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fpb“What happens to the world, if all the heroes lose?”
(Jack Kirby – Captain America 211)
A private room in the Leaky Cauldron. Four people: Buffy Summers looking impatient, Rupert Giles looking unhappy, Willow Rosenberg looking rueful and thoughtful, and Alastor Moody looking attentive and – as ever – grim.
“Look, Giles, Willow, we are alone now. We have all the time in the world. Can you tell us what happened in Oxford?”
“Well…”
………………………………………………………………………………………………..
There are places in the world that live up to their reputation. That morning, twelve hours before Buffy asked her dramatic question, Giles had driven Willow to one: the magnificent university city of Oxford, a town which, in spite of the vulgarity of its commercial centres, has more places of breathtaking beauty than almost anywhere in England.
All the same, Oxford does not present its best face to those who come in from the west, as Giles and Willow did. Some nondescript modern suburbs shade off into a positively ugly industrial quarter where one of England’s most uninspired railway stations sits surrounded by car parks, where Giles left his vehicle. It is not until Hythe Bridge Street has led visitors across a picturesque canal bridge, that what the visitor expects begins to appear. And even so, it is in the apparently disappointing shape of Worcester College, which has a flat and boring front… which however conceals one of the finest sets of gardens and inner buildings in the city, perhaps in all of England. It was here that Willow began to see why people saw Oxford as something special.
It so happened that the interview with the Professor of Magic was scheduled for four o’clock. This gave Giles time – though, of course, not enough time – to show Willow around at least a little of the city. Increasingly wide-eyed and babble-prone, Willow was taken across Beaumont Street – where she was enchanted by the lovely yellow tint of the local stone, that made all the buildings look more elegant – to her prospective college, St.John’s. St.John’s is not one of the most beautiful Oxford colleges; but Willow did not know it yet, and was charmed almost beyond words by the outer and inner quad, the passageways, and the college’s own peculiar glory – the gardens designed by Capability Brown, where generations of romantic students have taken their lovers. She already envisaged kissing Buffy in the shadow of the bushes; and, by way of a road test, gave Giles a hearty kiss on the cheek.
But it was when they had a look at the library – Giles had permission; the librarian was an old friend – that Willow began to understand what Oxford was really all about. She had begun to understand that this was just one college, a small part of the overall university, with only a few hundred students. The first thing she thought was that it would have been just like one of the halls of residence at her old campus, UC Sunnydale, now destroyed; but the library turned out to be on a scale to make the whole University of California proud. She was astonished: every subject under the sun seemed to be covered, and the original editions and manuscripts alone must have been worth million of dollars – pounds – galleons, she corrected herself hastily. There were hundreds of ancient books, including a store of magical manuscripts that Willow would have given her left arm to read – “all in time, Willow; all in time,” Giles told her – and the most extraordinary amount of incunambula and manuscripts, including collections of autograph letters from nineteenth-century explorers and the originals of more than one famous writer.
“Giles, are all the other colleges like this?” she asked in disbelief.
“No,” he said, “but I would say all tend to have good libraries. It is one of the things that people do any time a new college is founded.” He was tempted to say, “That, and the college port,” but he stopped himself in time; he did not want to be found perpetrating ancient clichés. “But,” he carried on, “most of the really ancient and rich colleges really do have collections to die for.” Willow’s eyes lit up. “And then,” Giles started again after a second’s silence, “there is the Bod – the university library, the Bodleian. It is one of the four national libraries where a copy of every printed book in Britain must be sent, and its collections are simply fabulous. But then, you’ll see it yourself in a minute.”
And see it she did; and she understood why he had smiled to himself as he said it. The Bodleian lies on two sides of the Broad – Broad Street, one of the two axial streets of central Oxford, surrounded by Balliol, Trinity and Exeter colleges, and by the legendary Blackwell bookshops (though which Willow demanded a tour; and after getting an idea of what the largest one was like, she joked “Just leave me here and come back in a week with a couple of sandwiches.”). The New Bod, on the north side, is a dreary, jail-like erection, comfortable enough inside, but atrociously out of place among the architectural marvels of the area; but Duke Humphrey’s Library and the Radcliffe Camera, on the south side, are part of one of the greatest architectural spaces in the world. Passing either way of Christopher Wren’s magnificent Sheldonian Theatre (where she was soon to go through the ceremony of matriculation), you walk down Catte Street, with Hertford College, the School of History and, above all, the Bridge of Sighs, on one side, and Duke Humphrey’s Library on the other; and you come out on Radcliffe Square.
I do not know of any other space with such a miraculous quality: that, however full it may be of thronging students and bustling townsmen, it always leaves the impression of broad space, silence, and deep peace. There is a magic about it, different from any magic that Willow could learn: that a collection of buildings, beautiful enough in themselves, but built at different times and for different reasons, could so come together that the beauty that they created together was not a sum of their own individual beauties, but a multiplication. Where was the magic? Perhaps in the way that the central, round Radcliffe Camera dominated every other element of the square without dwarfing them; perhaps in the green, green turf that surrounded it; perhaps in the harmony of the Library to the north, Brasenose College to the west, St.Mary’s university church to the south, and the strange, almost hallucinatory Gothic of All Souls College to the east; perhaps in the fact that the buildings did not touch each other, leaving at each corner a sense of space in which to move and come and go. Whatever; Willow simply had never imagined before that such beauty was even possible. And she knew, at once and definitely, that in no other place in the world could she have studied magic better or more profitably.
