot with her siblings, their mother laughing at their antics, their strict minister father smiling through his white beard…
At Whiting, Jessica, her quill stopped.
Cold ran through her.
My father never had a white beard!
A deep sense of worry blossomed in her chest. It was the sort she associated with being in her feline form, and having to wonder if she had stored herself safely enough to regain her human form. Most animagi chose a shape near their own weight. Minerva, ever determined, had decided to forage further in the art, and learn to keep her excess, as she called it, safely with her while in the form of a cat.
How odd it was Pettigrew who managed the rat… Then again, my research showed it is likely to do with…
The worry surged.
Cold sweat prickled all over her, and the hairs on her body stood out straight. She stared at the tea. Had it come from her elf, or a Hogwarts elf? Why did she think… Had it finally come to her, the mental decrepitude of age? She was not yet old enough, by wizarding standards, she thought, yet…
She focused very hard on the Hogwarts Infirmary. She stood, spun, and apparated.
She apparated into the corridor, rather than the infirmary, nearly collapsing into the door. Ouch!
Madame Pomfrey caught her, having opened the door on hearing the thump.
"Minerva! You're paler than the ghosts! What is it?"
"Poppy! I don't know. I… My office…smells…students…the tea… Something… My memories!"
The healer remained calm, and patted her arm. "Overwork, no doubt, this time of year, you're running hither and yon, turning tables into pigs all over the place."
The witch felt her age as she heard her own voice quaver, "Poppy. My memories. They aren't correct. Mungo's. Please."
Pomfrey was a trusted ally in saving the life of Snape in his anguished, dramatic removal from Hogwarts. Without a word, she led Minerva to the fireplace, tossed in the powder, and enunciated, "St. Mungo's!" before she and Minerva toppled through the green flames.
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When the basin vanished, another appeared.
Minerva heaved.
There is no dignity in this! I would sooner regurgitate a hairball!
Pomfrey stroked her hair, which had yet to straggle from its tight bun. "Shh. No shame in sickness. Here you are, then. Bit more water in you, bit less potion in you."
Minerva clenched her hands on the newest basin, squeezed shut her eyes, and made a noise exactly like a cat about to remove a hairball from its throat.
My dignity is dead.
Better my dignity…
She heaved up more… Well, she declined to name it, but the healers at St. Mungo's gave her a fresh basin, and a soothing draft for her aching middle. Vomiting hurt.
"Now," murmured Pomfrey, "your memories?"
"What potion did this to me?" demanded Minerva sharply, eyes narrowed. "And who brewed it? I have a few words to say to them!"
The Mungo's healer, a young man (well, they all seemed young to Minerva these days) of slim build and olive skin, said to her, "We can't identify the brewer, but the potion had elements of moonflower, henbane, and bleeding heart."
Minerva was a past-master at Transfiguration, both in the practice and teaching thereof. Potions were not her forte. The way Pomfrey paled, however, told her the young man…
…Ugh, such a disagreeable aura about him, is he foreign?
…was saying something very grim.
"There it is again," whispered Minerva, clutching Pomfrey's arm in both hands, the basin temporarily unneeded. "That thought. It can't be mine. I had one before. Again, a moment ago. I know about moonflower, it isn't to be used lightly, but the combination?"
"Healer Davies, please explain," said Pomfrey. "I'm familiar with herbs related to moonflower. What does that combination mean?"
"With powdered rosemary flower, it is meant to confuse your thinking, specifically altering some of your memories. What are these thoughts you say cannot be yours?"
Blushing for shame, Minerva shared her almost-observation on the Irish, and the reaction to his aura.
"Crushed opal," said Davis. Minerva sensed that he was, in truth, very likeable, sweet-natured. Her ears confirmed the musicality of his voice. "We hadn't yet identified the stone. Opal is a healing stone, until it is deformed and powdered. Then it can become malignant. What smells do you recall?"
Shaking, Minerva rattled off, "Heather, of course, and ink… The ink was very strong today for some reason, but I'd been with parchment and quill all morning and half the afternoon… The tea was a simple black tea, I'm not terribly fussy about such things."
Pomfrey and Davies had an entire conversation in one look, which irritated Minerva no end. She hated being left out of the loop, so to speak, and this time, it concerned her own health. That was not to be withstood easily.
Davies nodded at Pomfrey, excused himself, and departed the room.
