Childhood's End

10. LESSONS

The Hogwarts corridors seemed to be busy at all hours with students, teachers, owls, house-elves, ghosts, and visitors, all looking like they knew exactly where they needed to be and at precisely what time. Their sheer numbers bewildered Minerva. And it didn't help that everyone--except for the owls and elves...and the ghosts-- wore those black wizarding robes and hats, all the time, not just for class where they were required. It was so different from the way folks dressed in the glen. You would have thought that there would be at least some stole or emblem in the house colors that students would be eager to show off. It would certainly make it easier to recognize people and gauge their allegiances. It had been heartening to pick out the Slytherin green in Conall Macnair's dress robes that first evening, but then Cordelia Bones had been wearing maroon, not one of the Ravenclaw colors, as Hildy Bagshot had, of course, pointed out to the whole table during the Sorting. Where was the Head Girl's pride?

Minerva sighed as she put on her own robes the first day of classes. Already she was missing the private daily ceremony of donning her kilt and plaid in the mornings: laying out the long woolen cloth on her bed, pinching it into the familiar pleats, rolling herself into it, buckling it into place, and throwing the remainder over her shoulder to be anchored with a brooch. Most Scotswomen--especially Muggles--wore only a neck scarf or sash to honor their clan, and occasionally a long tartan skirt, but Minerva loved the kilt and its stormy history, and, as scion of a proud Highland laird, insisted on her right to wear it. But, school rules being what they were, she settled now for a scarf about the neck, blousing it well out over her collar for all to see.

It was depressing to walk the corridors and see no break in the sea of black, not a tartan in sight, besides her own. So when she caught a glimpse of plaid in the crowd, she felt a thrill. Some proud Scot was flaunting the Black Watch pattern in a voluminous hooded cape. But then the wearer uncovered her head and revealed, with a familiar gesture of impatience, the face of--Aunt Charlamaine! She was steaming up the hallway with a group of stern-looking witches in her wake, the sett of her cloak, proclaiming her link by marriage to clan Campbell.

The sight of her formidable aunt coming for her unnerved Minerva. She tried to sink down behind her friends and hide. As she did, she heard a voice. "Look there, Mordicus, it's the PLAGUE folks come to sit in on Muggle Studies." It was an elderly witch, a teacher by the voluminous cut of her robes and the black banding on her sleeves.

"What's that you say?" answered her companion. He was small and round and completely bald. "A plague of Mokes? In my classroom?"

"Not a real plague. It's an acronym. You know...They're all the rage in the mundane world just now. PLAGUE stands for some self-righteous cause or other."

"Planned Learning and Games for Underage Elves perhaps?" The professor named Mordicus chuckled.

"That sounds about right. Or Post-Levitational Aphasias Generating Unpredictable Enchantments. No, that was my last paper for the Healers' Conference." Both teachers laughed at this. "They are harmless enough, I'm sure." The pair continued off up the hallway. "By the way, did you see Viridian's request to publish an article on Horcruxes? The man's a menace... "

Minerva was vastly relieved by the part of the conversation she understood, but she didn't dare release her pent-up breath until after the PLAGUE had passed. Thankfully, Aunt Charlamaine was out bullying some other poor creatures for a change, and didn't even notice her niece as she charged on by.

~*~

Minerva turned that teachers' conversation over in her mind as the crowd of students pushed her on towards her first class. She had never been shy with the adults of her clan, except for the Campbells, who always managed to make her feel small and foolish, no matter what the topic of conversation. It had been a relief to escape to Hogwarts, as it seemed that Cuthbert Campbell was showing up at the Keep more and more, often with his mother at his back.

Surprisingly, she now found herself once again subdued and hesitant--the way Cuthbert and Charlamaine always made her feel, but now it was her teachers who induced this feeling. They seemed distant and cold, these great gray heads, with their arcane knowledge and incomprehensible jokes.