……………………………………………………………………………………
One could go on: Willow had seen all of Oxford from Christ Church meadow, had walked under the Gothic arches of Merton College and on the cobblestones of Merton Street, through the pillars of Jesus and the enormous quad of Christchurch College, and in a half-dozen other places that people who have seen remember for ever. She had wanted to describe all of this, and to show Buffy the pictures of those breathtaking views, though Buffy did not understand the relevance. She was held by her friend’s description, enthralled by the images she conjured out of thin air by magic means, and delighted by mention of the gardens of St.John’s and their romantic atmosphere; but she had, in the end to interrupt, and ask where all of this was leading to.
Willow’s head hung slightly, and she answered: “I don’t know… because they’re such precious things, I suppose. And to show what we would lose if we decide to go back.”
“Go back? Who said anything about going back?”
“We did. Giles and I both. In the office of Professor Gombrich.”
……………………………………………………………………………………………
Richard F.Gombrich, John Dee Professor of Magic, was as unlike the idea of an Oxford don as possible, except perhaps for the deep and rather “fruity” voice. He was tall, large and comfortably rather than grossly overweight, with a broad, clean-shaven face that seemed to be always smiling. His eyes, behind thick unfashionable glasses, held a permanent twinkle that reminded Giles of Dumbledore at his most approachable – different though the two might be in every other way. He was clean-shaven where Dumbledore had a wizard’s full beard and long hair; his hair was short, curly and iron-grey. Even more than Dumbledore, everything about him suggested a cheerful informality, backed, however, by immense knowledge.
Willow had loved his office at once: it was dense with shelves and bookcases groaning under the weight of books and manuscripts in a dozen different scripts, most of which she did not even recognize. Bound series from the Pali Text Society fought for space with what she recognized with excitement as original Rosicrucian manuscripts. His desk had clearly just been cleared for the interview, but Willow needed no second sight to imagine it in its natural state – covered with papers and letters, books and manuscripts.
Alongside Professor Gombrich stood Dr.James Larson, a younger man who was much more like Willow’s idea of an academic. Red-haired, but with a carroty red rather than Willow’s auburn, he had well-trimmed beard and moustache and a pair of glasses. He was slim and middle-sized and wore the kind of donkey jacket and shirt she had seen so often among scholars, and jeans. His expression was serious where Professor Gombrich’s was jocular, and he had a distinct American accent that made her felt at home; but he shared in the informal tone that seemed to be the local style.
The first questions of the interview were designed to put her at her ease. She was encouraged to describe her own knowledge and experience. Her crimes were dealt with tactfully but not swept under the carpet, and she had a feeling that this man had a better understanding of the forces that drove her than many people would. Even better, the questions helped her to see her own growth as a witch in a different way: they provided a focus and a structure that let her see the great gaps in her education, and already to form plans for further study. She was beginning to be very keen to study with these people.
The interview came to an end, and Giles reappeared as if produced from a top hat. They adjourned to a suite in Balliol College and took tea with little biscuits, which Willow could not believe – five o’clock tea at Oxford!
“Well, it is rather a dead custom,” said Giles, “but it’s always good to have tea after any hard work – like an interview, you know.”
“Don’t disappoint the lady, Rupert,” said Professor Gombrich. “Of course she’s having five o’clock tea at Oxford, and we are delighted to have it with her. Suppose we just resurrected a few good old customs?” – which was said with such a twinkle in his eye that Willow nearly choked on her tea, struggling not to laugh. The conversation went on from there, cheerful, friendly, relaxed, and largely technical, with Willow delighted to be able to take an intelligent part; until Giles saying something about expecting that Willow and Buffy would do their bit against you-know-who.
At which point both Professor Gombrich and Dr.Larson looked thoroughly befuddled.
“Yes… I mean, of course, Buffy is the Slayer and Willow here has had plenty of experience of war magic…”
“No… look, Rupert, what did you mean about fighting you-know-who?”
“I… Voldemort, I suppose… I mean, of course.”
“He really doesn’t know, Richard.”
“I suppose you were somewhere with the Slayer at the time, Rupert, you can’t have heard. Voldemort is dead.”
Both Giles’ and Willow’s jaws literally dropped, and there were several seconds of total silence.
“He is dead. He was killed by Harry Potter last summer.”
“Oh my God… and I had Harry in my own home last night and chatted with him for two hours, and he never said a thing!”
………………………………………………………………………..
At this point Alastor Moody observed the sudden shock in Buffy’s face. “Were you meaning to come to England for this?” he asked.
“It… it was always at the back of our mind… I mean, we’d heard about Voldemort, lots of times – we just assumed that if we ever had to go to England, we’d have to fight him.” And Giles nodded.
Once again, Moody was impressed. Fighting Voldemort might have been an inevitable duty; but he could not imagine people who would, like her, take it in their stride, as no more than an effect of moving into Voldemort’s country, and discount it. He said as much.
“I don’t know that I ever underrated it,” answered the small American. “But after you’ve been beaten up by Glory, enslaved by some demon, and trashed by a mad preacher in a wine cellar, it just seems like the sort of thing you’re likely to do, you know? Go to England – fight the local Big Bad. Or even the Big Bad of Big Bads,” she added, seeing their expressions – evidently Voldemort had been a traumatic experience. “I just sort of expect someone to want to do a tap dance on me wherever I go.”
“By the way, Rupert,” said Moody, “you just said that you met Harry yesterday? Anything important?”
“Not really. We talked about personal matters.” And then, to Willow – “Harry is a legend in the wizarding world, Will – kind of like yourself.” And Moody kept the comment in his throat that Harry was a legend for saving the world, Willow for almost destroying it. She was, to him, a good bit closer to Voldemort than to Harry Potter.