"Well?" ordered Minerva of her old friend.
Pomfrey embraced her, then conjured a basin of soapy water. "Hands."
Minerva stared at her, incredulous. "Are you mad? Wash my hands?"
"Yes. Now, Minerva. Wash. Your. Hands."
Long ago, Minerva's mother had told her to never fight the weather, God, or a good scrub. A toddler then, Minerva accepted the advice as unerring truth, and did not fight weather, or a good scrub. She set her hands into the foam-flecked water, rubbing vigorously as her mother taught her. First the fingers, then your thumb, now the palm until it's numb; do the back, you mustn't slack, it doesn't do to have nails be black.*** Yes, that was the rhyme!
Pomfrey banished the basin, conjured a clean white towel, and carefully held it suspended mid-air by magic until Davies returned.
Davies used a very common plant-misting sprayer from a muggle garden center to spritz the cloth, then waved his wand.
Marks appeared, ugly as old scabs.
"Powdered opal in the ink. We can't avoid getting a bit on us. The rest was not the tea. I suspect you were dosed, and too strongly, to leave you susceptible. Did you have aught to drink or eat before you were in your office, Professor?"
Her head felt oddly clear. Minerva remembered him now. David Davies, a superb student at herbology, potions, runes. Only made OWLs in her class, but not for lack of trying. Had a NEWT in charms, too. Muggle-born, and unafraid to use what was useful, even if it wasn't "normal" for a wizard.
"Well, I had come from a small lunch with the headmaster," admitted Minerva, frowning slightly around a headache. "And now I've a headache. What in the world?"
Davies and Pomfrey both cast a diagnostic spell on her.
Again, they had a long conversation without a word.
"That's quite rude, you know," scolded Minerva, quite irritated. "I am right here, and not entirely without intelligence."
"What did you have at this lunch?" asked Pomfrey, gently, in that coaxing way she had, for first-years who didn't like to take their draughts. Sternness came next. Minerva concluded she hadn't the energy to deal with that, and so answered immediately.
"Headmaster Dumbledore was discussing what a large influx of students we'll have this autumn, and I was…"
I was…
"I don't recall what we ate. Or drank. I assume…"
Never assume, Minerva…
My father never had long white whiskers.
Her temper blazed hot, before she reined it in, and squared her shoulders to ask, "Compulsions and obliviation?"
"Yes," said Davies, and sat down across from her on a quick-conjured stool. He summoned a notepad and pen (muggle, noted Minerva, and really, was it so different to a self-inking quill?). "I wish for you to tell me of your day, from waking to the current moment. I'll sing a little to help you relax."
"I do not require a lullaby, Healer Davies!"
"Let him do it, Minnie," whispered Pomfrey. "Please. It's part of his magic. Intrinsic."
"Oh!" huffed Minerva, but settled in with eyes closed as Davies began a barely audible song, its words indiscernible.
I woke. I bathed. I breakfasted. I investigated the Quidditch pitch. I spoke to Hooch about brooms. I visited two families. I returned to Hogwarts for lunch, and was pleased to see our enrolment improve this year… I had an odd thought in the corridor.
The song spun around her. It lifted her. It cradled her. It felt like the most marvelous swim in delightful water that ever a woman could have.
Minerva opened her eyes.
The air around her swirled with tiny sparkles of pale green, turning slowly gray, and falling to the floor, as ashes.
Davies crumpled, breathing heavily. Pomfrey called out, and two more healers rushed into her room, taking Davies away for treatment.
Minerva stared in fear at the little heap of gray on the floor. Pomfrey had already cast a containing charm over the ashes, but she shivered all the same. "Poppy. Tell me."
"Davies has a lovely power to him. I've never known him to be drained. It must have been a deep-set magic, over years. As with a certain potions-maker we know."
Minerva's hands clawed at her robe. "What do I not know?"
Poppy cringed.
Doughty soul that she was, Minerva repeated, "What do I not know? That I ought to know?"
Poppy told her about a law, about forced enrolment at Hogwarts, about the International Academy of Magic on its unplottable, unreachable site, and about quite a lot else.
"I allowed this?" mewled Minerva piteously. She twisted herself under the comforting weight of the hospital blanket. "I said nothing? I stayed?"
Poppy Pomfrey looked away, to spare her.
"I wrote utter rubbish to Remus?"
