Childhood's End

2. HOGSMEADE AND BEYOND

At supper that night, Jupiter McGonagall outlined his strategy for preparing his daughter for her glorious entry into wizarding school.

"I've had a look at yer book list, and I believe we have copies of most of the texts you'll be needing, either here in the library or among yer friends' cast-offs. And of course, we've plenty of cauldrons and such to round out yer equipment needs. You're almost your mother's height now, so I'll have Goodie take up a few of her work-robes for you. You'll have your tartans for special occasions of course." He took a sip of his Brose. "What's that you say, Goodie Gudgeon?"

The old housekeeper, in Ma's absence, sat in the mistress's place opposite Lord McGonagall. "It is no ma pairt tae say it, sir, but daena ye think yer wife wad want the lass to be weel-pittin-on for her first year at that barrie school?"

Minerva grinned secretly. She had been chafing to say this very thing. She wouldn't mind wearing Ma's old robes to Hogwarts, but...

Goodie continued: "Tis aw weel an good to reuse auld books an sic. But a lass wants to look good amang all thir Lunnon-folk, nae be wearin her mither's auld rags."

The shaft hit home. Jupiter was certainly not one to allow any Londoner to outshine the daughter of a Highland lord. "All right. You two Floo over to Hogsmeade in the next day or two and pick out some nice new robes." He paused dramatically and surveyed Minerva with his eyes a-squint, like a Quidditch fan studying a vintage Oakshaft for his collection. "But the most important thing I'll not leave to any two-Knut merchant."

She gulped. "You mean my wand, Da?"

"Indeed I do, lass. No untried, store-bought twig for the likes of you. Saturday week, by the dark of the moon, we'll go down to the family Crypt and see which of your antecedents will be donating their wand to their worthy offspring." With that, he toasted said offspring and drank the bowl dry.

~*~

After dinner Minerva slipped outside to climb the spreading beech tree in the courtyard and meditate on the day's wonders. She'd finally showed the other kids she could hold her own at Quidditch, and she'd make her House team at Hogwarts, of that she was sure.

"Hist! Nerva! Dutchoo wooing?"

Minerva smiled to herself. It was her friend Giggie--Gilliain Gillespie Gwynn. Gig had an embarrassing habit of mixing up words when she was excited. Some said her Uncle Leister had placed a tongue-tying hex on her as a baby when he didn't get an invitation to the birthing celebration--not that the old curmudgeon would have attended anyway. Others said it was because she was born on the thirteenth of the month on the dark side of the moon, with the sun in the house of the Crab. Aunt Charlemaine swore uncharitably that it was because Mrs. Gwynn had developed an insatiable craving for Billywig juice during her confinement.

"I'm just thinking."

"About what?"

"School."

"It'll be such fun--going around together. You wait."

They sat a while in companionable silence, enjoying the evening breeze and the starshine. But then Gig started twisting her hair and clearing her throat, as she did when she had something on her mind.

"I wanted to ask you what happened today."

"When?"

"When you were tangled in the noal get--goal net--with Dugald." She giggled. Giggie had a bit of a crush on Dugald MacMillan, even though he was two years younger than she. Funny pair they'd make, thought Minerva: Dugald, huge and stolid, with the bright carroty hair of his Norse ancestors, Giggie, thin and bespectacled, with straw-white hair and skin, always chattering and fidgeting...

"What do you mean?"

"I thought maybe you magicked some...beastie to net you out of the get. What was it?"

"Did I--what did you see?"

Gig whispered excitedly, "Lash of flight an' a dark, theek sling like a snarten meaking--marten sneaking--round the net. Then you dropped down. I thought it freed you."

"I--I don't remember any beastie--I thought Petey did some kind of Severing spell--"

"Not to nut my ket--ket my nut--damn--cut my net-- he did not!"

"I did feel queer afterwards. But I thought it was from the fall."

"You landed on your feet not your head. Fat theeling... you ever have it before?"

"No. Never."

They sat a while longer, counting stars, and meditated lightly on this mystery. They talked of other instances of wandless magic they had heard about or witnessed or performed themselves--especially their first, the ultimate proof of magibility. Minerva recounted hers. It happened when she was three. She'd been playing with a neighbor's cat. It bit her, and she wished it away, yowling, to the top of a chimney. Gig couldn't remember hers--or said she couldn't. Minerva had heard it was something slightly embarrassing, having to do with frogs and soap and the family bathtub.