………………………………………………………………………………………
In Oxford, Giles, Professor Gombrich and Willow had been trying to understand how such a large matter could have gone by them entirely. Giles had just met Harry, but – “I suppose he thought you’d heard…,” said Professor Gombrich; and Giles remembered that Harry had been entirely absorbed in thoughts of the woman he loved. There had been no opportunity even to speak of the war, present or past. Nor could he tell Harry’s business to the others; it was a private matter. He brought the subject back.
“So the war is over?”
“It is. I mean, there are still several Death Eaters at large, which the Aurors are hunting down… but organized resistance has ceased. They were only held together by him, you know.”
“The war is over…”
Giles said nothing for a few seconds. Then he got up in one jerk, looking angrier than Willow had ever seen him. He strode over to the small fireplace in a corner of the room and threw a handful of dust in it; then he shouted:
“CORNELIUS FUDGE! I want to talk to you and I want to talk to you now!”
After a few seconds’ delay, the Minister for Magic’s well-known head appeared in the fireplace, looking rather put out. Then he took in the scene of Giles, Professor Gombrich, Dr. Larson, and Willow, and his expression changed to one of understanding.
“Yes, Ripper? What can I do for you?”
“That’s Rupert to you, Cornelius. And I wanted to congratulate you on your sense of humour.”
“It has been congratulated before,” said the Minister complacently.
“Yes, but this is your best gag yet. Fancy not letting poor old Giles that the war is over, so that he’ll innocently convince his charges to get where Corny wants them and not know the reason why! Well, Cornelius? Why didn’t you tell me that the war is over?”
“Because it didn’t matter. You and your charges were still needed here.”
“And why? So that the Ministry can increase its firepower?”
“No… the other way round. You know, Rupert, sometimes the end of a war just brings out more sharply… other and completely separate problems… problems that need to be solved.”
“Your point being?”
“My point being that the Ministry has reached the conclusion that the incompetence of the American Ministry for Magic has become a liability that can no longer be borne. We have made a deal with the American Pentagon, who is our new referent in the United States, and we intend to abolish the American Ministry.”
“Oh my God…” Giles went pale and had to hold a chair for support, as the force of these remarks broke on him. Ministries for Magic are very different from Muggle political entities. They are overseen by a Wizangemot that underwrites nominations and decides on policy. In effect, they form autonomous oligarchies, which is why they are supremely difficult to reform. Indeed, when a Ministry has gone really bad, it is practically wizarding folklore that only violence can reform it.
So that was it. The English Ministry and the American Pentagon had decided on civil war to close down the American Ministry.
“And of course,” he said uncertainly, but with rising anger, “you want to get Buffy Summers and the strongest witch in the United States where you can control them.”
“I don’t want to control them; I don’t want the American Ministry to. This is technically illegal and…”
“Technically illegal. Corny, your a-funnin’ gets better and better. You talk about starting a war and call it technically illegal.”
“I am talking about restoring wizarding law and order in North America. I am talking about having a body in place that will not allow another Sunnydale situation… Look, Rupert, you know perfectly well that the American Ministry is nothing more than an inbred Boston conspiracy that does not even try to do its duty. On the other hand, at the Pentagon we have good people who actually do mean to keep law and order in America.”
Willow, who at this point was nearly as angry as Giles, strode forwards. “And what does this have to do with us? Why did you manipulate us and… and… lie to us?”
“Ah, Miss Rosenberg, Miss Willow Rosenberg. I am glad to make your acquaintance. You know, don’t you, that you are a kind of legend in the wizarding world?”
Giles was suddenly horrified to see that her pupils had grown huge and black, she was at one step from unleashing her power. She spoke in a low, deadly tone – “Bub, if you want to go down in legend yourself, just keep this up. Answer my question – why did you take us here and why did you lie to us?”
Behind Willow, unnoticed by her, Giles urgently gestured to Fudge to for God’s sake not anger her further; but Fudge needed no warning. The change in her face, all too visible to him, and the waves of power he could feel striking him like a hot wind, warned him that this woman, a living legend of terror, was at a pitch of anger he did not wish to raise. As a politician, however, Fudge was quite practised at meeting anger and calming disappointment. He answered in a firm but reasonable tone.
“I will answer your question, Miss Rosenberg, but it will take a certain amount of time. Will you give me the time?”
“All right,” she growled, “but start talking.”
“Until summer last year, Miss Rosenberg, we were involved in a major war in this country and much of Europe… one that would have affected America too, if we had lost.
“As it happened, rumours of Miss Summers’ activities started to circulate at the same time as the first shadows of renewed war. Once we had made up our minds to accept that there was a danger of war… it seemed all too obvious that we had to act on both fronts.
“Our original plan was to close the Hellmouth by force and take the Slayer to Britain as an ally. At that point, you understand, nobody particularly thought of you… nobody had any idea of your potential. If I’m not mistaken, you had only just started to consult Rupert’s books.”
“That would be five years ago?”
“Just about. Well, then something disastrous happened. I was put under the Imperius Curse… I’ll tell you the details later… and instructed to act in such a way as to discredit Harry Potter and hobble Albus Dumbledore. For two years the Ministry and myself were no more than a hindrance in the way of the necessary war effort, and once, thanks to a woman called Dolores Umbridge, we came pretty close to losing it without you-know-who having to bat an eyelid.”
“Dolores Umbridge?” Giles was stunned.
“You remember her, don’t you, Rupert? She’d climbed to a high position in the Ministry and become a complete menace in the process. No, she was on you-know-whose side… at least, so far as I know… but I suspect that, unless she’s found, she’ll probably become the next big threat.”
“Anyway, Miss Rosenberg, to get back to yourself. Of course, as soon as I was under the Curse, the plan to bring the Slayer to Britain and close the Hellmouth was dropped like a sack of hot potatoes. And dearly we paid for it later on… For four years, you were completely off the Ministry radar, and people who were rude enough to remind me of your existence were demoted or transferred to Timbuctoo.”
