Resolving a Misunderstanding

On entering her sitting room, Minerva removed her outer robe and draped it across the back of an armchair. Perversely, she now felt hungry. She went into her tiny kitchen, measured tea leaves into a pot, then filled the kettle with cold water from the tap, waving her wand to bring it up to just a boil. After pouring the hot water over the tea and leaving it to steep, she went to her bedroom, where she was pleased to find that Blampa had not cleaned up. In her bathroom, she found the two plates of biscuits, sitting on the still-hovering tray. Not caring, really, whether the plates had a freshness charm on them or not, she took the plates and their contents back into the sitting room with her.

Discovering she had no milk in her cool cupboard for her tea, Minerva sighed and resigned herself to having to call Blampa again. She wondered if she had been given the most annoying house-elf at Hogwarts and, if so, if it were deliberate.

“Blampa!”

With a loud snick, the little elf appeared. “Yes, Miss Professor Minerva ma’am! May Blampa serve?”

“Yes, Blampa. First, I need some fresh milk for my tea. Then I need you to come back, and I will tell you how else you may serve.”

“Yes, Miss Professor Minerva ma’am!” cried Blampa happily before she whisked away to fetch her Professor her milk.

She returned promptly, and Minerva asked her to please clean the bathroom and take care of the bedroom – but not to touch the sitting room or the kitchen, please.

“Also, Blampa, there is one more thing I’d like you to do for me,” said Minerva seriously.

“Oh, yes, Miss Professor Minerva!!!” Blampa hopped up and down. Minerva thought she might pee in her excitement.

“Well, Blampa, it’s something I would really like you to do, but it’s very difficult . . . .” Minerva trailed off dramatically.

“Oh, Blampa is hard worker, Miss Professor! Blampa try very very hard!”

“Well, I don’t know. It’s so difficult. It may not be fair of me to ask you. It might be too hard for you to do.”

“Oh, but Blampa wants her Miss Professor Minerva to be happy, Miss Professor! Please let Blampa serve!” Blampa now seemed anxious that she would not be asked to perform this difficult task for her Professor.

“Well, Blampa, it would make me very happy . . . .” Minerva could see that Blampa was quivering with house-elf excitement at the prospect of making her Professor happy. “But . . . .” Minerva paused dramatically, shaking her head. “No, I just don’t think it would be fair of me to ask this of you, please forgive me, Blampa.” Minerva tried to maintain her attitude of utter dejection, which wasn’t difficult, given the day she was having.

“Oh, nooo!” wailed Blampa. “Oh, Miss Professor Minerva, Blampa try very very hard to make Miss Professor Minerva happy. Blampa want to serve Miss Professor!”

“Well, if you really think you could try . . . you see, Blampa, when I was growing up, we had house-elves serve our family, too. Oh, and they were very good house-elves, and they all still serve McGonagalls. Yes, they were very good house-elves.” Minerva sighed. She could see that Blampa was quivering with desire to be as good a house-elf as a McGonagall house-elf. “But you’re not a McGonagall house-elf, Blampa. You are a Hogwarts house-elf.” Minerva shook her head again, as if discouraged by the thought.

“But Blampa can be a good house-elf just like Miss Professor wants. Blampa promise!”

“Well, you see, Blampa, that’s just it . . . well, it’s not everything, but, well, you see, what you just said, ‘Blampa promise,’ you can’t make a promise that way, Blampa. No, if someone promises, even a house-elf, they have to say ‘I promise,’ or, well, I just can’t believe them.”

“Well, Blampa try hard.” She looked very confused by Minerva’s last speech. “Blampa say for Miss Professor, Blampa, I, promise.”

“Well . . .” Minerva looked dubious. “I don’t suppose you could say, ‘I, Blampa, promise,’ can you?”

“Ah, very easy, Miss Professor! I, Blampa, promise Blampa try hard.” Blampa looked pleased with herself.

“That’s not bad, Blampa, but shouldn’t you say ‘I, Blampa, promise I try hard’?” suggested Minerva.

Blampa blinked a few times, then said, “I, Blampa, promise I, Blampa, try hard.” Good enough, thought Minerva.

“Now Blampa promised Miss Professor,” said the house-elf, “how can Blampa serve Miss Professor and try hard?”

