Wisdom

Chapter Two

Crumpets with Churchill

A/N: Many thanks to Yolanda, for a wonderful beta job and for her great input on Churchill and Animagi; and to Silver Arrow, for laughing and sniffing at the right moments and agreeing with everything I said, even when I contradicted myself. I put a Silver Arrow reference in for you, dearie.

This chapter is dedicated to the other twelve members of Team Fidge and to my fellow DEANers, because they all ROX beyond belief. Thanks, everyone.

Minerva stopped before a tapestry in the middle of the thickly carpeted hallway. The man in the picture was reading a book, turning each page with a ripple of thread. She smiled for a moment, then whispered the password and watched it smoothly roll up in a shimmer of autumnal colors; revealing a large oak door. Carefully turning the bronze handle, she entered, breathing in the smell of thousands upon thousands of books.

She loved the Grand Ministry Library. As a full-fledged member of the Order of the Phoenix, Minerva had access to each of its five hundred and twenty-two rooms, some open only to a privileged few. The Grand Library contained the oldest, rarest, and most fascinating books in Britain -- perhaps in the world -- all stored in ebony bookcases adorned with ornate silver designs.

Elspeth Tome, the librarian, smiled when Minerva came in. She was seated at her desk, the enormous catalogue open in front of her; a fine-pointed quill was scratching over a fresh sheet of parchment inside it, recording the names of the newest books. "Good morning, Minerva," she called. "Arabella’s already in the back. Let me know if you need any help."

Minerva waved back in greeting, then walked to the Animagi section (located between the gigantic Ancient Runes area and the somewhat smaller collection on the Appleby Arrows), and selected eight more books. In the spacious study room, Arabella was seated at a table directly below the enchanted skylight, systematically taking notes from All About Animagi.

"Good news!" she called to Minerva. "Myrna Thorpe owled Dumbledore. She said we could start learning from her in a few months." She suddenly looked panicked. "We have to learn all of this in a few months?"

Minerva laughed. "I think if we just understand the theory, she’ll teach us the actual transformation." Myrna Thorpe was one of the two living Animagi in Britain, and an old friend of Dumbledore’s. He was trying to arrange to have her tutor the two Order members before they underwent the actual transformation. "Best get to work." She opened The Animagus Transformation in Ninety-Seven Nearly Impossible Steps.

"‘The Animagus transformation is magic in its most difficult, advanced, and arcane form, involving Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, Arithmancy, and Divination, and should only be attempted by experienced wizards,’" she read. "‘Few succeed at becoming an Animagus, and even the smallest mistake can prove fatal.’ Oh, that’s encouraging." Arabella laughed.

"Oh, this is interesting. ‘Just as the wand chooses the wizard, a person becomes the animal which best suits his or her personality.’ What will they do if we become a tiger or a fish -- something that absolutely can’t spy without being noticed?"

"We’d just better hope we don’t," Arabella said grimly. "I’m not doing all this work for nothing. You know what would be horrible? A toad."

"An insect would be worse," Minerva said contemplatively. "I think I know a few snakes, myself. I wonder what I’ll be?"

"Well, we’ll find out, won’t we?" asked Arabella. "That’s later in the book -- there’s some scrying and Divination to figure out our animal."

Minerva snorted. "Divination. I know it’s one of the oldest and most widely practiced magical arts, but -- honestly, what rubbish."

Arabella gave a tolerant laugh. "Well, I’ll take care of that part. You just do the Arithmancy."

"Mm." Minerva settled back into her book. Presently, Albus Dumbledore entered the room, walked to their table, and stopped before her with a small smile.

"Hello, Arabella -- Minerva. Work going well, I trust?"

"Yes, excellently."

"Good. Minerva, I have come to ask you for a favor. I need you to help me on a different assignment."

"A different assignment?" Arabella slammed Being to Beast: Understanding Animagi. "But -- she isn’t to become an Animagus with me? You can’t! I need her to work the Arithmancy equations!"