“What happened, however, was that even the Imperius Curse has its limits. When Lord Voldemort was unwise enough to show himself to hundreds of Ministry employees who were under no sort of curse, there was no way that I could continue to deny his existence or openly oppose his opponents. I had to publicly acknowledge his return and align myself to Dumbledore’s party. The only thing I could continue to do was to delay and weaken rearmament with a show of bumbling.”
Minister Fudge’s face, in the fire, was red with shame, and his words came more slowly and with a sense of pain. “I do not like to think how many lives I cost, or how much easier victory would have been, had I not been bewitched by the Curse. But in spite of all I could do, Harry Potter struck off Lord V-v-voldemort’s head one day in June last year. And once the sorcerer was dead, his spells fell; and I was free.”
“My first impulse was to make a public confession and resign. Well, I was allowed to make the public confession, but more or less forced to stay on. And the more I thought about it, the clearer it was that one thing had to be done. Let me tell you how I had been caught in the first place: I was on a diplomatic visit to the American Ministry, and I was abducted from my rooms by a Death Eater helped by a house-elf called Kreacher, who had escaped serious trouble in Britain. The Ministry had unsuspiciously taken him on as house-elf for the Ministry guesthouse, and I was not the only one who had been secretly abducted and returned under Imperius, thanks to him. Who would suspect the American Ministry’s own guest-house?”
“Not long after Voldemort’s fall, rumours of your… exploits… started circulating throughout the magical world. I had you investigated, and found, slightly to my surprise, that you were a friend of the Slayer’s and had actually learned some magic from Rupert here. I hardly remembered you from previous inquiries. But what struck me like a blow in the face was that this was another American Ministry failure.”
“Miss Rosenberg, a person of your qualities should have been identified as a child and offered a place in a wizarding school. That is pure basics; the ABC of the wizarding world, and one of the main reasons why Ministries exist in the first place. You had NOT been identified; you had grown alone, like a weed, and taken your learning where you could; and as a result, you had nearly destroyed the world. And as far as I am aware, you weren’t the only one – I know that you left on bad terms, but my Ministry is also currently taking care of Miss Amy Madison.”
“Great Goddess…” said Willow in astonishment.
“When I asked for an accounting, I was answered that they said that they could not identify you because the magical emanations from the Hellmouth were too strong and confusing. Stuff and nonsense. Anyone who wanted could have identified you… the demon D’Hoffryn, who tried so hard to recruit you, never seemed to have trouble tracking you down, did he?”
“You know about D’Hoffryn?”
“I spoke with him. Nice, civilized chat… you know what he’s like… and I told him that you were Ministry business and that he would do well to stop any plans he had for you if he did not want to face a full-scale Auror war.”
“And he answered…?”
“That he never interfered in others’ turf. Which is a lie, because that’s what he does all the time. But at least, I hope he got the message and that you will not be incommodated again.”
“Anyway, the Ministry could apologize for not noticing you, could apologize for not noticing Miss Madison, could apologize for not screening the traitor Kreacher; but not all three at once. ‘Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action’, they say. Do you want to know what this was really about? They did not test Kreacher because it does not occur to them that house-elves can be dangerous; and they did not look for you because they have a prejudice against California. They are arrogant old families from Boston, and they think that Californians are a bunch of pseuds and play-acting Muggles. The most powerful witch of their generation had arisen in Sunnydale and they just expected her to be a fake.”
“Not recognizing you had put the world in danger; not screening Kreacher had put the world in danger AND exposed others and me to the horrors and indignity of the Imperius. This was enough. For once, I was more pro-war than Dumbledore was.”
“There was an increasingly rancorous diplomatic correspondence between the Americans and us. I’m afraid I made my views all too clear, which was a mistake. They are expecting us. And it occurred to me that they still had in America the world’s most powerful young witch and the prime Slayer… yes, we know that the Slayer spell has been altered… but Miss Summers is unique, both in her experience and in her ability. She would be a mighty asset to any side in time of war. That Miss Summers destroyed the Hellmouth herself spared us another task we would otherwise have undertaken.”
“I decided to re-activate the plan, and contacted Rupert.” He looked at Giles. “He assumed that this was meant in aid of the war against Voldemort, and I decided not to explain. It made a convenient excuse, and did not expose us to the risk that the real reason should by any chance reach the American Ministry.”
Silence fell for a while, as the shadows lengthened over the spires and battlements outside. Willow was thinking; everybody else was so concerned about her reaction that they all but held their breath. Finally she spoke.
“So, mister, can you tell me of any reason why I should help you against our own people?”
“We do not ask you to help anyone, Miss Rosenberg. We ask you to stay here in peace, enjoy our beautiful country, and sit this war out.
“Besides, you know, it’s not a matter of British against Americans. What this is about is replacing one American authority with another. We’re just backing the Pentagon, that’s all.”
“And who gives you the authority? Those are our elected representatives you’re talking about, bub!”
“Our…? Rupert, have you taught her nothing about the wizarding world? Look, Miss Rosenberg, I have no time for a lesson in wizarding law, but I can assure you of one thing: the American Ministry is no more subject to election than we are. Muggle political concepts simply do not work among us.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Willow, visibly angrier. Then, to her surprise, Giles put his hand on her shoulder, clearly meaning for her to calm down.
“He is right, Willow. The idiots at the Boston Ministry are definitely not elected representatives.” Then, giving Fudge a dirty look, he added, “But it does not mean that we will not do exactly as she said and go back to America.”
“You will have to do it fast, then. The Pentagon handed their ultimatum to the Ministry two hours ago. Fighting has begun.”