“Blampa, all of the McGonagall house-elves use the word ‘I’ as you just did when you made your promise to me. It would make me very, very happy if you would also use the word ‘I’ and stop always calling yourself ‘Blampa’ every time you speak of yourself to me. You may continue to do so with others, but it would make me so happy if you would just say ‘I’ instead of ‘Blampa.’ I will think you are a very good house-elf, then, and find more ways for you to serve me. Wouldn’t you like to do more for me?”

“Yes, Miss Professor.” Blampa looked stunned and as though she didn’t know what to say if she couldn’t refer to herself in the third person anymore.

“Well, that’s good! You know, you can also find ways to say things without referring to yourself at all. For example, you could say to me, ‘Does Professor McGonagall require anything?’ Do you see, Blampa?”

Blampa nodded, ears flapping, but still struggling for words.

“And Blampa, if you could address me as ‘Professor McGonagall,’ or at least ‘Professor Minerva,’ I would be very pleased. I don’t like being called ‘Miss Professor,’ although I’m sure other teachers probably don’t mind it.”

“Yes, Mi- Professor Minerva, ma’am. I, Blampa, try hard to make Professor Minerva happy. I, Blampa, try very hard.”

Minerva bit her tongue in an effort to keep from laughing. She supposed that “I, Blampa” could be seen as a step in the right direction.

“One more thing, Blampa, then you may go. If you ever don’t understand my instructions, or if you think they don’t make any sense, you must ask me to explain what I mean. I was unhappy when you didn’t clean my rooms for three days that time, but it was my fault because I’d told you not to come back until I called you. If I ever say anything like that again, I would be very happy if you would ask me to explain what I meant. You have a brain, Blampa. I can tell you are a very clever house-elf,” well, actually, Minerva wasn’t sure about that, “and if you use your brain, and are very clever, you can be an even better house-elf for me. That’s all for now, Blampa. Please resume your normal duties.”

After a curtsy, and opening and closing her mouth a few times without saying anything, Blampa popped away.

Minerva sighed and cast a Warming Charm on her teapot. The tea wouldn’t taste as good, but she was glad that she had finally spoken with Blampa. She didn’t know if house-elves could change the way they spoke after so many years of service, and perhaps she would cause Blampa some trouble, if she started using the word “I” in front of the wrong people, or elves, but she assumed that Blampa must have some sort of house-elf-self-preservation instinct that would kick in and keep her from appearing too uppity, except when she was with Minerva.

Minerva drank her tea and ate a shortbread. The shortbread seemed dry and rather tasteless to her, so she picked up a ginger newt and chewed on that, concentrating on the crunchy softness and the warm, sweet, spicy flavour. Perhaps it was a happy taste, she thought, as she finished the last ginger newt.

“Blampa!” Time to reinforce her training, thought Minerva, as Blampa popped back in. This was the most that Minerva had called her in one day since she’d arrived in December and been assigned the rumpled little elf.

“May Blampa serve Professor Minerva?” Well, not a bad try.

“Yes, please, Blampa. I have found the ginger newts you brought me this morning to be very tasty. Whenever you bring me any biscuits, please always include ginger newts with them, if possible.”

“Oh, yes, Professor Minerva! I, Blampa, be sure ginger newts be possible for Professor Minerva!”

“Thank you, Blampa. Now the most important thing I am asking of you is this: I have an appointment this afternoon with the Headmaster at five o’clock. Can you tell time, Blampa?” Minerva was never sure how the house-elves knew when it was time for dinner, or breakfast, or whatever.

“Yes, Mi- Professor Minerva. I, Blampa, knows time. I, Blampa, knows when it is five o’clock.”

“Good, Blampa. So you will know when it is four-thirty?” Minerva asked.

“Yes, Professor Minerva.”

“I am going to take a nap this afternoon, Blampa. I am very tired, but I do not want to sleep too long and miss my appointment with the Headmaster. I need you to make sure that I am awake at four-thirty and that I get up from my nap to get ready for my appointment. Do you understand?” Minerva always felt the Hogwarts house-elves were somewhat dim compared to those she’d grown up around.

“Of course, Professor Minerva; I, Blampa, wakes Professor Minerva for her appointment. Professor Minerva not to worry. Professor Minerva take happy nap with happy blanket and not worry!”

“Thank you, Blampa. That will be all for now.”

Minerva possessed an alarm clock, of course, or she could cast a Tempus Charm to alert her, but she thought it best to actually be awoken by something sentient so that she wouldn’t oversleep. Lengthy afternoon naps were sometimes difficult for Minerva to wake from, unless she napped in her Animagus form, but sleeping in her Animagus form always left her feeling somewhat disoriented after she Transfigured back.