A desultory breeze played with the leaves, blowing them first one way, then another. "Ooh, ooh," said Gig, "Wanna see thumsin?" She closed her eyes to slits and raised her face to the breeze, a wrinkle of concentration on her forehead. She whispered, "Blow wind, blow a little more." Minerva sat, still as a stone. Nothing happened. She tried again. "Blow wind, blow a little more." If anything, the breeze lessened. Gig gave an exasperated sigh, and Minerva stifled a snort. "Blow wind, blow a little more." Minerva thought she heard the faintest "please" at the end of the cant. And the breeze did pick up a bit. Gig sighed again.

"It doesn't always work. But when it does, it makes me feel really powerful, you ken?"

"Do they teach that at the school?"

"No, it's something I made up myself. All the school charms are hoo tard to say."

"Aunt Donnie says it's possible to do charms without saying anything--just thinking the words--but she says it takes a lot of concentration."

"I can tronsincate okay, I just can't spay the cells."

Minerva changed the subject. She hoped she'd be able to 'spay the cells,' when she got to school but didn't want to think too much about the possibility of failure. And the subject was painful to her friend. Home from Hogwarts, Giggie had tried practicing spells surreptitiously out in the henhouse and ended up changing her mother's favorite biddie into a cookpot. Needless to say, Mrs. Gwynn had taken custody of her daughter's wand for the duration of the summer.

They talked about boys (Gig's favorite subject) and Quidditch (Minerva's). A shooting star interrupted their thoughts.

"Did you ever wish you could fly over the Grampians just like that star, Gig?"

Gig's only reply was a gulp and a wince, and the subject quickly changed to their coming trips to the big city to round out their school supplies. Gig would go to Diagon Alley with Dugald and his mother, and Minerva to Hogsmeade, a small wizarding village in the Grampians not far from the school. She'd never been so far from her home before. It would be a great adventure. Of that she was sure.

~*~

Dealing with her mother's ups and downs, Minerva had learned to keep her emotions rigidly in check--except when out riding her broom. Now, with her mother gone for a long time, she was slipping into the untidy, but gratifying habit of relishing the good things of life. And the trip to Hogsmeade certainly qualified as a good thing. No, not just a good thing--a real adventure. Kids in the valley didn't often visit the great wizarding centers. Indeed they rarely needed to. Denizens of the McGonagall grange, especially, didn't need to go outside of it for supplies. The neatly tended vegetable gardens, orchards, herbaria, looms, mills, cow pastures, and sheep pens provided most of the clan's needs. So when Goodie Gudgeon woke her a few days later with the announcement, "Shoppin' day, dearie. We maun dae our chores early," she had hardly been able to take it in.

A further thrill awaited her. As they were (finally) getting out the Floo-pot, Jupiter McGonagall approached them, waving Minerva's broomstick.

"Here, my girl, take this to the Quidditch supply store, and tell Brobdingnag Bones that I want him to put one of those new diamond-hard finishes on yer fag."

Minerva had heard about such coatings. They rendered a broom almost impervious to damage and made it glisten like morning dew. She grabbed the broom and gave him a grin.

"You're sure it won't affect the banking radius."

"Naw, naw, tell him we want the Elasto-Sheen. That'll keep it at maximum flexibility."

~*~

Their first stop was a stationery supply store called Scrivenshaft's. Minerva was delighted by the variety of writing materials available in the larger world: Rainbow Dyes, inks that changed color with your mood, self-sharpening calligraphy nibs that could also adjust their thickness and angle at a word, Dictation Hands that would write whatever you told them to. The more advanced varieties could even make copies. But more intriguing and useful were the Enhancement Pens. They corrected spelling and grammar and inserted grown-up words and thoughts into your writing to make it more mature. Minerva remembered Petey Macnair had once used one to forge a note from his father to get him out of some kind of school trouble.

She saw a clerk demonstrating the latest in Endless Parchment to a customer. No matter how far you pulled it out there was always more on the roll. But she resisted temptation and bought only enough ordinary parchment, ink, and quills for the first term. She could replenish at Christmas after she opened her presents. The McGonagall aunts were famous for their highly practical gifts. As a new student, she could expect to receive little else besides books and school supplies--from the relatives at least.