Her first-ever class, Potions, was two flights below ground in a damp, ill-lit dungeon. As she took her seat around a table with her friends, she made note of its poor ventilation. Another example of bad planning. Goodie Gudgeon always said potions should be brewed in a room with a window or two open, or better yet, out in the courtyard, to dilute the magical mischief the fumes could wreak on a witch's liver and lights. But her brief feeling of superiority drained away quickly as a tall woman appeared behind the lectern and introduced herself as their Potions mistress.

Madam Mandra Gora, seemed quite suited to the shadowy, closed-in environment she inhabited. She had odd golden skin that looked as if it had never seen the sun and blue-black hair in a page-boy bob. Her fingernails were long and lacquered and they curled inward at the tips. Everything about her, from her scent to her manner of dress was decidedly foreign and forbidding. No potion would dare try to poison her.

Her robe was black of course, but in a glossy, clinging fabric. High-necked, it covered every inch of her skin except for her head and hands. The sleeves were tight and buttoned from elbow to wrist. Her name, like her appearance, seemed like something Jacko Gwynn might make up for one of his stories, of a beautiful but treacherous witch with a dark past and a darker future. But it became apparent that Madam Gora's skill at least was genuine, as she started them off making an infusion of mint and monkey puzzle that she called Aqua Stimulata.

"It izzz used mossstly to open the mind and enhance conccccentration." Her husky voice seemed to caress the words. "Potionzzz that ssstimulate the intellect work bessst when breathed in. So I exssspect you will all be wide-awake for the rrressst of your classezzz." Her delivery was hypnotic and Minerva struggled to follow her next words. "Kindly pair up...read...instructionzzz...page five...manual."

When she came to her senses, Mina and Hildy were already huddled together, and Raymie was just claiming Suze as a partner. She looked about, bewildered. Dugald Macmillan was all the way at the other end of the room sitting with a group of Ravenclaws, who shared the class with Gryffindor. Thankfully, a fat, ruddy boy asked her to join him. "Kenny Whisp," she thought she heard him say. She remembered him from the Sorting. He was a Gryffindor too.

Minerva moved over to his table and read out the instructions while he set up the apparatus. "'Seethe one pint of pure spring water in an iron cauldron over a normal flame. Choose six perfect, unbruised spearmint leaves and scatter them whole on the water, taking care that they do not touch the sides of the cauldron.' What's a normal flame?" she wondered.

"I've no idea. Why don't you ask?"

Minerva looked at her partner as if he'd just ordered her to drink poison. He shrugged and raised his hand.

"An excellent question, Mister Whisssp," said Madam Gora. "There are many colorzzz of magical flamezzz. Can anyone name one?"

"Saint Elmo'zzz firrrrre!" Raymie called out, in a perfect and irritating imitation of his teacher's voice. Madam Gora fixed him with a sharp stare.

"A non-magical phenomenon. Petty and predictable. As is your attempt at wit, Mister Sykes." Raymie goggled. It seemed she could turn her accent on and off at will.

Hildy Bagshot raised her hand. "Please, ma'am, Floo Fire is magical. It is the primary means of transport in the Wizarding World. It can be made by throwing a pinch of Floo powder into a hearth fire in any magical household. It was invented in 1261 B.C.E. by Caractacus Flooble, who is also known for his Never-Miss Fireballs and his... "

"Thank-you, Miss Bagshot," interrupted Madam Gora smoothly. "Any other suggestions?" She scanned the classroom out of slitted green eyes. There were no volunteers. "Missssster... Macmillan?" She looked directly at Dugald. It seemed she had already committed the students' names and faces to memory.

"Um...well...there's the Goblet of Fire..."

"Interesting, but not germane to this discussion. Anything else?"

"Um...I don't know...erm...Dragon Breath?"

"Explicate, please." Madam Gora walked towards him, her eyes gleaming.

"Uh... the Opal-Eyed Dragon makes a bright red flame which is used for drying some magical seeds...and..."

"And?"

Dugald looked around, perhaps hoping to see another raised hand. He was blushing furiously now. "And the Swedish Short-Snout's is blue... and very hot... I think," he mumbled.