(Jack Kirby – Captain America 211)
A private room in the Leaky Cauldron. Four people: Buffy Summers looking impatient, Rupert Giles looking unhappy, Willow Rosenberg looking rueful and thoughtful, and Alastor Moody looking attentive and – as ever – grim.
“Look, Giles, Willow, we are alone now. We have all the time in the world. Can you tell us what happened in Oxford?”
“Well…”
………………………………………………………………………………………………..
There are places in the world that live up to their reputation. That morning, twelve hours before Buffy asked her dramatic question, Giles had driven Willow to one: the magnificent university city of Oxford, a town which, in spite of the vulgarity of its commercial centres, has more places of breathtaking beauty than almost anywhere in England.
All the same, Oxford does not present its best face to those who come in from the west, as Giles and Willow did. Some nondescript modern suburbs shade off into a positively ugly industrial quarter where one of England’s most uninspired railway stations sits surrounded by car parks, where Giles left his vehicle. It is not until Hythe Bridge Street has led visitors across a picturesque canal bridge, that what the visitor expects begins to appear. And even so, it is in the apparently disappointing shape of Worcester College, which has a flat and boring front… which however conceals one of the finest sets of gardens and inner buildings in the city, perhaps in all of England. It was here that Willow began to see why people saw Oxford as something special.
It so happened that the interview with the Professor of Magic was scheduled for four o’clock. This gave Giles time – though, of course, not enough time – to show Willow around at least a little of the city. Increasingly wide-eyed and babble-prone, Willow was taken across Beaumont Street – where she was enchanted by the lovely yellow tint of the local stone, that made all the buildings look more elegant – to her prospective college, St.John’s. St.John’s is not one of the most beautiful Oxford colleges; but Willow did not know it yet, and was charmed almost beyond words by the outer and inner quad, the passageways, and the college’s own peculiar glory – the gardens designed by Capability Brown, where generations of romantic students have taken their lovers. She already envisaged kissing Buffy in the shadow of the bushes; and, by way of a road test, gave Giles a hearty kiss on the cheek.
But it was when they had a look at the library – Giles had permission; the librarian was an old friend – that Willow began to understand what Oxford was really all about. She had begun to understand that this was just one college, a small part of the overall university, with only a few hundred students. The first thing she thought was that it would have been just like one of the halls of residence at her old campus, UC Sunnydale, now destroyed; but the library turned out to be on a scale to make the whole University of California proud. She was astonished: every subject under the sun seemed to be covered, and the original editions and manuscripts alone must have been worth million of dollars – pounds – galleons, she corrected herself hastily. There were hundreds of ancient books, including a store of magical manuscripts that Willow would have given her left arm to read – “all in time, Willow; all in time,” Giles told her – and the most extraordinary amount of incunambula and manuscripts, including collections of autograph letters from nineteenth-century explorers and the originals of more than one famous writer.
“Giles, are all the other colleges like this?” she asked in disbelief.
“No,” he said, “but I would say all tend to have good libraries. It is one of the things that people do any time a new college is founded.” He was tempted to say, “That, and the college port,” but he stopped himself in time; he did not want to be found perpetrating ancient clichés. “But,” he carried on, “most of the really ancient and rich colleges really do have collections to die for.” Willow’s eyes lit up. “And then,” Giles started again after a second’s silence, “there is the Bod – the university library, the Bodleian. It is one of the four national libraries where a copy of every printed book in Britain must be sent, and its collections are simply fabulous. But then, you’ll see it yourself in a minute.”
And see it she did; and she understood why he had smiled to himself as he said it. The Bodleian lies on two sides of the Broad – Broad Street, one of the two axial streets of central Oxford, surrounded by Balliol, Trinity and Exeter colleges, and by the legendary Blackwell bookshops (though which Willow demanded a tour; and after getting an idea of what the largest one was like, she joked “Just leave me here and come back in a week with a couple of sandwiches.”). The New Bod, on the north side, is a dreary, jail-like erection, comfortable enough inside, but atrociously out of place among the architectural marvels of the area; but Duke Humphrey’s Library and the Radcliffe Camera, on the south side, are part of one of the greatest architectural spaces in the world. Passing either way of Christopher Wren’s magnificent Sheldonian Theatre (where she was soon to go through the ceremony of matriculation), you walk down Catte Street, with Hertford College, the School of History and, above all, the Bridge of Sighs, on one side, and Duke Humphrey’s Library on the other; and you come out on Radcliffe Square.
I do not know of any other space with such a miraculous quality: that, however full it may be of thronging students and bustling townsmen, it always leaves the impression of broad space, silence, and deep peace. There is a magic about it, different from any magic that Willow could learn: that a collection of buildings, beautiful enough in themselves, but built at different times and for different reasons, could so come together that the beauty that they created together was not a sum of their own individual beauties, but a multiplication. Where was the magic? Perhaps in the way that the central, round Radcliffe Camera dominated every other element of the square without dwarfing them; perhaps in the green, green turf that surrounded it; perhaps in the harmony of the Library to the north, Brasenose College to the west, St.Mary’s university church to the south, and the strange, almost hallucinatory Gothic of All Souls College to the east; perhaps in the fact that the buildings did not touch each other, leaving at each corner a sense of space in which to move and come and go. Whatever; Willow simply had never imagined before that such beauty was even possible. And she knew, at once and definitely, that in no other place in the world could she have studied magic better or more profitably.