"No, no," Dumbledore answered in a reassuring tone. "This is a special assignment; it can go on at the same time as your research. I believe that, although Minerva is the youngest and least experienced member of our Order, she is also the most apt for this task."

Minerva’s curiosity was piqued. "What should I do?" she asked, picking up her quill once again.

"You know, of course, that in times of stress, the Muggle government and the Ministry of Magic work closely together under a condition of mutual aid." Minerva nodded in response. "The first thing we must do when a new Prime Minister is elected is to inform him of our world’s existence -- not going into details, you understand; the poor man usually has enough on his hands already, but letting him know that we exist and wish to coexist peacefully. It’s not a task I’d fancy; but it’s already done in any case. Your job is to inform Mr. Churchill of the danger Grindelwald poses -- to his world as well as ours.

"Now I’d best be going -- good day!" He popped a Fizzing Whizbee into his mouth, smiled at the two women, and left.

Arabella stared at his retreating back incredulously. "That’s all, then?"

Minerva laughed.

* * *

Over the next two weeks, Minerva read even more voraciously than usual. Dumbledore had acquired transcripts of Churchill’s speeches, and she re-read them again and again, marveling at the power of the words, feeling that Churchill must be a very impressive man.

She continued to study with Arabella during the day, devouring stacks of books. They followed Minerva’s plan and studied the theory of Animagi. As this magic might have been even harder to comprehend than the actual transformation itself, Minerva occasionally doubted the wisdom of her decision, but said nothing, instead poring over intense Arithmancy equations and splitting the binding on her copy of Nearly Incomprehensible Magical Theory, by Adalbert Waffling.

When she returned home, there were still more books -- both Muggle and wizard -- awaiting her: treatises on witch-burning; histories of past wars; newspapers from all over the globe. She carefully examined them, marking important passages and scribbling notes in the margins.

Minerva would fall into bed at night feeling exhausted, but oddly satisfied. She enjoyed the work, enjoyed studying the advanced, difficult magical theories. She enjoyed working with Arabella and her fellow Order members; she enjoyed the mock debates she and Dumbledore had, preparing for her conversation with Churchill. Most of all, she relished the feeling that she was doing something useful, even vital.

The magnitude of her work sometimes frightened her, when she awoke at three o’clock in the morning -- what if she couldn’t do it? What if she couldn’t build a successful Ministry-Muggle connection? What if she, for the first time in her life, completely and utterly failed -- failed at the most important work she ever had the chance to do? But a small voice in the back of her head, the same one that had driven her to accept Dumbledore’s offer, reassured her that she would not fail; and, just as she had before, she believed it.

* * *

The nights became colder and the days grayer as Minerva studied more intensely than ever. London rolled softly into winter. The war was dragging on, and her imminent meeting with Churchill began to seem increasingly important. Bombs fell on London nightly; she awoke more than once to the high, thin whine of the Muggle air-raid siren.

She was in no true danger: wizards had magical means of bomb detection that worked more efficiently than their Muggle counterparts. Dumbledore had erected wards around the Order headquarters, and the Ministry buildings were protected by an ancient magic. Minerva had taken care to shield her own apartment, but the ward-casting was exhausting and some nearby buildings still suffered damage.

The morning of December 12, the day Minerva was scheduled to meet Churchill, dawned bright and clear. Ice shone on the fragile twigs of the trees outside her window, and the ground was covered with a thick layer of frost. Before the sun had properly risen, she was rudely awakened by an owl tapping on her window. Waving her wand and shivering in the frigid air, she noticed that the letter bore a seal stamped with a single feather, the mark of a message from the Order.

Minerva, it read, in Dumbledore’s neat hand,

You have an appointment with Winston Churchill at three o’clock this afternoon. See me immediately about the details.

A. D.

She read the letter twice, then refolded it and tapped it with her wand. The ink shimmered brightly for a second before the parchment burst into flames. After it was destroyed, the ashes collected themselves and flew, in a businesslike manner, to her wastebasket.