After a trip to Bones's Brooms to drop off her fag, they turned in at a side street to Guthrie and Gwynn, the local robe shop. Giggie's uncle was part owner, and Minerva was sure of a discount as well as free alterations. Jacko Gwynn was in that day, and saw to their needs personally.

"Three sets of work robes in black gabardine and a pointed cap. That's usual. And I could set you up with a cape and hood with the family crest in a nice wool-silk blend if you like."

Goodie checked her purse and nodded, then inquired discreetly after the family's health and activities. Bachelor Jacko was full of stories about his nieces and nephews, especially Gig, who was his favorite. He praised her fashioning of the goal net at the Macmillan farmstead. She was showing signs of becoming an excellent weaver, and once she got some charm-work under her belt, she could have a job in his shop any time she liked.

Minerva liked Jacko. He had a wealth of stories to tell and would regale anyone who would listen with tales of magical beasts and beings of impossibly grandiose attributes. Yet his manner was so compelling that he always left children pleasurably frightened and their elders shaking their heads in wonderment. "Aye, that Jacko," they'd say, pretending to be unmoved, "Black Irish for sure, with a tongue full of blarney."

Indeed Jacko had the thick, curly, blue-black hair of his Erse-speaking ancestors, and unusual hazel eyes, and he liked to set them off with brightly colored robes. Today he sported a calf-length azure gown over pine green pantaloons, and strode about, measuring and hemming, mumbling snatches of gossip through a mouth full of pins.

"By-the-by, Minerva," he whispered in her ear while Goodie visited the Ladies', "Seen anything unusual in the forest around Macmillan's lately?"

"N-no." Minerva sensed the onset of a revelation, and she looked full into Jacko's eyes. They looked almost golden, and reminded her of the way Ma's eyes shone when she was excited.

"Well, I heard a rumor, just a rumor mind you, that there's a strange creature lurking about the vale."

"What is it? A bear?"

"Now you know there've been no bears seen in the Highlands since before the last Goblin Rising. And any that might have been left, Duncan McNair will have stuffed and mounted in his den."

That was surely true. Laird McNair was a great hunter and had many trophies.

"Not a Hairy McBoon--"

Jacko squinted as if considering this. "Noooo. So far as I know, no Quintaped has ever yet escaped the Isle of Drear. They say this monster--if monster it be--is two-legged, and thin and hairy, and tolerable fast. Magnus says it shines like silver in the moonlight and makes a strange noise...unlike any heard in these parts."

"Oh. Magnus." Magnus MacDonald was a great talker, but nothing much ever came of his boasts.

At that second, Goodie Gudgeon returned and bustled Minerva off to the pub for tea.

They enjoyed buttercress sandwiches and gillywater while they waited for the alterations on her robes to be completed. Then they visited the Hogsmeade bookstore and managed to find a copy of every textbook she still needed, except one--Transfiguration for Beginners--which Dugald's mother could pick up for her in London. In spite of scary reports of the dodgy characters lurking in Diagon Alley, the Macmillans at least didn't seem to be put off. In fact, Dugald had already Flooed there once by himself and hinted he could be persuaded to take Minerva sometime, an offer she resisted with a snort and a comment that she didn't need a great overgrown sheepdog herding her about.

They collected their purchases and were returning to the pub when Minerva remembered her broomstick. Goodie glanced at her watch and said the Master'd have nought to eat tonight if she stayed a whit longer. So Minerva left her packages for her nurse to carry back in the Floo and returned to Bones's to retrieve her newly enhanced broom.

~*~

"Here it is, Miss. Looks like Bobby's got it nicely polished up for you. I'll put it on your father's account, shall I?"

"Yes, thanks." Minerva looked her sweep all over. The Boneses weren't the brightest Billywigs in the wizarding world, but they knew their brooms. And Bobby Bones, who had barely scraped through Hogwarts, could take a broom apart blindfolded and put it back together without a twig or spell out of place, or so it was said.

"Best try it out before you go on home. I'm sure Bobby air-tested it, but the owner knows his--ah--her fag best, as we say. Just take her up over the mountain there a bit. There's no Muggles about for miles."

Minerva was doubtful about his plan, but she was impatient to get this right at the first go. Who knew when there'd be time to bring the broom back to Hogsmeade if she found the finish slowed her turns or something equally unacceptable.