……………………………………………………………………………………
One could go on: Willow had seen all of Oxford from Christ Church meadow, had walked under the Gothic arches of Merton College and on the cobblestones of Merton Street, through the pillars of Jesus and the enormous quad of Christchurch College, and in a half-dozen other places that people who have seen remember for ever. She had wanted to describe all of this, and to show Buffy the pictures of those breathtaking views, though Buffy did not understand the relevance. She was held by her friend’s description, enthralled by the images she conjured out of thin air by magic means, and delighted by mention of the gardens of St.John’s and their romantic atmosphere; but she had, in the end to interrupt, and ask where all of this was leading to.
Willow’s head hung slightly, and she answered: “I don’t know… because they’re such precious things, I suppose. And to show what we would lose if we decide to go back.”
“Go back? Who said anything about going back?”
“We did. Giles and I both. In the office of Professor Gombrich.”
……………………………………………………………………………………………
Richard F.Gombrich, John Dee Professor of Magic, was as unlike the idea of an Oxford don as possible, except perhaps for the deep and rather “fruity” voice. He was tall, large and comfortably rather than grossly overweight, with a broad, clean-shaven face that seemed to be always smiling. His eyes, behind thick unfashionable glasses, held a permanent twinkle that reminded Giles of Dumbledore at his most approachable – different though the two might be in every other way. He was clean-shaven where Dumbledore had a wizard’s full beard and long hair; his hair was short, curly and iron-grey. Even more than Dumbledore, everything about him suggested a cheerful informality, backed, however, by immense knowledge.
Willow had loved his office at once: it was dense with shelves and bookcases groaning under the weight of books and manuscripts in a dozen different scripts, most of which she did not even recognize. Bound series from the Pali Text Society fought for space with what she recognized with excitement as original Rosicrucian manuscripts. His desk had clearly just been cleared for the interview, but Willow needed no second sight to imagine it in its natural state – covered with papers and letters, books and manuscripts.
Alongside Professor Gombrich stood Dr.James Larson, a younger man who was much more like Willow’s idea of an academic. Red-haired, but with a carroty red rather than Willow’s auburn, he had well-trimmed beard and moustache and a pair of glasses. He was slim and middle-sized and wore the kind of donkey jacket and shirt she had seen so often among scholars, and jeans. His expression was serious where Professor Gombrich’s was jocular, and he had a distinct American accent that made her felt at home; but he shared in the informal tone that seemed to be the local style.
The first questions of the interview were designed to put her at her ease. She was encouraged to describe her own knowledge and experience. Her crimes were dealt with tactfully but not swept under the carpet, and she had a feeling that this man had a better understanding of the forces that drove her than many people would. Even better, the questions helped her to see her own growth as a witch in a different way: they provided a focus and a structure that let her see the great gaps in her education, and already to form plans for further study. She was beginning to be very keen to study with these people.
The interview came to an end, and Giles reappeared as if produced from a top hat. They adjourned to a suite in Balliol College and took tea with little biscuits, which Willow could not believe – five o’clock tea at Oxford!
“Well, it is rather a dead custom,” said Giles, “but it’s always good to have tea after any hard work – like an interview, you know.”
“Don’t disappoint the lady, Rupert,” said Professor Gombrich. “Of course she’s having five o’clock tea at Oxford, and we are delighted to have it with her. Suppose we just resurrected a few good old customs?” – which was said with such a twinkle in his eye that Willow nearly choked on her tea, struggling not to laugh. The conversation went on from there, cheerful, friendly, relaxed, and largely technical, with Willow delighted to be able to take an intelligent part; until Giles saying something about expecting that Willow and Buffy would do their bit against you-know-who.
At which point both Professor Gombrich and Dr.Larson looked thoroughly befuddled.
“Yes… I mean, of course, Buffy is the Slayer and Willow here has had plenty of experience of war magic…”
“No… look, Rupert, what did you mean about fighting you-know-who?”
“I… Voldemort, I suppose… I mean, of course.”
“He really doesn’t know, Richard.”
“I suppose you were somewhere with the Slayer at the time, Rupert, you can’t have heard. Voldemort is dead.”
Both Giles’ and Willow’s jaws literally dropped, and there were several seconds of total silence.
“He is dead. He was killed by Harry Potter last summer.”
“Oh my God… and I had Harry in my own home last night and chatted with him for two hours, and he never said a thing!”
………………………………………………………………………..
At this point Alastor Moody observed the sudden shock in Buffy’s face. “Were you meaning to come to England for this?” he asked.
“It… it was always at the back of our mind… I mean, we’d heard about Voldemort, lots of times – we just assumed that if we ever had to go to England, we’d have to fight him.” And Giles nodded.
Once again, Moody was impressed. Fighting Voldemort might have been an inevitable duty; but he could not imagine people who would, like her, take it in their stride, as no more than an effect of moving into Voldemort’s country, and discount it. He said as much.
“I don’t know that I ever underrated it,” answered the small American. “But after you’ve been beaten up by Glory, enslaved by some demon, and trashed by a mad preacher in a wine cellar, it just seems like the sort of thing you’re likely to do, you know? Go to England – fight the local Big Bad. Or even the Big Bad of Big Bads,” she added, seeing their expressions – evidently Voldemort had been a traumatic experience. “I just sort of expect someone to want to do a tap dance on me wherever I go.”
“By the way, Rupert,” said Moody, “you just said that you met Harry yesterday? Anything important?”
“Not really. We talked about personal matters.” And then, to Willow – “Harry is a legend in the wizarding world, Will – kind of like yourself.” And Moody kept the comment in his throat that Harry was a legend for saving the world, Willow for almost destroying it. She was, to him, a good bit closer to Voldemort than to Harry Potter.