Minerva entered her bedroom, cast a Tempus Charm for four thirty-five, as insurance, then undressed down to her knickers and chemise, carefully draping her mossy-coloured robe across her bench, and laying her stockings next to it. She stepped over to the bed and reached out hesitantly to touch the afghan that Albus had given her. Blampa’s reference to a happy nap in a happy blanket made her think of Albus’s gift. She picked it up and held it to her, resting her cheek against its soft weave. Struggling with what to do next, she closed her eyes. She should just push the bedclothes aside, get into bed, pull up the sheet, and take her nap, she thought. She stroked the soft wool blanket gently, then replaced it on the bed and looked at it a moment, considering.

Minerva picked up her wand from her dressing table and cast a Cooling Charm on the room. She removed her chemise and knickers, setting them on top of her stockings. Naked now, she stood still a moment. Still not cool enough, although her nipples had tightened with the lowered temperature. Minerva cast another Cooling Charm, then one more for good measure. Now she shivered. Reaching for the afghan, it occurred to her that, after this morning, she surely should not be doing this. It would only serve to torment her further. But this was surely a happy blanket, even if she weren’t a happy witch. Perhaps it would do no harm . . . .

Minerva wrapped the afghan around her and, as she had so many times during that cold winter, invoked, “Warm me.” Minerva lay down, cocooned in the large afghan. The warmth of the charm didn’t rush over her, but gently and slowly flowed and spread, until she felt as though she were enveloped in it. Closing her eyes, Minerva remembered that fateful evening, all those years ago in the Transfiguration class when she first found It within her. She had never named It, though she well knew Its true nature, and name. At the time, she had thought that It had overtaken her suddenly, and certainly, It came into her awareness with an unexpected and surprising rush of feeling. She had believed that perhaps It had actually been caused somehow by her magical accident and that It was a mere artifact of that accident, not real except for the torment it caused her.

But then she came to realise that It was real. The accident didn’t cause It to suddenly pop into being, out of nowhere. The “circumstances” of her accident, as she called them – the openness of her senses and her magic following her meditative exercises, combined with regaining consciousness in Albus’s arms, feeling him caress her face, smelling his scent, hearing his heartbeat, sensing his magic – only served to ignite what was already a small spark within her. And if she were being honest with herself all these years later, she knew that it would have only been a matter of time before that spark grew to a flame. She had loved him, she admitted to herself, since she was thirteen years old. He was easy to love, and had times been different, her love of him would have remained the love of a child for her teacher, maturing into the affection of an adult for a favourite former mentor.

But times weren’t different, and the tenor of their tutorials was affected by the events of the time. How could she not feel admiration for him, knowing what he did for the good of the wizarding and Muggle worlds – and for Hogwarts? And how could she not see him as a human being, a man, when she knew what he went through for the sake of others and how it affected him, and then admire him for it all the more now that he was a human being, rather than a seemingly-omnipotent adult. He was human, touched by the evil of the world, and yet still he continued to spend himself for others. Minerva’s care, concern, and admiration for her professor had entwined with her childish love of him, creating a steady, trusting, generous, mature love long before that evening in the Transfiguration classroom.

But what happened in that classroom – Minerva shivered despite the warmth of the blanket – that ought not have happened that way. It should have come as a slow, steadily increasing awareness, one that she could steer and overcome, one that might fade after she had left Hogwarts. She had been feeling slight rushes of awareness of Albus, as a man, before that fateful evening, to be sure. But those small sparks had glowed and faded and reappeared for months, leaving little trace and no pain, not even wistfulness.

Toward the end of her fifth year, Minerva had found herself wondering idly one day why he didn’t seem to have a wife or – and she had blushed darkly at the word – a lover. He hadn’t been at the school his whole life, she reasoned. Surely he had had some kind of private life before he started teaching. But she didn’t contemplate it long, concluding that he was probably far too busy to be in a relationship of that sort. Shortly after that, however, she decided it was a pity he didn’t have a lady friend, as her mother would say, since he seemed so weary lately, and he didn’t have anyone to come home to after his mysterious, exhausting trips – not unless you counted Wilspy, and even at a rather-sheltered-sixteen years old, Minerva knew perfectly well that a house-elf could not provide what he needed. After their dinner “chez Albus,” when he had appeared depleted and sad, she had considered that perhaps she could help him and provide him some support. Minerva avoided thinking about any implication that she might be taking the role she believed a “lady friend” should have, and she blushed inwardly whenever that thought crept near.