Poppy shrugged, pretending interest in a speck of lint on her robes.
Shuddering, Minerva lowered her voice. "Will you…"
"Naturally."
"I cannot bide where this has been done to me."
"I understand perfectly, and intend to have weekly checks on myself here at Mungo's. I dare not leave. The children will need a healer. Now, where do I start?"
"Fetch me parchment, quill, and… No, I think not. I've had enough of ink. A simple pen and paper will do, Poppy, thank you." Minerva smiled thinly, telling herself to be brave, to be composed, to be wise. To be, in short, all a cat ought be, and sometimes was not. "Then have yourself examined, please, you look very exhausted."
Poppy bobbed her head, understanding the subterfuge in using that word.
"Tell Healer Davies…"
"Oh, Min, you know he'll never take gratitude," laughed Pomfrey uncomfortably. "It's in us to be that way. We healers always wonder what we didn't do, could have done, it's our nature. I'm off to see to my own well-being, then I will visit in the morning, shall I?"
"Yes, do."
Somehow, this conversation without words was entirely comprehensible to Minerva, and she began to write the moment Pomfrey shut the door.
To Remus Lupin, master of defensive arts, my greetings and warmest hopes for your good health. I am saddened to have missed your brief visit to England, and as I have holiday time to spare before the term starts, would ask we meet somewhere for a cuppa and a chat. Once the Hogwarts Express arrives, I will have no time.
If anyone read between lines better than Lupin, it would be… Well, some people, yes, admitted Minerva, but Remus Lupin probably knew a great deal more than she did right now. In fact, Minerva would bet her tail on it, if she were a cat.
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Dumbledore's eyes twinkled at her. "Of course, Minerva. A few days in a warmer climate… Admittedly, almost all seem warmer in such weather!"
Minerva dutifully allowed a small chuckle. The weather of the Scottish highlands had cooperated beautifully. With the pitch a muddy swamp, and nothing left to do before term, it was the perfect time to pop off for, as she'd requested, "Two days where I have a chance of seeing blue skies and some Quidditch. There's an exhibition match outside Barcelona. Of course, we may find unexpected duties arising, and I wouldn't wish to…"
"No, no! Of course, go, enjoy yourself. You need this rest, if Madame Pomfrey is to be believed. Really, Minerva, you do yourself and Hogwarts extraordinarily proud with your efforts!" praised Dumbledore. "We all require a respite, and we all know you won't take one."
No, I won't, she thought very loudly.
"Thank you, Albus, I'm very grateful. If you like, I can arrange a meeting with allies of the Order?" she prodded.
"That is good of you, yes, but I think we are best as we are. Our foe has yet to sustain himself in a body again, and I do not think we will be caught on the hop in the next few days. We mustn't upset our own plans, must we?"
No, we mustn't, she thought as hard as she could, and put up images of Quidditch teams as strongly as she could.
She packed a small valise, left her office in perfect order for her return, and did not eat so much as one bite of a Tunnock's teacake. Her only concession to this vacation was to take her omniculars, and a floo schedule for Spain.
When she left Hogwarts, she went to Hogsmeade, and took the public floo to London, as expected of her. She even went so far as to arrive in Barcelona's magical quarter, every bit the weary aging Scotswoman in need of sun and fun and perhaps a bottle to share with some interesting wizard with an exotic accent.
She attended the exhibition match, noticing that Bulgaria really had been silly to let Espana Nacional coax away Viktor Krum. His Seeking truly was sublime.
Gathering her valise, and her courage, she popped off to walk the shore of the Mediterranean. The valise was shrunken to a mere pocketbook identical to her mother's, an old leather one with silver clasp, embossed with a thistle. Her courage was somewhat larger.
As dusk fell, she lounged on the sand. If not for her age, an observer might think she awaited a lover.
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From the twilight, Remus Lupin embraced her, then said, "You cut it close, Minerva."
"Yes, well, I had to wait for the shadows. How on earth did you arrive here so promptly? You can't have flooed!"
"Oh, no. In fact, I apparated ashore. Hold on to this torch, please."
Minerva grabbed the muggle torch, and felt the snag of a portkey. Oh my!
She arrived intact, and puzzled, in the cabin of a boat.
"Welcome aboard!" shouted a jovial Sirius Black, and hugged her clean off her feet. "Ahoy! Best of kitty-cats!"