Madam Gora nodded. "Very, verrry good. Dragon Fire is most potent and necessary to our art, though not for use by first years. And as Mister Macmillan says, the flame of the Opal-Eye is hot, so hot that it can turn a victim to ash in seconds. Also, such a flame can be conjured and preserved in a jar. But that is very advanced magic. For our purpose today, the common yellow flame will do. I believe it is a first-year spell, but I shall leave it to our Miss Trumulo to decide whether to teach it to you. In the mean time, I shall come around and conjure it for you when you are ready."

~*~

After class, as they walked down the hallway to Magical Defense, Raymie teased Dugald. "Woo, woo, Dug, nice one. Three answerzzzz to one quesssstion. You'll be old Gory's pet soon enough. But don't strain your brain, lad. Makes the rest of us look bad."

"Well, you volunteered quick enough," retorted Dugald, his head low, his hands deep in his pockets.

"I know, but the Sykeses, unlike the Macmillans, have a reputation for intelligence to keep up. Jockie got five N.E.W.T.s, did you know?"

"No, I didn't. And what do you mean by that anyway? You think my family's stupid or something?"

"Well, let's just say, a Macmillan's better off using his noggin to block a Bludger than to remember the Twelve Uses of Dragon's Blood. And say, how'd you know what 'explicate' means anyway? I thought it was like spitting or something."

"That's 'expectorate', Raymie," Dugald muttered.

There were titters about them. Dugald's face was red again, but not from embarrassment, Minerva thought. There was a tightening in his neck muscles and a whiteness about his nostrils that signaled some deeper emotion, something she'd seen in her father a very few times. But he did not say anything more; he only looked straight ahead as if concentrating on not running into the oncoming hordes of students. At that moment, she noticed that he too was wearing a tartan scarf, the Macmillan sett, tucked into his collar.

~*~

The Aqua Stimulata from Potions Class did help the first years stay awake in Magical Defense. They needed it. Their teacher, Professor Merrythought, was a forlorn, elderly woman who looked very like her name--a wishbone--with a V-shaped face, a long chin and long narrow ears. But she was not merry--far from it. She kept a trio of Augureys on a perch in her classroom and they echoed her weak, mournful voice, as she whined her lecture. The first spell she taught was a Crying Hex.

Minerva and her friends were met at the classroom door by Robbie MacDonald who had been assigned to escort them to Herbology. It was in a greenhouse somewhere outside, so they were all glad of his help. As they stepped out onto the lawn, a group of owls whizzed past them, and Robbie explained that they were probably latecomers who had missed the breakfast post, heading for the Owl Tower to rest up a bit. They were not allowed to interrupt classes with a delivery.

Minerva was happy to hear that Hogwarts had an Owlery, just like Connghaill Keep, and she followed the owls' flight as they disappeared into the confusion of bastions and buttresses, balusters and belfreys that made up Hogwarts castle. There seemed to be an infinity of towers, some teeteringly tall, others squat and half-hidden. She'd already become acquainted with quite a few of them inside the castle, but she'd be hard-pressed to identify them from the outside--narrow, round towers enclosing tight iron spirals of steps, large square ones with multiple criss-crossing staircases. She'd heard that some of those stairs moved around and reattached themselves to different landings when you weren't looking--a scary thought, if so.

At the Keep, there were only two flights of stairs, and those were firmly attached to their entry and exit points: the Grand Staircase that joined the Great Hall to the Gallery level and the winding stone steps in the northeast tower that went all the way to the roof. And, oh yes, there were wooden stairs from the kitchen down to the buttery in the undercroft and ladders to the tops of the other towers that could be accessed from the roof, but that was all. A sensible plan and easy to follow. In fact, Connghaill Keep, whose floorplan resembled a big H, had only four towers, one in each corner, forming the tines of the H with the Keep proper its crossbar. And there were only three levels--well, five if you counted the undercroft and the roof. Again, unlike Hogwarts, logical and practical.

