Wisdom

Chapter Three

On Little Cat Feet

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Yolanda, a ROXin’ beta-reader and an even more ROXin’ person, with my thanks for everything.

Minerva awoke the next morning at ten o'clock, sun streaming in her window. She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling; then arose with a sigh and laid Benny's letter on her desk.

She would have been content to stay at home and lie in bed, nursing a cup of cocoa. But the wall clock was insistently proclaiming "You're late," and with a glance at the calendar, she arose and dressed halfheartedly.

"Tough night, dear?" a sympathetic voice called as Minerva quietly Banished pins into her hair to hold her bun in place. When she'd first acquired a wizarding mirror, she’d wished she hadn’t. It was quite disturbing to quickly glance at her reflection as she prepared for the day, only to be met with "You've a hair crooked, dearie -- there, that's better" or "Ah, yes, you're sure to catch a handsome beau looking like that!" But every time she'd moved to replace it, something had stopped her. She'd purchased the mirror at a negligible price from a bookstore going out of business, who'd received it from the owner's bank vault at Gringotts. Something of the store's comfortable and truthful nature and immense air of knowledge -- Ernest Scribe's shop had always been her favorite -- had seemed to transfer even to this bit of wood and glass. Minerva had soon named the mirror Olivia and even called on her sizable experience in times of trouble.

She nodded in response, securing the last hair.

"Well, best go to work and try to forget about it, whatever it was. Have a good day, lovey -- you look beautiful."

Minerva took Olivia's advice and spent the day in the welcome quiet of the Ministry library. Arabella wasn't there -- the Figgs' Christmas party was scheduled for that night, and she had stayed at home to prepare. Minerva usually would have missed her cheerful talk, but she was glad of the chance to be alone, surrounded by a forest of ebony bookshelves, losing herself in ancient texts on Animagi and Arithmancy.

Wanting only to stay home by the cozy fire with a book, Minerva considered avoiding Arabella's party. But it would lead to awkward questions and lose her the opportunity to meet more Order members, so she Apparated out of her apartment and into Arabella's home.

Once she arrived, she was glad to have escaped her flat, where the letter's presence was almost suffocating. Arabella's house was stuffed with mismatched armchairs and crocheted doilies; a few cats wound their ways around Minerva's feet; a fire crackled merrily in the grate. A bare evergreen was crowded in amongst the furniture, awaiting decoration later in the evening. Minerva passed quietly among the guests, stopping only occasionally to exchange a few pleasantries.

Arabella and her husband were standing by the fire greeting guests. She waved Minerva over a few minutes later to be introduced. David Figg, a Daily Prophet editor, was a tall, smiling man built like a string bean. He shook her hand firmly, and they chatted for a few moments before moving to the dining room to eat.

After a sumptuous feast -- Arabella had commissioned a wonderful group of house-elves to cook -- the guests sipped coffee and talked. Minerva was aware that she looked pale and was unusually quiet. She had considered keeping the news to herself -- so many witches and wizards were completely removed from the Muggle world that they wouldn't understand. But sitting in a cozy room, very full of delicious food, surrounded by friendly people, and somehow longing for reassurance, she burst out, "My brother enlisted yesterday."

Louise placed a gentle hand on her arm; Arabella made a sharp noise in her throat. The rest of the table muttered consoling words.

"Was he a -- Squib, then?" one woman asked delicately.

"No, a Muggle. He took after my father." A few whispers of "Silvia Gladstone's daughter," passed around the table.

"How'd your parents meet, anyway?" Louise asked. She was obviously trying to change the subject, but Minerva was grateful for the diversion. "Wizards and Muggles have so little chance to interact on a personal basis. I'm fascinated by their marriages."

"Louise and her Muggles." Bilius laughed tolerantly. "Quite frankly, I'd like to hear as well -- if you don't mind telling us, that is?"

Minerva smiled. "No, not at all. It's one of the few stories I do know, actually -- I always feel like I'm disappointing people when they ask about my mum, but my dad loved to talk about this.