She hissed at him.
He set her down hastily. "Right, then, run silent, run dark, me hearties!"
Minerva looked at Remus for explanation.
Remus said simply, "He read a book on pirates."
"Ah. Whose brilliant idea was that?"
"Mine. I apologize so very deeply. Come, let me show you to your cabin."
Below, as it was called, she was introduced to her cabin-mate. "Allison Bukowski, Chicago, United States, transfiguration and physics. It's an honor, Professor. I've read your articles and cited them often in my own studies."
Unaccountably flustered, Minerva blushed pink as a rose. "Oh! Oh my. Well. Yes. I think I recognize your name. Are you related to Henryk Bukowski of Krakow?"
"Probably not. My family left Poland well over a hundred years ago, but c'mon, let's get you settled. First things first, those robes have to go. We dress a bit more non-magical, and for good reason. Robes would kill you on the island."
"Island?" asked Minerva a touch weakly. "And are you an animagus, perchance?"
"Nope. Never found the form. Your form, however, was part of my master's thesis. The conservation of matter, while in a different shape…"
Overwhelmed, Minerva found herself divested of her robes, gown, and even her beloved old boots. She recoiled when she saw the replacements. "No one wants to see these skinny old pins!" she protested.
"You're part of IAM now," said Bukowski, "and my mom always said, if your legs reach the ground, that's good enough."
Chuckling involuntarily, Minerva accepted the subdued gray-green linen shirt, the dark green shorts, and the tumbler of "don't worry, single-malt. Sirius is serious about his alcoholic beverages."
"Of course he is," sighed Minerva, sipped, and felt warmly at home. "My goodness. I still don't even know where I am!"
"On the good ship Lollipop if you listen to Sirius, but she's called Isla Negra."
"Not terribly original."
Bukowski shrugged broadly and grinned in the toothy American way that Minerva never understood. "Yes, well, when he was gonna call it the Moonlit Wolf, Remus threatened to turn him into fishbait."
"Glenfiddich?" asked Minerva of the drink.
"Yes. I'd say och aye, but that's probably as offensive to you as, say, you asking me if I like kielbasa is to me."
Clearing her throat, Minerva perched uneasily on her bunk. The boat rolled gently, but not in a way that invited vertigo or nausea. Rather, it reminded her of a rocking chair. "I don't even know what that is, I confess."
"What do Polish magicals like, or you think they ought to like?" queried Bukowski, and Minerva saw her grab a pen and notepad. "We need every bit of information we can for Magical Culture Studies."
Gaping a little, and not from the wonders of an eighteen-year-old Glenfiddich, Minerva stammered out what little she knew, about willow wisps (dangerous little flying creatures who led people into lethal situations), and the dragon named Wawel whose offspring still guarded Krakow, and that the only Polish wizard she'd met personally (long ago) had a wand of beech and white-eagle feather.
"Good, that fits with what University of Chicago has on it all."
Hand at her throat, Minerva gasped. "A muggle university!"
"Well, yeah. We all read books, right? Some of what we call textbooks, they call fiction, and vice versa. Gotta find sources from before the Soviets went in and replaced everything with their version. Old Voldy is pretty nasty, but I have to say, you can't beat muggles for monsters sometimes."
Minerva emptied her glass, a terrible thing to do to that vintage of Glenfiddich, and whimpered, "Oh?"
"Sure. Stalin, Mao, Hitler…"
Minerva knew only one of those names. She hastily changed the subject. "You like history?"
"Not particularly, that's all stuff taught in school back home. Your basics. I mean, I knew about them before I was old enough for magic school, and we had history for three years there, too."
Minerva tried not to let her jaw drop. "What, exactly, is physics?"
That was the wrong question. Bukowski was off, enthusiastic as a Weasley about Quidditch, and rattling off names and concepts that flew past Minerva like blizzard-driven snowflakes.
She eventually drifted off listening to Bukowski discuss the great potential of something called relational quantum mechanics.
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While no expert on geography, Minerva McGonagall was no one's fool.
"You are shortening this voyage significantly using an enchantment," she stated to Sirius.
"Not as much as you expect, Minerva," answered Remus. He looked, to her, ridiculously comfortable in a get-up similar to her own. He even wore sandals, his bare toes poking free. It lacked all dignity and propriety. Minerva wished her own toes were hidden by woolen stockings and leather boots, but cotton and odd things called deck shoes were all she had.
