Childhood's End

"Welcome, welcome back to Hogwarts, dear children!" It was Headmaster Dippet at the podium. He launched into an opening speech for the second term, the only memorable part being, in Minerva's opinion, the introduction of the new Transfiguration teacher--who was thankfully not Cuthbert. He was a tall, grave-looking wizard with auburn hair and a penetrating glance--and a mouthful of a name: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore.

Funny name, Dumbledore. It seemed familiar to her. Minerva wondered over its meaning. She knew one thing: that name would shortly be mocked and lampooned and twisted into all kinds of childish nicknames by her fellow students. But she marked his steely-blue gaze and calm demeanor and came away sure that no kind of insult or prank could perturb it.

She was right. In Dumbledore's classes, unlike his predecessor's, you couldn't get away with anything. Doctor Tofty was very learned--and very old and a little deaf, which was probably the reason he had jumped at that prestigious position with the OWL Examining Board. Who wouldn't choose a job testing students once a year over the daily force-feeding of knowledge to artful brats who could use that knowledge to turn your chair cushion into a cactus plant just as you were about to sit on it?

But Professor Dumbledore was a cagey fellow who seemed to know the worst a student could do and always had an answer for it. When a group of Slytherin seventh years tried to pull the cactus trick, he had awarded them five points for the cleverness of the maneuver and assigned them a two foot report on the history of the development of inanimate-to-animate switches for the next class.

What surprised Minerva as she got to know him was that her Transfiguration teacher also seemed to value his students as unique and interesting people. He was always at the classroom door, no matter how early one arrived, and greeted each student by name, asking after their families, their pets, their latest obsessions. He seemed to have a great knowledge of the Quidditch League standings and confessed himself a fan of Puddlemere United. He bore the ragging of Wigtown fans when the Wanderers trounced Puddlemere 500 to 80 in a championship match. It came out later that day that he had made a bet with those students that if his team lost, he would stand up at dinner and sing the Puddlemere anthem, "Beat those Bludgers Back Boys and Chuck that Quaffle Here," wearing a chicken suit. And so he did, to resounding catcalls--and not a little sincere applause.

One afternoon, she was leaving his class—the last to leave, having dropped a book. Her arms laden, she was not having much luck concentrating on not concentrating to Levitate it. Suddenly the book reared up, did a Wronski Feint, a Woollongong Shimmy, and a loop-de-loop, then landed neatly on the stack she was carrying. She heard a chuckle behind her and turned. "Thank you, Professor."

"You are welcome." Despite the gravity of his eyes, there was always a little twinkle in them and a quirk at the corner of his mouth that made him look as if he had a joke he was dying to share. "Did I ever tell you, Miss McGonagall, that I once met your grandfather?"

"No sir."

"If you have a minute, I would like to tell you about it."

Minerva nodded politely and placed her books back on her desk. Laird Cadwallader McGonagall had been a secretive old fart whose only joys were his great tracts of land and the fact that after six failures--Minerva's aunts--he had finally produced a son he could pass those tracts on to. Minerva was not particularly curious to know more about Grandfather McGonagall--he seemed altogether hateful. But she was curious to know how Da could have turned out to be such a loving husband and father, having been brought up by that selfish old curmudgeon.

Dumbledore wedged himself into a student seat, folding his long legs under the desk, then waved his wand and turned her desk around to face him. It looked like this was going to take more than a minute, she thought as she sat down. Fortunately there was no scrimmage in the offing, and she had the whole weekend free for her assignments.

Dumbledore looked at her for a long moment before beginning. "Let me say first that I have never had the pleasure of meeting your mother. I am betting you look a good bit like her. You do not resemble your father in the slightest--except for that dimple in your cheek."

Minerva blushed and nodded--and the infamous dimple showed itself briefly.

"Your father I know of from his exploits on the Quidditch pitch. I even have his autograph from years ago when he was in his prime."

"Really, sir?"

Oh yes, he had quite a following back then. Big fellow, shaggy red hair, but not your run-of-the-mage Beater. Rough and tough, and he bent the rules, as they all do, but never a bully."

"Thank you, sir. He'd be pleased to hear you say that, I'm sure."

"Well, I hope to be able to tell him personally sometime. I am sure we will meet up eventually, since we have his daughter's interests in common." The eyes twinkled again. "But to get to the point, as I say, I never had the pleasure of meeting your mother…"

"She's been ill, sir, and she had rather a bad accident over the holidays."