………………………………………………………………………………………
In Oxford, Giles, Professor Gombrich and Willow had been trying to understand how such a large matter could have gone by them entirely. Giles had just met Harry, but – “I suppose he thought you’d heard…,” said Professor Gombrich; and Giles remembered that Harry had been entirely absorbed in thoughts of the woman he loved. There had been no opportunity even to speak of the war, present or past. Nor could he tell Harry’s business to the others; it was a private matter. He brought the subject back.
“So the war is over?”
“It is. I mean, there are still several Death Eaters at large, which the Aurors are hunting down… but organized resistance has ceased. They were only held together by him, you know.”
“The war is over…”
Giles said nothing for a few seconds. Then he got up in one jerk, looking angrier than Willow had ever seen him. He strode over to the small fireplace in a corner of the room and threw a handful of dust in it; then he shouted:
“CORNELIUS FUDGE! I want to talk to you and I want to talk to you now!”
After a few seconds’ delay, the Minister for Magic’s well-known head appeared in the fireplace, looking rather put out. Then he took in the scene of Giles, Professor Gombrich, Dr. Larson, and Willow, and his expression changed to one of understanding.
“Yes, Ripper? What can I do for you?”
“That’s Rupert to you, Cornelius. And I wanted to congratulate you on your sense of humour.”
“It has been congratulated before,” said the Minister complacently.
“Yes, but this is your best gag yet. Fancy not letting poor old Giles that the war is over, so that he’ll innocently convince his charges to get where Corny wants them and not know the reason why! Well, Cornelius? Why didn’t you tell me that the war is over?”
“Because it didn’t matter. You and your charges were still needed here.”
“And why? So that the Ministry can increase its firepower?”
“No… the other way round. You know, Rupert, sometimes the end of a war just brings out more sharply… other and completely separate problems… problems that need to be solved.”
“Your point being?”
“My point being that the Ministry has reached the conclusion that the incompetence of the American Ministry for Magic has become a liability that can no longer be borne. We have made a deal with the American Pentagon, who is our new referent in the United States, and we intend to abolish the American Ministry.”
“Oh my God…” Giles went pale and had to hold a chair for support, as the force of these remarks broke on him. Ministries for Magic are very different from Muggle political entities. They are overseen by a Wizangemot that underwrites nominations and decides on policy. In effect, they form autonomous oligarchies, which is why they are supremely difficult to reform. Indeed, when a Ministry has gone really bad, it is practically wizarding folklore that only violence can reform it.
So that was it. The English Ministry and the American Pentagon had decided on civil war to close down the American Ministry.
“And of course,” he said uncertainly, but with rising anger, “you want to get Buffy Summers and the strongest witch in the United States where you can control them.”
“I don’t want to control them; I don’t want the American Ministry to. This is technically illegal and…”
“Technically illegal. Corny, your a-funnin’ gets better and better. You talk about starting a war and call it technically illegal.”
“I am talking about restoring wizarding law and order in North America. I am talking about having a body in place that will not allow another Sunnydale situation… Look, Rupert, you know perfectly well that the American Ministry is nothing more than an inbred Boston conspiracy that does not even try to do its duty. On the other hand, at the Pentagon we have good people who actually do mean to keep law and order in America.”
Willow, who at this point was nearly as angry as Giles, strode forwards. “And what does this have to do with us? Why did you manipulate us and… and… lie to us?”
“Ah, Miss Rosenberg, Miss Willow Rosenberg. I am glad to make your acquaintance. You know, don’t you, that you are a kind of legend in the wizarding world?”
Giles was suddenly horrified to see that her pupils had grown huge and black, she was at one step from unleashing her power. She spoke in a low, deadly tone – “Bub, if you want to go down in legend yourself, just keep this up. Answer my question – why did you take us here and why did you lie to us?”
Behind Willow, unnoticed by her, Giles urgently gestured to Fudge to for God’s sake not anger her further; but Fudge needed no warning. The change in her face, all too visible to him, and the waves of power he could feel striking him like a hot wind, warned him that this woman, a living legend of terror, was at a pitch of anger he did not wish to raise. As a politician, however, Fudge was quite practised at meeting anger and calming disappointment. He answered in a firm but reasonable tone.
“I will answer your question, Miss Rosenberg, but it will take a certain amount of time. Will you give me the time?”
“All right,” she growled, “but start talking.”
“Until summer last year, Miss Rosenberg, we were involved in a major war in this country and much of Europe… one that would have affected America too, if we had lost.
“As it happened, rumours of Miss Summers’ activities started to circulate at the same time as the first shadows of renewed war. Once we had made up our minds to accept that there was a danger of war… it seemed all too obvious that we had to act on both fronts.
“Our original plan was to close the Hellmouth by force and take the Slayer to Britain as an ally. At that point, you understand, nobody particularly thought of you… nobody had any idea of your potential. If I’m not mistaken, you had only just started to consult Rupert’s books.”
“That would be five years ago?”
“Just about. Well, then something disastrous happened. I was put under the Imperius Curse… I’ll tell you the details later… and instructed to act in such a way as to discredit Harry Potter and hobble Albus Dumbledore. For two years the Ministry and myself were no more than a hindrance in the way of the necessary war effort, and once, thanks to a woman called Dolores Umbridge, we came pretty close to losing it without you-know-who having to bat an eyelid.”
“Dolores Umbridge?” Giles was stunned.
“You remember her, don’t you, Rupert? She’d climbed to a high position in the Ministry and become a complete menace in the process. No, she was on you-know-whose side… at least, so far as I know… but I suspect that, unless she’s found, she’ll probably become the next big threat.”
“Anyway, Miss Rosenberg, to get back to yourself. Of course, as soon as I was under the Curse, the plan to bring the Slayer to Britain and close the Hellmouth was dropped like a sack of hot potatoes. And dearly we paid for it later on… For four years, you were completely off the Ministry radar, and people who were rude enough to remind me of your existence were demoted or transferred to Timbuctoo.”