"My dad fought in the Great Muggle War, and, after it ended, he was working as a bank teller in London. That's sort of like being a Gringotts goblin. My mum was doing a bit of apothecary work with St. Mungo's. She had just gotten over being sick and wasn't supposed to Apparate while she was taking medicines, so she was walking home. When the rain started, she went into a little teashop and ordered something warm to drink -- I think she thought she was going to wait the storm out. She was all out of Muggle money when the waitress came by, though.

"Dad had been sitting close by, and had apparently quite fancied her. He took a sickle -- called it 'funny foreign money,' he still has it -- and paid for her tea, and left. But she'd found him just as interesting, came back the next day, and saw him again.

"They kept meeting, and he proposed to her one day. She told him he was a witch, and asked if he'd mind marrying one. And he said, 'Silvie, I don't give a damn. I love you and I wouldn't care if you were a horned toad.' So they got married and moved to Muggleswick, and my mum went into the Ministry."

No one spoke for a few moments.

"Do things always just happen to your family? Are you predisposed for adventure or something?" Arabella asked with a laugh. "If everyone's finished, I propose decorating the tree." There was a low murmur of assent.

Minerva had not decorated a wizarding Christmas tree for many years. The Gryffindor common room had once held a stately fir trimmed by the students, but that tradition had ended in her fourth year. She had hardly forgotten a single detail, though, and watched closely as Arabella drew a slow, careful design with her wand. As it moved, a golden light blossomed out of it, becoming solid and taking the shape she had traced. Soon a graceful golden star adorned the treetop.

After that, the other guests collected their wands, levitating delicate ornaments of all shapes, sizes, and colors to the branches. It was quite crowded, and Minerva accidentally waved her wand too quickly. Her emerald-colored tree hit a shining silver snowflake with a crash, and the star fell to the floor and shattered.

"Oh -- I'm sorry --" she gasped.

"And I liked that one, too." The owner of the slighted star, a good-looking man a little older than Minerva, grinned cheekily at her. "It's all right. No harm done -- well, not much, anyway. I'm Carl Whittaker, and you're..."

"Minerva McGonagall."

"Yes, I heard you talking tonight. I'm sorry about your brother. I'm sure he'll be fine."

Minerva resolutely swallowed the lump of misery that had somehow worked its way into her throat. To be offered pity by this complete stranger was almost unbearable. Angrily shoving her glasses towards her eyes, she blew her nose loudly. "Allergic to fir trees," she muttered.

He nodded astutely, showing no trace of realizing her little charade, and said, "Must be difficult at this time of year." A twinkle in his eye betrayed him, but he diplomatically changed the subject. "How do you know the Figgs?"

Minerva hesitated. Although there was no rule that the Order itself must be kept secret, she preferred not to mention it to recent acquaintances. "Arabella and I are working together."

"For Dumbledore, I presume? So am I." Carl moved his hand, revealing the golden ring Minerva knew so well.

"Yes -- I just started recently."

"David and I were at the Time-Turner together, before Dumbledore approached me about working with the Order and David moved to the Prophet. I was a photographer." She nodded. "May I pour you some Butterbeer, Miss McGonagall?"

She smiled. "I suppose you may, Mr. Whittaker."

Minerva and Carl drank Butterbeer and talked for a long while before they were interrupted. They mostly discussed work -- Carl was doing research for the Order, and she was interested in a few of his theories. This triggered her memory, and she remembered a controversial article from Transfiguration Today about a way to free Dementors from their dark natures -- written about a year ago by a certain C. Whittaker.

"You're just the person we need!" she cried out with delight, outlining her dilemma. "Arabella and I have been working on the Animagus transformation. We're coming along fine, but we need a way to record the conversations we hear when we're spying with the Morsdrodars. Apparently Recording Charms don't transfer over when you take your animal form."

"I'll think on it," he promised. Just as he was beginning to ask her about her Animagus work, a short man with tufts of mousy hair approached them.

"Ah, Carl! Fancy a joint wager on the Wanderers' next match?"

"No thanks, Bert, my money's on Puddlemere. Olive Clarence broke both arms, haven't you heard? She won't be fully recovered by Saturday -- no hope to catch the Snitch there."

"Engles would win if Olive had six arms," said Minerva with a shrug. "He's simply too good to be allowed. Always was, even at Hogwarts -- I'd bet that only Dangerous Dai and Roderick Plumpton could've beat him. Maybe not even Plumpton, now that he's been retired for so long."