Without doubt, thought Minerva, there was also the occasion on which he had Apparated her from her parents’ home to Hogwarts. She had stepped, unthinking and trusting, into his embrace, later telling herself that it was not an embrace at all, but cherishing it as one, just the same. She would lie in bed at night, thinking of her project, her schoolwork, or one of her friends’ latest predicaments, and then, just as she was about to drift off to sleep, she would remember him holding her and easing her Apparition. Again she would feel the warmth of his arm around her, again, the caress of his silk robes against her cheek, the pulse of his heart, the vibration of his magic, and the soft whisper of his breath on her face. Sometimes, the memory would force her awake, and she would steer her thoughts in other directions until her blush faded and her eyes grew heavy. Other rarer times, she would allow herself to sink into the tactile memory of it until she felt as though she was falling asleep in his arms.

Minerva pulled the afghan closer around her and wished she’d cast one more Cooling Charm on the room. Lying wrapped in the soft blanket like this was as close as she could come to lying in the embrace of its giver. She felt ashamed, then, and pathetic. To need it so much that she would seek out this paltry substitute was pitiable. Her shame was that he could not possibly have any idea of how she was using his gift, and how little he would think of her, if he did – certainly to wrap herself in it for warmth on a chilly winter night was acceptable, but to use it this way, to pretend that she was lying in his arms, surrounded by his embrace and his magic . . . she scorned herself for her need, but capitulated to it, nonetheless.

As Minerva lay there, drowsy from the warmth of the blanket and from the emotional exhaustion of the day, she remembered another early occasion that ought to have warned her that It was coming. It was a Saturday morning, she remembered clearly, just a few days before her magical accident, and Professor Dumbledore had told her recently that he wouldn’t be making any more trips for a while. The wards here were going to occupy him for a time, and there was little more he could do on the Continent at the moment. Apparently, many of his trips had been spent not only in searching for Grindelwald and spying on the Dark wizard’s followers, but also in trying to rescue captives held by Grindelwald in various miserable places, as well as attempting to rescue Muggles attempting to escape from Germany and Nazi-occupied Europe. Occasionally, the two missions would merge since, in certain communities in Europe, Muggle-magic marriages were much more common than in England. Although Minerva was glad that her professor would not be going on anymore dangerous trips for a while, she felt guilty being happy about it since it meant that there was no more hope of him helping any additional wizards or Muggles who were trying to escape. Minerva didn’t even want to ask if it meant that they were all dead already. It certainly seemed possible, after all she had read of the war.

There was a Quidditch game that afternoon, Ravenclaw-Slytherin, so although Gryffindor wasn’t playing, the common room was buzzing with excitement. There was a great debate about whether it was more to Gryffindor’s advantage if Ravenclaw won or Slytherin, and Minerva had had to intervene several times to keep people from jinxing each other in an attempt to emphasise the correctness of their positions. Finally, Minerva gave up, saying that if they wanted to jinx each other and end up in the hospital wing instead of going to the match that afternoon, that was fine with her. Hoping that would provide them incentive to keep their wands to themselves, she had flounced out of the portrait-hole with her book-bag and headed off to the Transfiguration classroom.

Professor Dumbledore was there when she arrived, which pleased her greatly, although she was a little worried that he’d be too busy to let her use the classroom that morning. Instead, he suggested that they work on some of her Animagus exercises. In addition to the type that she had worked on over the summer, which were essentially a series of progressive exercises that helped focus the mind, the magic, or the physical energies of the practitioner – sometimes all three at once, although she hadn’t advanced to those yet – there were other exercises in which the practitioner focussed her mind on a particular quality of a particular animal and then used her wand to cast a transformative spell on one of her body parts, usually a hand or foot. It was a difficult spell since it was completely nonverbal, with no incantation even possible, and it required the caster to concentrate fully on both the essence of the particular animal and on the sensation of the body part in question.