"I am sorry; I did not know." The twinkle went out of the eyes, as if someone pulled a curtain shut inside them. "I wonder. Does she ever talk to you about her father?"

"Grandfather Wallace, sir? Not much. He's dead, you know. They lived outside Blair Atholl. He and my grandmother both were Muggles, and he fought in the War. He did some sketching, landscapes mostly. That's about all I know about them." That and the fact that her grandmother believed that her mother was responsible for Grandfather Wallace's death. But she wasn't about to say this to a teacher, especially one who admired her father, and whose respect she thought she might like to earn herself.

"The War is where I met your grandfather."

Minerva was surprised. This scholarly mage was going to tell her about her Muggle grandfather. This she wanted to hear.

"Oh yes," Dumbledore continued, seeing her interest. "It was during one of the final battles, in northern France. The Germans were rather desperate by then, and the Allies--armies from Britain and America...and the Antipodes--were helping the French to pincer them in. Your grandfather was part of the assault. A very friendly fellow. I was in Picardy with some companions the night before the engagement. He came right up to us and introduced himself. Said he recognized us by our clothing. Very proud of his witch daughter, he was. Iffie, isn't that her name?"

"Yes, sir. It's short for Iphigenia. How...how did you come to be there, sir? In France, I mean."

"Ah, that is a story in itself."

Minerva leaned forward. Her grandfather's letter came to the front of her mind. 'Dumb-bell' or 'Door-bell,' he had called one of the wizards he'd met. Could this be the one?

"I can see you are interested. Do you know anything about the causes of Muggle Wars, Minerva?"

"I thought it was all about the need for land and goods. Different countries see what other countries have and, as they can't just conjure or create what they want, they invade and take."

"Yes, but countries don't just go to bed happy and peaceful one night and wake up the next day and declare war on other countries. Humans, even Muggles, do not go to war without great compulsions. There have to be seeds of unrest--jealousy, greed, resentment, hatred even--sown in them over many decades before war blossoms. "

"Who would do such a thing?"

"Ah, who indeed? It is my theory, and that of a small circle of colleagues, that many of the wars of this century and the last have been the handiwork of a single person. A wizard named Grindelwald. You may have heard him euphemized as Old Grindy. "

Auld Grinty. "Yes, my father's used that name before. He must be very powerful."

"Powerful? Perhaps. But more important, he is very, very cunning and patient, and he understands the Muggle mind like no other wizard in history, except perhaps Arthur's Merlin. He knows their fears and desires and works on their masses to revolt, invade, avenge..."

"But influencing Muggles...interfering in their business...isn't that against the Statute of Secrecy?"

"Laws and statutes don't mean much to a fellow like him."

"What does he get out of it...starting wars and all?"

"A sense of power, of control, of self-worth if you like. You see, in the Magicosm he is not so very powerful...at least he wasn't when he started out. He comes from a family of magical gadget- and furniture-makers in the Black Forest. But he was not satisfied with keeping up the family business, which, by-the-by, is highly successful. I have one of their watches, in fact. Keeps time perfectly, predicts the weather, calculates tides, full moons...fascinating. But where was I? Oh yes, Grindelwald. He is actually rather an unprepossessing, runty fellow. His customers and not a few family members called him der Grinde. It's a kind of scabrous tree infestation common to their woodlands."

"The Grinde. I've heard of that. One of my roommates told me about it. Is it really as bad as Bundimuns?"

"Heavens no! But it is an obnoxious fungus--looks awful, like dried-out porridge. You can imagine why he broke with his parents--not much love lost among them, I imagine. He turned his back on the family business, traveled, studied in Romania and Italy, and along the way befriended a young Corsican officer of the French army named Buonaparte."

Though Dumbledore gave the name its Italian pronunciation, Minerva recognized it. "Napoleon Bonaparte...the one who became emperor of France and gave our...erm...Navy so much trouble?"

"I see you know your Muggle history."

"I'm rather attracted to stories about...ah...ships and such. Do you mean to say that this Grindelwald helped Napoleon?"

"Yes, he saw all sorts of possibilities in young Bonaparte, who was short in stature like himself,but charismatic and gifted, especially in matters of battle tactics. The wizard nurtured the young Muggle's ambitions like Mami Leek does her hothouse Dragonias. He insinuated, flattered, encouraged, planted ideas, removed obstacles. And with all the force of Grindelwald's magic behind him, Napoleon could not help but be successful. And many of the European conflicts since--and not a few in the East--have been orchestrated by Old Grindy."