~*~

It was a pleasant afternoon, if warmer than usual. As she kicked off into the air, Minerva felt the thrill of flight, and something more--an unusually compelling curiosity. She'd never been over to the north side of the mountains before. She surveyed the Hogwarts school--her school now-- on its great massif. It would make a clear landmark for her return. She flew out boldly, riding east and north, following a line of soft-looking green and gray mountain tops. She'd just go a little way, put her fag through its paces, and then turn back.

But beyond those bland, featureless mounds lay a wide erosion-scored plateau, multi-hued and dotted with shining lochs, a grand and lonely sight. This was followed by more mountains separated by odd, rounded valleys, and beyond those a stretch of pinkish clay waste, strewn with boulders. At its far edge, some pale, rounded peaks poked their heads above sharp, darker crags, like balding warlocks in a coven of pointy-hatted witches. On her left, far in the distance, she was just conscious of the soothing undulations of the mountains. And beyond them, unseen but felt, like a great rent in the land--Loch Ness.

Every vista promised one better over the next ridge, so she naturally traveled further than she'd planned. When she saw clouds to the east tinged with pink, the reflection of a glorious sunset, she knew it was time to be heading home. Her broom seemed to be flying well. If anything, it was faster and more responsive than she remembered it. But then she hadn't put it through any heavy testing, taken as she was by the wild beauty of the land around her.

She turned about in a gentle arc and took a last longing look at the mountains. It was dusk when she finally made out the spires of Hogwarts. Goodie would be angry, but the things Minerva had seen on her ride were worth a hundred lectures on punctuality. She angled her fag downward for the descent into Hogsmeade, willing the Brake to take hold.

~*~

"Pa, where's the McGonagall fag?"

"Gone, my boy. Lass took it out for a test-run."

"No--oh no, Pa, I weren't finished with it yit."

"Whyever not, son? It looked to be in perfectly grand shape to me---though a mort small. But that's inventors for you, always making some new..."

"Pa, that's not what I mean."

"Well, what do you mean, my boy? You followed the directions on the can didn't you?"

"Yes, Pa. I removed all the charms: the Cushion, the Brake, the Accelerator. It's a dandy, is that Accelerator Charm... And I give it three coats, like you said to."

"Well, then where's the problem? It was dry enough, and fairly flexible. I bent it acrost my knee, and it twanged right back, no cracks er nothin ..."

"Please, Pa. I was able to put the Cushioning Charm and the Accelerator back, but--I don't know--the Braking Charm wouldn't take hold. The fag's just too small. I don't know how Maister McGonagall managed to fit it on in the first place..."

~*~

Instinctively Minerva pulled up on the head of her sweep and shot past the village, barely missing a hill on its outskirts. It got caught in a gust of cooling air and plunged towards some very uncomfortable-looking boulders. Once again, she grasped it hard with her knees and jerked its head upwards, but this exposed the tail-end to other currents rising off sun-warmed rock, and made it buck like an angry centaur. And the Braking Charm was just not there. She bent closely over the stick and coaxed it into a course parallel with the slope. Better that than an abrupt meeting with the ground.

But now she found herself accelerating down the mountainside. Her feet began to brush against the tops of evergreens. Their shadowy depths held who knew what dangers: briar patches, outcrops of granite, beasts with fangs and horns and claws, the kind--magical or not--that Jacko Gwynn populated his stories with.

She could hardly see at all now in the gathering dusk, and wondered in a moment of panic if it might not be better just to slide off her broomstick and hope wandless magic would set her down in the top of a friendly fir. But McGonagall grit and a horror of abandoning her fag won out and she clung on. The suppleness of that stick, so useful on the Quidditch pitch, was a positive liability out here on the mountainside. The wind plucked at it as at a harp-string, and it responded with a strident whine that rose steadily, ominously in pitch. So she wrapped her arms and legs around it, trying to damp the vibration. At this rate her broom would shortly blast into splinters. And Minerva's energy was draining away along with her courage.

Ahead of her, the darkness, which had been punctuated by pine and fir crowns, became smooth and unbroken like the surface of a great loch. Somewhere below, water rushed, echoing as in a hollow, and Minerva felt about her limbs the cold, sluggish down-draft of a deep valley. The wind, which had pushed her down the slope, now followed a new angle, an almost vertical drop over a precipice. It plunged Minerva and the withy-wand broomstick into that narrow darkness.