Minerva had tried this twice before, in Dumbledore’s presence, and had rather lacklustre results, she thought. The first time, she had focussed on her left hand and on the quality of a squirrel’s fur since that seemed simple to her and had managed only a smattering of silvery-grey hairs on the back of her hand. The second time, on the same occasion, she had removed her left shoe and sock, crossed her ankle somewhat indelicately over her right knee, and concentrated on a raven’s claw. Those results, although Dumbledore had said they were positive, were even more disastrous, to Minerva’s mind. Instead of either turning into a raven’s claw, which would have been a perfect result, or at least changing her foot black or something normal like that, three of her toes had sprouted extremely long, sharp toenails, which she was unable to get rid of, even after concentrating on what her foot should feel like. Professor Dumbledore had had to cast a spell to force her toenails to resume their normal shape and size.

So this Saturday morning, she sat in a chair in Professor Dumbledore’s office, cleared her mind, and focussed on her hand, then added to that the essence of a dog’s paw, imagining vividly the forepaw of a border collie. She opened her eyes, raised her wand, and cast. To her immense disappointment, only a patch of inky black fur had appeared on the back of her hand and down the length of her fingers.

Impatiently, she waited for Professor Dumbledore to examine her hand, turning it this way and that, stroking the fur the wrong way, then peering at its roots, before she could wave her wand and reverse the spell.

“Well, at least this time I could reverse it,” she said ruefully.

He looked at her thoughtfully. “Explain to me exactly what you were concentrating on before you cast.”

Minerva told him, in as much detail as she could manage, her entire thought process prior to casting. She watched him as he walked in a slow circle, looking at apparently nothing. Suddenly, he turned and said, “Cast it on my hand, instead.”

“But how?” she protested. “The spell requires me to focus not just on the dog’s paw, but on my hand, the way it feels, its bone, muscle, skin, blood, and so on. How am I supposed to cast it on you?”

“It will require a variation on your focus, of course, but that should be a relatively simple matter. Your ability to focus your magic in empathy with other living creatures is excellent, Minerva. The exercises you have been practising since the beginning of the summer have made that part easy for you, wouldn’t you say?”

“I suppose. I guess that’s why this is so frustrating. Using an ordinary Transfigurative spell, I can change my hand into a dog’s paw and back again with no problem. And I did that last week – repeatedly, as you know. But I can’t force my hand to transform itself into a dog’s paw. I don’t know why.” Minerva sighed.

“That’s why I would like you to perform the spell on my hand, first. We know it is not that you don’t know what your hand feels like when it is a dog’s paw since, as you pointed out, you’ve performed an ordinary Transfiguration on it. Clearly, you are also achieving some kind of internal magical effect that drew forth the fur just now, and which we could no doubt diagnose in detail, if we were so inclined, but I don’t believe that such a diagnosis would aid you at this point.”

“But, Professor, your hand isn’t my hand. I can’t use an Animagus spell to Transfigure it!” Minerva, in all her reading, had never heard of anything like that being done.

“Ah, Minerva, but you can! I would perform it on you – and will, later, if you wish – but since you are trying to learn to cast, I would prefer you give it a try first.”

“I have no idea how,” Minerva said, feeling slightly stubborn about it, mainly because she still didn’t know what her professor was getting at.

“As I said, your strength at the moment is your magical empathy. Although it may complicate things a bit to focus both on the dog’s paw and on my hand, I believe that you will be able to. Once you have my hand fixed clearly, cast the dog’s paw. Do not hesitate; the essence of the dog’s paw is at your ready disposal, Minerva. Have faith that you do not need to linger over it. Simply cast.” He held out his right hand to her.

“Um, Professor, I’m not sure this is a good idea.” Albus raised an eyebrow at her, but she continued. “I don’t mean the idea as such, I meant casting it on your wand hand. I know you can use your wand with your left, but I would really prefer not . . . messing with your wand hand, if you know what I mean.”

Dumbledore smiled and dutifully stretched out his left hand to her. She looked at it and hesitated.

“Go ahead, Minerva, feel free! My hand is yours at the moment,” he said, grinning.