“What happened, however, was that even the Imperius Curse has its limits. When Lord Voldemort was unwise enough to show himself to hundreds of Ministry employees who were under no sort of curse, there was no way that I could continue to deny his existence or openly oppose his opponents. I had to publicly acknowledge his return and align myself to Dumbledore’s party. The only thing I could continue to do was to delay and weaken rearmament with a show of bumbling.”
Minister Fudge’s face, in the fire, was red with shame, and his words came more slowly and with a sense of pain. “I do not like to think how many lives I cost, or how much easier victory would have been, had I not been bewitched by the Curse. But in spite of all I could do, Harry Potter struck off Lord V-v-voldemort’s head one day in June last year. And once the sorcerer was dead, his spells fell; and I was free.”
“My first impulse was to make a public confession and resign. Well, I was allowed to make the public confession, but more or less forced to stay on. And the more I thought about it, the clearer it was that one thing had to be done. Let me tell you how I had been caught in the first place: I was on a diplomatic visit to the American Ministry, and I was abducted from my rooms by a Death Eater helped by a house-elf called Kreacher, who had escaped serious trouble in Britain. The Ministry had unsuspiciously taken him on as house-elf for the Ministry guesthouse, and I was not the only one who had been secretly abducted and returned under Imperius, thanks to him. Who would suspect the American Ministry’s own guest-house?”
“Not long after Voldemort’s fall, rumours of your… exploits… started circulating throughout the magical world. I had you investigated, and found, slightly to my surprise, that you were a friend of the Slayer’s and had actually learned some magic from Rupert here. I hardly remembered you from previous inquiries. But what struck me like a blow in the face was that this was another American Ministry failure.”
“Miss Rosenberg, a person of your qualities should have been identified as a child and offered a place in a wizarding school. That is pure basics; the ABC of the wizarding world, and one of the main reasons why Ministries exist in the first place. You had NOT been identified; you had grown alone, like a weed, and taken your learning where you could; and as a result, you had nearly destroyed the world. And as far as I am aware, you weren’t the only one – I know that you left on bad terms, but my Ministry is also currently taking care of Miss Amy Madison.”
“Great Goddess…” said Willow in astonishment.
“When I asked for an accounting, I was answered that they said that they could not identify you because the magical emanations from the Hellmouth were too strong and confusing. Stuff and nonsense. Anyone who wanted could have identified you… the demon D’Hoffryn, who tried so hard to recruit you, never seemed to have trouble tracking you down, did he?”
“You know about D’Hoffryn?”
“I spoke with him. Nice, civilized chat… you know what he’s like… and I told him that you were Ministry business and that he would do well to stop any plans he had for you if he did not want to face a full-scale Auror war.”
“And he answered…?”
“That he never interfered in others’ turf. Which is a lie, because that’s what he does all the time. But at least, I hope he got the message and that you will not be incommodated again.”
“Anyway, the Ministry could apologize for not noticing you, could apologize for not noticing Miss Madison, could apologize for not screening the traitor Kreacher; but not all three at once. ‘Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action’, they say. Do you want to know what this was really about? They did not test Kreacher because it does not occur to them that house-elves can be dangerous; and they did not look for you because they have a prejudice against California. They are arrogant old families from Boston, and they think that Californians are a bunch of pseuds and play-acting Muggles. The most powerful witch of their generation had arisen in Sunnydale and they just expected her to be a fake.”
“Not recognizing you had put the world in danger; not screening Kreacher had put the world in danger AND exposed others and me to the horrors and indignity of the Imperius. This was enough. For once, I was more pro-war than Dumbledore was.”
“There was an increasingly rancorous diplomatic correspondence between the Americans and us. I’m afraid I made my views all too clear, which was a mistake. They are expecting us. And it occurred to me that they still had in America the world’s most powerful young witch and the prime Slayer… yes, we know that the Slayer spell has been altered… but Miss Summers is unique, both in her experience and in her ability. She would be a mighty asset to any side in time of war. That Miss Summers destroyed the Hellmouth herself spared us another task we would otherwise have undertaken.”
“I decided to re-activate the plan, and contacted Rupert.” He looked at Giles. “He assumed that this was meant in aid of the war against Voldemort, and I decided not to explain. It made a convenient excuse, and did not expose us to the risk that the real reason should by any chance reach the American Ministry.”
Silence fell for a while, as the shadows lengthened over the spires and battlements outside. Willow was thinking; everybody else was so concerned about her reaction that they all but held their breath. Finally she spoke.
“So, mister, can you tell me of any reason why I should help you against our own people?”
“We do not ask you to help anyone, Miss Rosenberg. We ask you to stay here in peace, enjoy our beautiful country, and sit this war out.
“Besides, you know, it’s not a matter of British against Americans. What this is about is replacing one American authority with another. We’re just backing the Pentagon, that’s all.”
“And who gives you the authority? Those are our elected representatives you’re talking about, bub!”
“Our…? Rupert, have you taught her nothing about the wizarding world? Look, Miss Rosenberg, I have no time for a lesson in wizarding law, but I can assure you of one thing: the American Ministry is no more subject to election than we are. Muggle political concepts simply do not work among us.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Willow, visibly angrier. Then, to her surprise, Giles put his hand on her shoulder, clearly meaning for her to calm down.
“He is right, Willow. The idiots at the Boston Ministry are definitely not elected representatives.” Then, giving Fudge a dirty look, he added, “But it does not mean that we will not do exactly as she said and go back to America.”
“You will have to do it fast, then. The Pentagon handed their ultimatum to the Ministry two hours ago. Fighting has begun.”