"Is that why you were in France? Were you trying to catch him?"

"Indeed. Usually, when a war is winding down, Grindelwald likes to make a quick exit. But he needed this war to go on a bit longer. We think he was sowing more seeds."

"Sir?"

"For another war. You see, Grindelwald knew the Central Powers were doomed. Their alliance was crumbling. Bulgaria and the Ottoman Empire had already given up, though Germany remained recalcitrant. But the longer what we call The Great War went on, the more people that were killed, the greater the resentment towards Germany would be, and the worse the reparations demanded by the winning side when the Kaiser finally surrendered. So Grindelwald was there at the Front, urging the Germans to one more bloody battle...in the forefront, shooting down individuals who got separated from their regiments... We got wind of his efforts and came along to try to trap him. And that's how we met your Grandfather Wallace."

"Did you catch him? Grindelwald, I mean?"

"No, but I believe he was wounded--badly. He has not been heard of in a long while. We should have been able to capture him easily, but somehow he slipped through our Wards."

"You placed Wards around the battlefield?"

The professor nodded. "We searched the area thoroughly. The only person we found was your grandfather, injured but holding on."

"Oh, he might have seen something. He, better than any Muggle, would have known a wizard as soon as he saw him."

"Alas, we questioned him discreetly, but he could tell us nothing. He was out of his head, and his vocal cords and lungs were much injured—mustard gas, you know."

"Oh yes. I forgot about that."

"They carried him off to a field hospital and from there, home to Scotland…"

An idea was forming in Minerva's mind. "Professor Dumbledore, sir. The British soldiers…what color are their uniforms?"

"Tan to olive drab, I believe, depending on the dye lot."

"With little vees on the sleeves, and round metal caps that sit high on their heads, with a brim all around?"

He looked startled. "Uh, yes. I take it you've seen pictures of your grandfather in uniform."

Minerva thought she was nearing a revelation of some importance about the Muggle she'd seen in the Seeking Glass. Could she trust this teacher to help her understand the meaning of her vision? She decided to take the gamble. She told him what she had seen, about the soldier confronting the mage, the spell, and the mirror going black.

He did not speak for a moment, then: "The Connghaill Seeking Glass is known to me. It is a very powerful artifact, fashioned by a most inventive witch or wizard, whose name alas is lost to us. As I understand it, its magic is triggered by the close presence of some intimate possessions of persons whose history one wishes to view. Now the puzzle is, why did it show you that particular scene? For there must have been something in your possession that belonged to the men you saw, otherwise no link could have been forged. Think, Minerva, what were you wearing or carrying when you walked into that room?"

"We had found something in another room, a knapsack. It had some papers in it, and an old cloak. I think the knapsack was my grandfather's. There was a letter in it that he wrote to my grandmother."

"I would bet my wand that the Muggle you saw was your grandfather."

"And the wizard?"

"Grindelwald, of course. But do you not see, Minerva? You must have been carrying an object belonging to him too, otherwise you could never have seen an event in which both of them participated."

"It...it had to be the cloak then."

"Ah, the cloak. But now the question is, how did those things--the cloak, the letter, the knapsack--get into the McGonagall Crypt?"

"I don't know. But if the vision is true, my grandfather surprised Grindelwald on the battlefield and he cast a spell on him."

"Did you hear the incantation?"

"No. I remember there was a flash of green light. It almost blinded me. And then everything went dark."

"It makes sense. It would mean that your father was injured by magic, not gas and Muggle shrapnel, as his doctors thought."

"Yes, sir. That must be so." She was gratified that he was including her in his reasoning. And the clarity and detail of his explanations reminded her of something else. she decided to play another hunch. "Sir, have you ever written a book on Transfiguration?"

"Yes, a long time ago."

"Adventures in Transfiguration?"

"Ah, you know it? Not one of my better efforts, according to my publisher."

"Whyever not?"

"Explains too much. Knowledge is a dangerous thing she says. Students should be kept in the dark as long as possible. I disagree. A little knowledge is dangerous, but if all the facts are laid bare to the student, then, with the right student, Minerva, you have an upwelling of creative thought that can transform the world."

"I see."

"Just as with this little incident concerning your grandfather. It is but one more piece of the puzzle. And I believe it is not potent spells or potions or even leagues of powerful wizards banded together which will finally erase Grindelwald from our world, but knowledge of his weaknesses."