She returned his smile and took his hand in her own two smaller ones. She pushed back the cuff of his robe so that she could see the fine, well-proportioned wrist bones. She rested the palm of his hand in her left one whilst examining it with her right, running the tips of her fingers from his wrist across the back of his hand and down his long fingers. She held his hand closer to her face, seeing all the small, dry lines that mapped the back of his hand, and the short, fine hairs; then Minerva examined his clean, neatly trimmed fingernails, running a finger along those, as well. She could feel a warm, deep vibration coming from him that was clearly not physical, and she felt wonderment that his magic expressed itself so strongly when he was simply at rest in a chair. His hand still cradled in her left one, she moved her examination to his thumb, taking it in her right hand, scrutinizing it, pressing it in toward his hand, then extending it, then letting it lay at rest. She was just about to turn his hand over to examine the palm when, without thinking, she lightly stroked her index finger down the length of his thumb, wondering whether he had sucked it as a child and whether it would help her exploration if she were to raise it to her own mouth . . . . That thought, which not long ago she would have dismissed as pure silliness, created the strangest reaction in her as a warm tingle began low in her abdomen. Shaking herself mentally, she forced herself to return to her focus, and the tingle, ignored, subsided as Minerva turned his hand over and explored his palm minutely. Again, a strange, unbidden thought passed through her mind: how pleasant it would be to sit and hold his hand, stroke his palm, and caress the sensitive tips of his fingers, not because of a Transfiguration exercise, but just because it was his hand and it felt nice. At that distracting thought, Minerva closed her eyes and forced her mind and her magic back to their proper focus.

Eyes shut, she held his left hand between her two palms for what seemed an eternity as she tried to absorb its nature. When she opened her eyes, she said, “Ready?” He simply smiled slightly and nodded, so she released his hand, picked up her wand, and with the knowledge of his hand fixed firmly in her mind, she quickly called up the collie’s paw and cast.

Albus’s hand shivered a moment, like a mirage in the desert, then it slowly seemed to darken and melt. For a brief second, Minerva was alarmed, but she had barely registered her own sense of panic when before her lay a perfect example of a border collie’s paw. True, it was larger than usual since it seemed that it had taken on the size of Albus’s hand, but it was perfect. Almost tossing her wand down on the desk, she reached over and grabbed Albus’s hand, or paw.

Feeling that suddenly snatching up her professor’s hand was rude, Minerva apologised. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir! I wasn’t thinking – may I? Does it hurt? What does it feel like? Did it hurt when it changed?”

“Of course you may, and no, it doesn’t hurt. It feels much as I remember a dog’s paw feeling the last time I did such an exercise. No, the Transfiguration didn’t hurt, precisely, although it was more uncomfortable than when one casts the spell on oneself. And may I take this opportunity to say, ‘Well done, Miss McGonagall’?”

Minerva was thrilled. It was a long way from her Animagus transformation, and she had yet to be able to perform the spell on herself, but it was a major success. Dumbledore called Wilspy and had her bring a pitcher of pumpkin juice and a plate of shortbread to celebrate.

As she munched on her biscuit, Minerva thought of something. “Professor, I was wondering a few things.”

“That comes as such a surprise, Miss McGonagall! I didn’t think you had a curious bone in your body!” he teased.

Minerva just smiled, shook her head at him indulgently, and continued with her questions. “Well, first, why don’t they mention this technique in any of the books I’ve read – even in yours? Second, if I can change your hand into a paw, and I can, eventually, turn my hand into a paw, why can’t I change my hand into your hand, and then just, well, turn myself into you? No Polyjuice needed!”

“Ah, Minerva, I believe that you will find part of the answer to your first question there in your final statement. I do believe that attempting to Transfigure oneself into the likeness of another human being might be possible – it would certainly be possible to Transfigure certain aspects, such as the hand – but such a Transfiguration might have unwanted side effects, upon which one may only speculate. But even were there no side effects, the practical consequences of being able to Transfigure oneself into the likeness of another human being without the use of Polyjuice could be quite negative. Also, remember that whomever you wished to Transfigure yourself into would have to be someone whom you knew intimately. It is one thing to Transfigure a hand, or even a face, but to Transfigure an entire body – well, it seems unlikely that anyone would wish to Transfigure themselves into someone they know that well by happenstance and more unlikely still that someone who they didn’t know well would allow them to gain familiarity sufficient to enable such a Transfiguration. Not to mention that most practitioners . . . .”

Dumbledore went on, discussing the practical, ethical, and magical implications of human-to-human internal Transfiguration, and the differences between an Animagus and a Metamorphmagus, and how both were different still from the kind of Transfiguration they were discussing, but Minerva’s mind had already stopped at his words, “whomever you wished to Transfigure yourself into would have to be someone whom you knew intimately. It is one thing to Transfigure a hand, or even a face, but to Transfigure an entire body . . . .” She thought of her minute exploration of her professor’s hand – a hand that she already knew well after more than four years studying with him. Minerva halted herself from pursuing that thought any further, that thought which questioned: what kind of “intimate knowledge” would she need to acquire in order to know the rest of his body that well? She turned her attention back to what Professor Dumbledore was saying just in time to hear the words, “Dark Magic.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t think I caught what you just said, what was that about Dark Magic?”