"You saw Alexander Engles play Quidditch?" asked Bert in a strangled voice.

"I played against him. My first year playing -- his last. Ravenclaw was unbeatable for awhile, even if their Chasers left something to be desired."

"You played Quidditch?" Carl sounded nearly as shocked as Bert.

"Gryffindor Keeper and reserve Seeker for three years." She laughed. "And, speaking with that expertise, I must say that I think the Wanderers have no chance in the finals. It'll be the Bats for England or no one at all."

"The Bats? You're batty," David Figg broke in; Louise was just behind him. The five sustained a lively conversation about Quidditch for nearly an hour, before Minerva thanked the Figgs, stepped into the fireplace, and traveled home.

She kept herself from misery the rest of the evening by briskly wrapping Christmas gifts. For her family, Minerva always managed to find objects with a few simple spells on them -- enough to make them useful, but not enough to attract attention. A new watch for her father, which never needed to be wound; a charmed sweater for her grandmother that would keep her warm on the coldest Glasgow nights; an ordinary set of handkerchiefs for her brand-new uncle, who understood the wizarding world even less than the rest of the family. She had even managed to find some precious nylon stockings -- made more precious by a No-Run Charm -- for the newlywed Aunt Betty.

Tying a neat bow on that, her hands lingered briefly on the scarf she'd bought for Benny. She'd found it in Diagon Alley after lunch and had bought it on impulse, knowing that nights on the front could get cold. The scarf was thick red wool -- quality material, expensive even in peacetime -- with a general safety spell woven into it.

She had liked the scarf on sight; the charm had made it irresistible. She'd had a few qualms -- after all, she'd sworn not to help Benny with magic -- but excused herself, repeating that it was meant to protect against mishaps, not bullets. He would never know it was there.

Bundling the scarf into a box, Minerva wrapped the package busily. Carrying all of her presents, she Apparated to the Central Owl Post station in Diagon Alley. Three large barn owls took the packages, soaring out of sight into the cold December air.

* * *

Christmas passed, and Minerva threw herself into her work with greater fervor than ever before. As the New Year continued, both Muggle and wizarding wars intensified. Grindelwald's death toll rose; wizards traveled with a hand always on their wands; Order members visited large events, trying to ensure safety. A rumor circulated that the Order was to perform this duty at the Quidditch World Cup. Minerva hoped it was true, but also reminded herself that people claimed the Chudley Cannons would be playing for England.

She became friends with Carl -- now that she knew him, they managed to run into each other frequently in the library, often going to Diagon Alley for lunch at the same time. She didn't let these outings interrupt her work, however; the date set for the Animagus transformation was approaching more quickly than she would have liked, and March seemed to be just around the corner.

Minerva and Arabella had three-hour sessions with Myrna Thorpe daily, as she taught them the structure of the difficult Arithmancy equations; the principles of the scrying; the charms they would need to assure a successful transformation. Whenever they complained about the work -- which was rare for Arabella and rarer for Minerva, Myrna would silence them with a long, hard look. Minerva practiced the stare in front of the mirror sometimes, storing it away for the end of the war and her teaching career.(

She occasionally woke in the night, muttering about variables; she had been a good Arithmancy student at Hogwarts and now wished that she had been a better one. The equations to determine the parameters of the spell were one of the two most difficult parts of the process, excluding the transformation itself. Arabella was performing the other task -- the scrying.

The potion boiled quietly on a small, ever-burning flame in a downstairs chamber of the Order headquarters. Minerva was careful to check it daily, but it seemed to need little attention -- only a month to boil until it was steeped and ready for drinking.

Arabella completed the scrying on a Friday morning in mid-March. Minerva was allowed to watch part of the process through a Seeing-Glass, a mirror that showed images from another room. Scrying was one of the most advanced and most accurate varieties of Divination, used only in the most complex spells. The Order's scry-chamber was octagonal; each panel on the wall contained a large mirror. The floor of the room was a pool of clear water. Four bridges extended across it in a cross-shape. Where they met was a large circular platform, holding a stone bowl of silvery liquid.