As she dressed, Minerva shivered, but there wasn’t time to carefully readjust the heating charms -- and if she didn’t take caution while setting them, her flat could catch fire. She chose to travel by Floo powder rather than Apparation to Diagon Alley -- it was perhaps thirty seconds slower, but she needed the warmth.

Dumbledore was waiting for her in the Leaky Cauldron, an enormous breakfast spread out before him. He waved and smiled at her; she sat down, notes before her, reviewing them one last time.

They spent the day in conference,; reviewing the subjects their conversation must follow -- what she could promise to do or not do, what she must refer to a higher Ministry official. At two-thirty, he led her to Gladrags Wizardwear. While the items at Madam Malkin’s were of better quality, Dumbledore trusted the owners of Gladrags implicitly, and knew that they would raise nary an eyebrow at his unusual request.

Fifteen minutes later, she was modestly dressed in a smart suit and uncomfortable Muggle shoes, standing in an office at the London Ministry. Clouds had rolled in during breakfast, and the sky was heavy with snow -- she was glad to enter the building. While not as comfortable as a wizard building -- Muggle buildings never were -- the carpet was thick and the rooms were warm.

She cleared her throat. "Excuse me, sir. I’m Minerva McGonagall; I have an appointment with the Prime Minister."

"Ah, you’d be the representative from the Under-Ministry for Cultural Liaisons, then?" Minerva, wondering what on earth that was, only smiled. "You are anticipated. I shall contact the Minister." He pushed a button on his desk. "Minerva McGonagall, from the UMCL, sir."

"Send her in." The secretary gestured to a door. "He’s waiting through there, ma’am."

Minerva thanked him and entered. The room was covered with a thick maroon carpet; two leather chairs faced each other in its center. Between them was a table holding a teapot and a plate of crumpets.

Winston Churchill was seated at a roll top desk, angrily scratching notes onto a typewritten paper. He turned, and she saw him properly. He was neither tall nor short, his skin pink as if from the sun; he had little hair and resembled, in facial features, a bulldog.

He poured and handed her a cup of tea, then spoke. "It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss McGonagall. Have a seat. What, exactly, is your business?"

"You know, sir, about the fact that there’s a magical world within your own, don’t you?" Churchill nodded and lit a cigar. "How much do you know about it, exactly?

"That there is another culture, almost identical to this, containing people who have special powers. That in other ways, that world resembles mine, with a stable government; schools; businesses…"

"Yes. And it also has its villains -- not only common criminals, but truly evil men. And they hold so much power already--"

"--that it is even worse than such a problem here, because the man has so much power already and so many more means at his disposal." Churchill’s eyes, which had been inexpressive and almost bored at the beginning of the discussion, now were alive with interest.

"Exactly. You see, the Muggle world -- that’s the non-magical world -- and the wizard world are tied more closely than most people realize. Life in each follows a certain pattern; they share times of prosperity and times of stress. When there is discontent in the Muggle world, it tends to bleed into ours, and vice versa." Churchill nodded.

"There is a man in Germany now. His name is Grindelwald, and, like your Hitler, he has come to power and is using fear as his greatest weapon. He is not running a government, but he is governing everyone by his terror." Minerva had rehearsed this speech, and, even to her, the words sounded smooth and powerful. "He hates Muggle-born witches and wizards -- so many of his sort do. He has made some sort of pact with Hitler. We believe that he has given him unnatural powers of persuasion, and the two are now so closely tied together that it will be impossible to have peace in both worlds without destroying both men. Grindelwald is also directing Hitler to torture Muggle-borns. Together, they will rule with absolute power over both communities all over Europe."

"What can we do to stop this?" asked Churchill, leaning forward with anticipation.

"Our Ministry of Magic, and the Order of the Phoenix -- my group -- are working against him in Britain. We catch as many people as we can. Some die, some talk, some are exonerated, some are imprisoned. We try to protect Muggles as much as we can. You are sending the thousands to the war, but we are losing many people to him as well. Every day, at least a hundred British witches and wizards die unnatural deaths."

"Why don’t we join forces?" asked Churchill excitedly. "With magic on our side, and with our worlds united, we would have absolute victory."