“Just that some people would classify what you just did as Dark, although it is not officially labelled so.”

“I’m afraid my mind wandered a bit, why do people think it’s Dark? I mean, anyone from about a third-year up can cast a spell that will Transfigure someone’s hand into a paw of some kind.”

“I see that the excitement of success has distracted you, my dear. As I said a moment ago, it is not the effect of the Transfiguration,” Albus scratched the fur on the back of his paw, “it is the manner in which it is achieved. You forced an internal or essential Transfiguration upon another person – in a sense, you made my hand your own first, and then forced it to Transfigure itself from the inside out.”

“What? I didn’t feel as though I was forcing anything –” Minerva stammered.

“‘Force’ only in the sense of having my hand, the cells of my body, do something that is against their nature – rather like forcing crocus bulbs indoors. And as for the other sense of the word ‘force,’ you might be able to force such a Transfiguration on a Muggle against his will, but to do it on a conscious, aware wizard would require a great deal more power than you expended in your effort here – although I do notice you ate the last of the shortbread without any trouble!”

“So someone could force such a Transfiguration on someone else against their will only if they used much more magical energy than I did with your hand just now?”

“Yes, so you see that using an ordinary Transfiguration spell is a far easier way to turn your friend’s hand into a paw! Of course, doing that requires an incantation, and to perform it nonverbally would take practice. Speaking of turning a friend’s hand into a paw, do you suppose you could . . . ,” Albus said, gesturing at his paw with his right hand.

“Of course, sir!” Embarrassed that she hadn’t thought of it earlier, especially when he kept scratching his fur, Minerva picked up her wand, concentrated on his hand as a hand, prepared to cast, and then hesitated.

“Minerva?”

“I’m sorry, Professor, it’s just that I’m more nervous about this than I was about performing the Transfiguration in the first place. Supposing I do it wrong?”

“Don’t worry about it, just cast away – rest assured that my hand very much wants to be a hand again and will give you its full cooperation!”

Minerva didn’t even smile at that, but furrowed her brow in concentration and then cast as quickly and forcefully as she could, before she could become nervous again. This time there was a smooth transition as the fur rapidly disappeared, the fingers elongated, the palm widened, and his hand reappeared.

Albus flexed his fingers and said, “Very good, Minerva.”

“May I see? Is it really all right?”

“Yes, my dear, of course. And it certainly feels fine. In fact, I do believe my fingers feel more limber than usual.” Albus smiled at her.

Minerva took his hand and, in contrast to the painstaking examination she had performed before, simply held it, turned it over, then bent his fingers forward and back again. Letting go, she declared, “Well, at least you don’t seem any the worse for it! Was it as uncomfortable as the initial change?” she asked. “It looked like it went more smoothly.”

“No, it wasn’t; in fact, although such a thing always feels peculiar, particularly when the spell is cast by someone else, I barely noticed anything beyond a kind of odd stretching and rolling sensation. You did very well, indeed. I believe you will have greater success the next time you attempt it on your own hand. However, we have already missed lunch, and will miss the Quidditch game if we do any more at the moment. Perhaps we could meet tomorrow afternoon, just before dinner, and resume.”

Minerva readily agreed to this plan and left to join her friends and troop off to watch a very exciting, rather cut-throat, Quidditch match, which Ravenclaw won by only two points after their Seeker made a mad flight after the Snitch, catching it only seconds before crashing, ironically, into the Slytherin section of the stands. It was a clear win, however, and as unhappy as Slytherin House was at the loss, a couple of burly seventh-years pulled the hapless Seeker out by his ankles from the rather large hole he had created, and he was sent off to the hospital wing to be treated for concussion and who-knew-what-else.

Minerva was aglow from the excitement of the match, her success with the Transfiguration exercise, and the prospect of another tutorial with Professor Dumbledore the next day. After dinner – during which she spent more time than usual just talking with her friends, rehashing the game and debating the necessity of the Ravenclaw Seeker’s dive into the Slytherin stands, and hardly any time worrying about her project, or the wards, or whether she should have volunteered for an additional Prefect Patrol duty that evening – Minerva retired to bed early to reread Emergent Creature again. Minerva was as relaxed that evening as ever she had been, with not a clue that in just a matter of days, her internal peace would be shattered.