Arabella was seated in front of that bowl, gazing intently into it. The liquid swirled quickly, so that any patterns that might have appeared were meaningless. Occasionally, it would turn more slowly, and as the motion stopped, a blurred picture would appear. But it always vanished too quickly for anything but the shape of a face to be recognizable.

After Minerva had sat, motionless, for over two hours, the liquid moved slower and slower -- then stopped altogether, forming a silvery, glass-like surface. Not taking her eyes off the basin, she clenched her hands into fists, willing something -- anything -- to happen.

As the surface of the fluid slowly turned darker, a face appeared. Craning her neck slowly -- any sudden movement, she felt, might endanger the spell -- Minerva recognized the head. It was Arabella's. While she watched, the face gradually faded -- she managed not to cry out in despair -- and the material swirled briefly in the opposite direction, then stopped, revealing the figure of a calico cat.

Minerva choked back a shout of laughter mixed with a sigh of relief as the surface swirled again. It moved sluggishly for perhaps half an hour before darkening, this time showing Minerva's face.

It was a good likeness, Minerva thought as the liquid rolled -- her black hair piled high atop her head, her gray eyes snapping. As she watched, the image turned seamlessly into that of a gray and black-striped tabby, with markings around its eyes to match her spectacles.

Arabella stood up, her face ashen. Minerva saw her mouth "Finite Incantatem," then twist her ring and vanish -- only to appear next to Minerva. "Meow," she muttered with a tired laugh. "'Night, Min. I'm going home."

"You most certainly are not," said Myrna. "In that state, you're barely fit to walk, let alone Apparate. You'd splinch yourself before you were out of the building. I'm giving you a potion for dreamless sleep and you're staying in the Order infirmary tonight."

Arabella nodded meekly.

"A cat," Minerva murmured, stretching her cramped legs as she prepared to Apparate home. "That's all right then."

Myrna smiled. "The potion needs just a few more days. Now go home and rest."

Cats ambled their way through Minerva’s dreams that night.

* * *

She spent one more week finishing the equations while the potion boiled away in a Ministry lab. On the fifth day, it turned a deep crimson.

On the sixth day, Myrna owled her.

The potion is ready.

Minerva checked her last Arithmancy equation, suddenly nervous. She had been looking forward to the transformation for months, but with it looming ahead of her, she was suddenly and dreadfully panicked. Any mistake on her part could not only kill her, it could kill Arabella as well. And all the people whose lives they might save through their spying -- it was a feeling similar to the one she'd experienced before her conversation with Churchill; the feeling that the lives of hundreds -- maybe thousands -- of people depended on her.

She took a deep, steadying breath. They would succeed. They could not fail -- she had worked too hard and too carefully. Everything would be fine.

The actual transformation would take place on the last day of March. The day before was brisk but beautiful, and more than a hint of spring was in the air, but Minerva hardly noticed. The clocks ticked relentlessly as she solved her equations again and again... continued their noise as she carefully noted and practiced the sixteen different charms required to make the spell succeed... seemed to speed up as Arabella mixed a simple pain-killing potion to safeguard themselves during the first change.

Myrna checked their work carefully, and found no mistakes. The equation parameters had been calculated; the warding spells were cast to contain and focus the power of the first spells; tests on the potion showed that it was safe.

She finally nodded. "Good job, girls. Take tomorrow morning off and return at seven o'clock in the evening."

Minerva couldn't sleep that night. She tossed and turned for hours, finally opening her window to get fresh air into her flat. Even a long, smooth flight over London couldn't calm her. She was on the verge of casting a Somulus Charm when she remembered that it could affect her mental processes throughout the next day, and finally settled for a cup of tea containing a single drop of sleeping potion.

She awoke early the next morning and breakfasted in Diagon Alley, then stayed there throughout the day. She wasn't happy anywhere, though -- the peace of Flourish and Blotts seemed monotonous; the bustle of the Leaky Cauldron, intrusive. Her only respite came in meeting Carl, who solemnly presented her with a reassuring grin and a sprig of catnip.