Minerva shook her head regretfully. This was the question she hoped he would evade, the one she could not answer. "We couldn’t. Our wars are not the same as yours. We do not fight battles, but rather underground. Our people are not used to it. It would cause strife in both worlds -- Muggles and wizards have not lived together in peace for millenniums, and the world is not ready for it yet. Your people would distrust us, or exploit us, trying to use our power for their good. There are some wizards, also, who have a deep loathing for Muggles. It would divide the wizarding world, or worse, bring Grindelwald’s vengeance upon the Muggles. It would be a disaster."

"But we can’t just stand by while our citizens -- of both worlds -- are dying," Churchill argued. "Surely there’s something we can do." Minerva was silent. She had informed him of the risks; of the reasons why it would be an impossibility. "As long as we don’t reveal to the enemy that we’re doing so…" Again, Minerva said nothing. "But if they have the slightest knowledge that we’re using more than our ordinary -- Muggle -- forces against them, then they would retaliate. And you say that they have these powers as well, and will not hesitate to use them for destruction?"

She nodded.

"Then our resistance -- might bring on something worse." He sighed. "I see your point," he finally said. "What can we do?"

"Continue to work against Hitler -- that’s the main thing. We will fight against Grindelwald. Study the dead carefully, for marks of magic -- here is a brief guide. Albus Dumbledore, our leader, will be in touch with your Cabinet over the course of the war."

"Do our colleagues in North America know about this? It must affect them as well."

"Wizarding problems like this are not so widespread -- they tend not to cross continents. But the Order of the Phoenix is all over the world, and our people are working with President Roosevelt in the same way." She placed her cup on the table and stood up.

"And now, I must be going. Albus will want to hear of the success of our conversation."

Churchill nodded. "It has been a pleasure -- and an education -- to meet you, Miss McGonagall. Take care."

"Likewise. Good day." Minerva shook his hand, looked carefully about, and Disapparated, leaving Churchill staring incredulously at the point where she had disappeared.

* * *

As the holidays approached, a thick blanket of snow fell on London, coating the Ministry buildings and muffling footfalls outside. The war raged on, but the Muggle and wizard governments had been successfully allied by Minerva’s visit. Dumbledore and the Minister of Magic, Sir Robert Platte, visited Churchill and his Cabinet often.

Minerva and Arabella continued their studies, devouring books on Animagi. They met Myrna Thorpe, a shriveled old woman who was a robin Animagus. They met weekly at the Grand Library, Myrna drawing complicated diagrams and lecturing on the many parts of the transformation.

Under her watchful eye, they began to brew the Mutaebestia potion. It was one of the most complicated part of the Animagus transformation, and one of the most vital. The potion suspended the loss of will that usually came with animal transformations, allowing people to keep their human instincts while in Animagus form.

The Mutaebestia had to be kept at a steady boil under an anti-evaporation charm for a week; then the ingredients were added, and it was allowed to simmer for a month, then set for another. The price of some necessities made Minerva wince, thankful that the Ministry was financing the transformation and supplying the ingredients.

The Potions research facility of the Ministry of Magic was one of the best-equipped in the world, but something always stopped Minerva from taking a Portkey to Edinburgh and fetching the supplies herself. Something about visiting the buildings that bore her mother’s name in memoriam, where she had worked and loved and dreamed and died, always deterred her. They kept the potion itself in London, at the Order headquarters, and Arabella visited the Silvia Gladstone Potions Research Center herself and brought the ingredients home.

They worked with other aspects of the transformation as well. Minerva solved complicated Arithmancy equations, determining the parameters of the spells. Arabella honed her Divination abilities, preparing to scry for what creature she would become.

There was time for fun, too. Minerva sadly put her vintage Silver Arrow away in favor of an Order-issued Tinderblast. Order members occasionally met for Quidditch scrimmages, forcing Albus to referee once he was no longer needed at Hogwarts over the holidays. As Christmas drew nearer, she took shopping trips with Arabella, Louise, and Celia, spending her free time in Diagon Alley.