~*~

It was a comfort to Minerva that their Herbology professor, Jicama Leek, seemed very pragmatic and down-to-earth, a little like Goodie Gudgeon. She was a generously padded woman, substantial both in body and voice, with skin as black as well-aged peat and, as Raymie observed later, "a bum you could balance your books on." She smelled strongly of curry and cloves, spices familiar to Goodie's kitchen. As she told them all in her lilting baritone, she came from across the ocean, from a place called Trinidad. Her robes were black, yes--but they were ingeniously pleated to hide, while she stood at rest, wonderfully rich panels of red and gold and purple, which only revealed themselves as she undulated about the classroom.

Before their eyes, she transformed the greenhouse into a segment of her island home: a glassy lagoon and a swamp thick with mangrove trees. She gave the class tour, introducing them to its flora, including a tree with leaves that exuded acid and a plant whose fruit looked like green grapes, but was crunchy and filled with a purplish-red sap.

"It is especially useful in preventing hallucinations," she said, popping a grape into her mouth.

Minerva had a notion to ask Professor Leek the name of that plant and whether it might help cure mental disturbances, but she was suddenly intimidated by this very exotic personage, in her color-leaking robes, staring at the class grinning and chewing and reminding Minerva less and less of her old nurse. With that vermilion juice staining her large teeth, Professor Leek looked almost ferocious.

~*~

After lunch, Minerva was able to relax a bit. The Charms teacher, Miss Trumulo, was young and blonde and petite, and her inexperience was obvious, even to a first year. She stammered while calling the roll, and kept dropping her wand. A boy like Raymie Sykes might have taken this as a cue to make all kinds of mischief. But Minerva looked over at him, and saw a look of rapt attention on his face. The last time she'd seen such a look was when Petey Macnair had promised Raymie a ride on his new broomstick. But Miss Trumulo could be nowhere near as fascinating as a Comet 160. She wondered if Raymie was feeling sick.

Miss Trumulo became more composed when she introduced the class to her twin Puffskeins, Bubbles and Fluffy. The girls squealed with delight as she carried the small pink fur balls down the aisles, allowing students to pet and cuddle them as they liked. Minerva had never owned one, but she'd heard they were common household pets in the cities. Mina Grubbly whispered that they were much akin to Tribbles, though with several important differences, the first of which was coloration...

At this point Raymie gave out a loud, elaborate groan. Mina had already regaled the Grydffindors with her animal expertise at breakfast, recounting in mind-numbing detail the differences between Crups and Muggle canines. Other expressions of protest followed his in short order, but it did nothing to curtail her sibilant lecture.

Mina was happily distracted from her topic as the gentle Miss Trumulo, oblivious to her competition, announced that she was going to demonstrate much of the first term syllabus--as well as some more advanced Charms-- on the two Puffskeins. She Levitated Bubbles and opened his cage door with a command that sounded a little like Da's Gonagalohomora. Then she Flew him into it without touching him or the cage. She accio-ed Fluffy to her (Minerva recognized this charm, as Goodie used it a lot in the kitchen) and enlarged him to the size of a Quaffle. Everyone gasped, expecting the poor creature might burst or at least squeal in pain at having its skin stretched so, but it just bounced about a bit and made that fluttery sound of contentment the species is known for.

Their teacher stuck her wand tip into what Minerva supposed was its mouth. Then she shouted, "Transparencia!" Everyone gasped again. This had the effect of illuminating his little insides. "Isn't it amazing?" said Miss Trumulo. "They have no bones at all--no ribs--nothing."

And it was true. The charm allowed the class to see right through Fluffy's skin and fur to what looked like a large roll of Spello-tape. Only it wasn't tape. Their teacher muttered another cant and the roll started to unreel very fast. Out of the little fellow's mouth shot a long red ribbon. "That's his tongue," opined Mina. And it kept on coming, writhing and curling about, up and down the aisles until it was at least three times the length of the room.

"That must be how they capture our bogies," said Raymie.

"How's that?" asked his teacher.

Raymie put his hand to his mouth and blushed puce.

Mina Grubbly answered for him. "Didn't you know, Miss Trumulo? After everyone in the family goes to bed, Puffskeins use their tongues to scavenge food from all over the house without ever leaving their cages. Wizard bogies are a special treat for them."