When she returned home to change clothes, her stomach twisting with nerves, there was a letter waiting for her. It was addressed in Benny's slanting hand, on the strange paper they used in the military. She grabbed at it greedily. Letters from Benny were rare, although she wrote him every week. They always came by Muggle post, bearing odd foreign stamps with large parts blacked out. Minerva customarily cast a Revealing Charm to show the rest of the letter, then inked the black parts back in herself before putting the letter in a special box.

25 March 1944

Dear Minnow,

Thanks for the letters! And thanks again for the scarf. Nights get cold out here -- I love having something warm.

You didn't cast a spell on it or something, did you? It never gets torn or dirty, even when my uniform's stained. And another funny thing -- a piece of shrapnel was coming right for me the other day, but it just missed me by inches. Couldn't have killed me -- it was going for my arm -- but I might have been out of commission for a while. But if it's enchanted, I doubt it's your fault, and a little luck doesn't hurt in wartime.

It's rainy here, and the Germans are always flying over. They got Jim last week. We went through training together, and I ended up burying him without a stone. The rest of us are watching our backs -- and watching each other's.

They say something is going to turn the tide soon, but no one knows what. Even if I did, I couldn't tell you. Sorry, Min. I hope it does. I want to go home and be an electrician and eat Aunt Wanda's cake again.

Well, it's pretty wet and muddy here. I’m envying you by your warm fire, and thinking about you. Curse any Nazi who might come near you -- give him your worst for me.

Love,

Benny

Minerva read the letter once, then carefully re-inked the censor's thick black lines. When she finished and folded the letter carefully, her nervousness had been replaced by steely resolve.

Men like Benny were fighting -- and dying -- every day, for people they never knew. She, Minerva McGonagall, would use her talent where she could. She'd do it for Benny, stuck in the cold and mud of a foreign land.

With a white face and a pounding heart, but feeling more determined than ever, she twisted her Order ring and arrived at the headquarters.

She found her way to the large, empty room where they had cast the wards last night: Minerva was already there and Arabella was just arriving. The cauldron of Mutaebestia was there as well, with two roughly hewn wooden cups. Arabella scooped both full of the blood-red liquid and reached into her pocket for a small vial containing the final catalyst. Dripping a bit into each, she handed one to Minerva.

They drank. The potion tasted terrible, but it had to be swallowed in one gulp -- Minerva's insides turned icy, then fiery -- and suddenly, she felt nothing except the same iron determination. She was going first. Stepping onto the floor, she quickly drank the painkilling potion.

She heard Arabella's voice, as if from far away; but louder than anything was her own as she pointed her wand at herself and carefully intoned, "Formus Animagi!"

For one terrible second, she was afraid nothing would happen. But then a crimson light burst from her wand and shot towards her hear -- her robes melded with her skin, which twisted, then shrunk -- it was a queer sensation, but she felt no pain. And then, before she had time to cry out in awe or surprise, she was a cat.

It was the most incredible feeling of her life; being herself, yet not herself. Her senses were heightened -- she smelled traces of the potion, of what Arabella had eaten for dinner, of the chalk they had used to draw the warding diagrams on the floor. In the dim light of the room, she could see for miles. Her body felt sleek and powerful as she walked to the edge of the wards, relishing the feeling of the floor under her nimble paws. She batted at a spot in the air, then gave Arabella a cheerful meow.

The next part was the most difficult -- a spell without words or wand, using only the strength of her magic and her will. She thought, hard, about becoming a human -- she heard a small pop -- and she was standing in the middle of the wards, on two feet that suddenly felt large and clumsy.

She was glowing as she took her place outside the circle.

"It’s special, isn’t it?" asked Myrna, smiling with understanding. "So few people have experienced it -- and yet it’s still the most wonderful feeling in the world." Minerva nodded.

"Formus Animagi!" Arabella cried, her voice quavering a bit -- and a calico cat sat in her place. Like Minerva, she walked to the edge of the wards; ran her tongue across her small nose; twitched a whisker; and then was human again.

"Try it once more," Myrna said. "You shouldn’t need the spell. Just think the words in your head, the way you did in your cat form -- and it should work." They both changed, then reversed it, until she smiled and nodded. "Good work, girls. Dumbledore wants you to report to him tomorrow morning."

After Myrna had vanished, a gray tabby cat slipped out of the building and walked silently into the night.