"Really? How do you manage to travel at such speed, then?"
"A few tweaks on a traditional internal combustion engine…"
From a horseless carriage?
"And we don't have to stop sailing at night, or even slow down, with the elves to aid us. The main thing we created was a directional indicator that interfaces with…"
Some minutes later, Minerva was none the wiser. Something about satellites? Weather? What did a planet have to do with weather prediction? Muggles had things orbiting the entire planet and these devices sent them information? Every moment? It was updated repeatedly? And this so-gnarl? How did it help? What was ray-dar? Long ago, these items were peripheral to the war against that Grindlewald waged, as far as she knew.
Incomprehensible! They're only muggles! They can't even wash dishes without using their hands! How is it possible they went into the ether? They've even set feet upon the moon? How?
Remus patted her shoulder in sympathy. "Come on deck. Werewolves who choose to stay alive often find refuge in the non-magical world. I can claim my religion requires me to take off the three days of the full moon, and they have to let me."
Minerva felt her eyes bulge. What?!
"Oh my," she whispered, hand to her throat. "Oh my indeed! How far behind the times are we, then?"
"Over a century, easily. And, you may want to sit down. Allison?"
Bukowski conjured chairs, put her feet up on the rail, and sighed. "Oh, this beats airplanes. No crowding, no weird smells!"
"Airplane?" echoed Minerva weakly. "Those really do fly without magic?"
"Physics!"
Oh no…
"For instance, electricity and magic aren't nearly as antithetical as you're taught."
"Me?" squeaked Minerva inelegantly. "But…"
"Brits, I mean. You're behind everyone, well, maybe not some tribes in central Australia or the Amazonian jungle, but it's common for magicals to use non-magical devices. As long as you have control over your magic?" Bukowski spread her arms wide. "No problem! This boat has an electric ignition. Turn a key, vroom. Now, I'm not certain about sensitive electronics…"
"Ele-whats?"
"You'll need books," decided Bukowski.
I need more whiskey!
"Loosen up, it's good weather. And don't worry about non-magicals. Runic array for notice-us-not, painted white on white. The biggest trouble we have is radar, but science can help with that. Chaff is the usual way in the air, and we're having one of the elves snap up some to disrupt our signature."
Signature?
Minerva set herself firmly back on ground she preferred. "This IAM, it is a good school?"
"We want it to be," said Bukowski, sighing happily. "It's a lovely opportunity. I've taught years, but either non-magical or magical, never blended."
"Oh my," said Minerva again. I have no place in this world.
"There's good teachers lined up for… I suppose you'd call it sixth year? Anyway, there's me, Yee, a guy named Naranja, Mahfouz… Oh, and the healer is a trip, Gomero." Bukowski yawned, stretched, and said, "Well, I better grab a nap. I'm on duty at noon. Oh, we should warn you, shouldn't we?"
"Warn me?" asked Minerva uneasily. "What else is there?"
Bukowski's face was blank. "Hermione Granger."
Minerva blinked back tears. Such a waste of life!
"She's alive, and more or less well, and so is her mother."
Minerva McGonagall gave up. She lay back limply, and requested hoarsely, "A drink, please?"
Winsy, the elf was called, arrived with a tray of tea, whiskey, and juice.
Minerva knew it was time for juice.
She grabbed the whiskey and downed it in a gulp. To the wide-eyed elf, she said, "The bottle, please. Thank you."
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*Moggy: Slang for cat. Gearra-mhuc: Gaelic, allegedly, for guinea pig. If you're fluent in Scots Gaelic, and my in-laws in the Lowlands lied, then I give you permission to raid their cattle. If they have any. Which they don't. But it's the thought that counts, right? As to other British-isms I have gotten wrong, blame the ones who live in Cornwall.
**I consulted a tartan expert (via e-mail), a tartan encyclopedia, and a curator at a museum of tartans. McGonagall doesn't have one registered. The name is mostly found in Ireland, where it also has no registered tartan. My husband's clan tartan is on ten things in our house. At least. Not counting the kilt for weddings. You learn a bit in such a situation.
Also, Tunnock's teacakes are a thing in my hubby's family, so, yeah, why not.
***I made that up. Please forgive me.
AN: Please do not use the plants mentioned. Ever. Opals that have been broken are considered unlucky.