"Oh," said Miss Trumulo, "that must be why I never feel stuffed up in the mornings." And she laughed along with the class, as they watched Fluffy suck his super-long tongue back inside him with a whoosh.

She reduced him to normal size and returned him to his cage. Over the Puffskeins' happy humming, she served up a duplicate of the lecture Minerva's father had given her on Underage Magic and the Statute of Secrecy. Only Miss Trumulo went further and told them about the possible consequences, which included fines, wand confiscation, prison, and, for the incorrigible, banishment from the Magicosm.

"But how do they even know if you've broken the Statute?" asked Suze Yorke.

"There are witches and wizards who can feel magic being done, even from very far away. If they sense an illegal hex or a spell being used in a restricted area, like a Muggle town..."

Or a Quidditch pitch full of Scots lads, thought Minerva.

"...they are required to report it to the local authorities, who will of course relay the information to the Improper Use of Magic Office in London."

"What do you want to bet," whispered Raymie to Minerva and Suze, "that Laird Macnair is in charge of sending those reports in from Perthshire." He must be feeling better, Minerva decided.

Hildy raised her hand. "Isn't there a charm that can be used to tell what spell a wand last performed?"

"There is," said Miss Trumulo. "It's called Prior Incantato. Hit Wizards and Aurors use it with mages they suspect of doing Dark Magic. Like Bathilda said, it forces a wand to give back a ghost of the spell it performed most recently. So, for example, if one of those magic-sensing mages reported a Hover Charm in a student's bedroom, they could take the student's wand and..."

"...make it rat on him," called out Raymie Sykes. He still looked a bit red in the face, but was definitely back in form.

"Something like that, Raymond."

Raymie seemed to take encouragement from her reply. "Miss Trumulo, could you demonstrate it? The Free-Your-Ink-and-Otto spell?"

"The Free--? Oh, you mean Pree-or In-cahn-tah-toe. If I had a wand here that had been used, for even one spell, I could, but of course all yours are brand new."

"You could use your own," said Mina, "and do the casting with one of ours."

Miss Trumulo was still working out the logic of this when Raymie interrupted. "Oh, Miss Trumulo, Minerva's isn't new. She's got a hand-me-down."

Minerva bristled and hissed at him. "'Tis not, Raymie. It's a---an heirloom."

"Oh, Minerva, did you inherit your wand? How exciting!" Miss Trumulo gushed. "I heard that that custom was still practiced in some families."

"Yeah," muttered Raymie, "cheap, chintzy families."

"Would you mind if we use it for a little demonstration?"

Minerva brightened, and she marched forward, through a buzz of discussion, proudly holding up Rowdie's wand. She wondered: what was the last spell he'd performed? Probably something very brave or dangerous.

Miss Trumulo propped it up against a book on her table, and touched her own wand to it. "Now watch carefully. When I say the words of the incantation you'll see some grayish smoke come right out of the end of Minerva's wand. It'll form into a ghost of the wand's last spell. See if you can tell which one it was."

Everyone got very quiet as she said the words "Prior incantato." And then they waited... and waited... and waited.

"That's odd," said Miss Trumulo, after an embarrassed moment. "It's always worked before."

"But it did work," said Raymie, into the silence. "Didn't you see? It's an Invisibility Spell."

There was laughter at his joke, but Miss Trumulo shushed them and tried again, much louder this time. And something did happen. A weak puff of smoke rose in a curve out of the tip of Rowdie's wand, and hovered like a question mark over the desk.

"What's that?" whispered several voices.

"Oh," said Miss Trumulo, "it looks like--a botched spell."

Just then, the bell for the end of classes rang out.

Minerva left the room in some agitation. She was embarrassed at her wand's failure, but the implications in the phrase "botched spell" disturbed her far more. Hags and Maladepts and Squibs were always messing up their spells. So said Goodie Gudgeon. But Rowdie Guthrie Flynn was a powerful, fearless warlock. He couldn't be one of those.

However, there was no time to think about it. She had a most important after-school engagement.