It was after one of these trips that she Flooed home, massaging her sore feet. It had been a long day at the Order -- they had added the twelfth crucial ingredient to the Mutaebestia, and Arabella had convinced her to go to Diagon Alley for dinner and shopping afterwards. Then it had been a long tread through the snow to the closest fireplace -- Minerva disliked Apparating with her arms full of packages. Just as she was removing her shoes and conjuring a cup of hot chocolate, a head appeared in her fireplace.

"Minerva," said Edith Bramley, her upstairs neighbor, "you might want to look outside your door -- there’s a Muggle what-do-you-call-‘em, postman, and he looks angry."

Minerva thanked Edith with a sigh and opened the door. A Muggle postman was indeed standing outside it, glaring angrily at her and suspiciously at her cup of cocoa.

"Where’d you come from?" he demanded. "I been standing outside the door, knocking me hands raw for fifteen minutes, all these funny folk starin’. Took me two ruddy hours t’find the place--"

Minerva smoothly took the letter from his outstretched hand, twirled her wand, and whispered, "Obliviate." A glazed look slid over the man’s face, and he smiled.

"Happy birthday t’yeh, then! Lucky to get cocoa, what with the war on."

Only after he had danced down the stairs, whistling an off-key polka, did Minerva look curiously at the letter. She hadn’t received Muggle post in years. Her father was an erratic letter-writer at best; besides, he was used to wizard culture and always used owl. Her aunts had never fully approved of the wizarding world after her mother’s death, and their messages, if any, were delivered with her father’s letters. Her friends always sent owls -- although Amelia sometimes used a tame Diricalw -- or, if the message was urgent, firetalked.

Then, as she ripped the envelope open, she gasped with disbelief. The letter, written on notebook paper, began "Dear Minnow…" in slanted, boyish script. Benny. A letter from her little brother, who had her father’s Muggle blood -- who had never written her a letter since her very early days at Hogwarts. Three years her junior, he’d considered letter-writing "girly" and left her father to convey the news from home. She hadn’t even recognized his handwriting. Benny never wrote letters -- until now.

She felt almost apprehensive as she read the salutation again. Minnow. Her childhood name, back from the days when Silvia Gladstone had been alive and Benny’s sluggish childhood tongue had mangled her name beyond recognition.

Dear Minnow,

Hey! Remember me, your brother, the one who doesn’t write? Hope you’re doing well with -- well -- whatever you’re doing.

Min, I know you know about the war -- pretty hard to miss, even in your world. I worry about you in London, but I know you’re a big girl and can take care of yourself better than Mugglish types like me can imagine.

Anyway, the war.

I’ve joined up. I’ve enlisted. I report to training next Monday morning, but don’t try to come see me off -- Aunt Betty and Aunt Wanda will be crying over me enough without you there too. Then I’ll go somewhere to fight.

I’ll send my address to you. Keep writing

.

I love you, Minnow! Don’t worry about me.

Love,

Benny

She read the letter over again, staring at the page in shock; then fell backwards onto the bed. Her legs wouldn’t hold her anymore; she was too numb to cry. Benny -- her little brother -- was going who-knew-where, to face who-knew-what. Benny, who -- even as a child -- had disliked hurting anything. Benny, her adored little brother. Benny, who was too young to remember their mother and the days when he had teethed on Minerva’s toy broomsticks and ate an entire bag of Noxious Nougats.

Benny, who could die.

He could die. People died in wars. The monotonous refrain ran through her head, and a tear slipped silently down her cheek.

He wouldn’t have to, she told herself. There were spells -- Shield Charms that could render people bulletproof, charms that made them immune to explosions. She could ignore Benny’s message and go to send him off, and cast the spells -- No. He wouldn’t want that. Benny was a great believer in fair play; he wouldn’t want to go to war with an unfair advantage over the other fighters, even if it would save his life.

So she lay on her back on the bed and cried until she felt hollow, then slept deeply, his letter still crumpled in her hand.