DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. James Bond, 007 and all related characters were created by Ian Fleming. Dr. Who and related characters are the property of the BBC. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
(Author's notes: Thanks as always to Haggridd and CLS for keeping me on the straight and narrow path to better grammar and punctuation)
The Morning After the Night Before
Chapter Two
"The 'Double 0' and The Doctor"
"Go up and spy out the land…" Joshua 7:2
The driver of the Aston Martin let out a disgusted grunt as he answered his mobile phone.
"Did the girl spot you?" The woman's voice tried to sound playful, but it was tinged with concern.
"I don't think they saw me this time, but I can't be sure." He opened and closed the driver's door for what must have been the twentieth time. "I still don't understand why the door flew open like that. It's never done that before."
"I'll have Q take a look at it in the morning," the woman said in an infuriating "Mummy'll kiss it and make it all better" tone of voice. "This isn't the first time that you've been warned about the car, you know. You have to admit it's a bit conspicuous for our line of work."
"I suppose the boss would prefer me rattling around in an old Morris Minor with no heating and the windscreen missing."
"Had you been in one, the person you were supposed to have been shadowing wouldn't have walked right up to have a look at it," the woman chided him.
"There was nothing in the briefing about the boy's being a car buff," he said defensively, "or, for that matter, that we frequent the same haberdashers. I was afraid one of the tailors at Demi Major was going to blow my cover while I was watching them shop-and you don't have to remind me that I've been warned about the clothes as well! A certain standard in dress is necessary for a gentleman."
"Part of the job is to avoid attracting undue attention. Remember?"
"Really? Well I wish you would point out exactly where in my job description it says that I have to play chaperone to a couple of overheated adolescents? I feel like a bloody 'Peeping Tom'." He shook his head. "Where do those two get their energy…"
"Do I detect a touch of envy, James?" the woman teased.
"Youthful enthusiasm is a wonderful thing, but there's something to be said for experience."
"Yes," the woman said with a giggle, "and that something is spelled 'O.L.D.'."
"If I'm old, what does that make you, darling?"
"Just reaching my sexual peak, darling-not that you'd have noticed. Anyway, you're hardly the one to lecture children on abstinence."
"I'm not being a prude," he protested. "I may have more than my share of vices, but voyeurism is not among them. Just because I enjoy the occasional round of golf doesn't mean that I have any great desire to watch other people play-particularly when they're amateurs."
"Maybe you should give them some pointers. I'm sure you could help them score better."
"You're just jealous because M never let you play a round with me."
"I simply don't want the two of you going 'out of bounds'," said a new voice, this one cold and authoritative. "Make your report, 007-that is, if you've quite finished bantering with Miss Moneypenny."
"They're having their fortunes told by the manager of The Griffin's Door. Don't worry, I'm getting it all on tape." He turned up the volume. A parabolic microphone concealed in the Aston Martin's side-view mirror picked up every word that was spoken inside.
"…You will influence the destiny of all mankind, but only those closest to you will know the full measure of your greatness. Your armies will be invisible-both your victories and your defeats will be hidden in shadow. The downtrodden and the oppressed will bless you without ever knowing your name…"
"What absolute rubbish," said M derisively. "Do we have anything on the manager-what was her name-Weasley? Or is it Lupin?"
"There's nothing in our files," Miss Moneypenny reported. "She has no criminal record, no ties to organized crime. No known terrorist connections."
"Another desperate criminal," 007 groused. "Are there no international drug dealers I could be rounding up-no mad scientist plotting to destroy the world? Does Her Majesty's Secret Service really have nothing better for me to do than watch two randy teenagers sweating up the sheets?"
"'Ours is not to question why', 007," M said tersely. "Whitehall seems to think it important." Her tone suggested that she was just as irritated about the situation as he was. "It's classified even beyond my level. Maintain surveillance and continue regular reports."
An urgent message from 002 apparently caused M to leave the Situation Room back at Headquarters. 007 waited until Moneypenny gave him the 'all-clear' before he spoke again.
"Regular reports," he bristled. "These should make for fascinating reading when I write my memoirs. 'Eight-thirty p.m.: subjects ordered shepherd's pie with treacle tart for afters; nine o'clock: went back to hotel for another snogging session.' That should put the readers on the edge of their seats. I could always report that I've spotted a police box in Soho. I could have sworn they got rid of those things ages ago…"
He turned up the volume again.
"I'm Molly, by the way. You must be Harry and Hermione."
"The cards told you our names too?"
"Ron rang up to say you were coming."
"We didn't tell him we were coming here tonight," Hermione said suspiciously.
"You didn't have to, luv. You two would have sought me out sooner or later. It's destiny, isn't it? For you see, I know exactly who and what you are."
Molly reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a magic wand. The handle was worn and the shaft was nicked and dented from years of hard use. It appeared to be a good, serviceable design, but to Hermione's eye it lacked the high degree of craftsmanship generally found in an Ollivanders® wand. Molly waved it at the shop window. "Braccae tuae aperiuntur." She leaned in to speak confidentially. "You do realize that you're being followed?"
"It becomes an instinct," Hermione pulled out her own wand. "Allow me. This silencing charm is slightly more effective on electronic equipment. Fac ut gaudeam."
"The Aston Martin," said Harry, feeling a complete tit.
For some reason, the microphone in the Aston Martin's side mirror chose that particular moment to go dead. While 007 was fiddling with the controls, trying to figure out the problem, he did not notice as the doors of the police box opened and two peculiar-looking figures stepped out and walked across the street to The Griffin's Door.
"I have magical knowledge that's been passed down from mother to daughter for centuries," Molly said, "but from what Ron tells me, your skills are far more advanced than mine. What exactly are you looking for?"
"Others of our kind," Hermione told her. "No one wants to feel alone." Her hand sought out Harry's and their fingers intertwined. "Where I come from, there was an entire magical civilization which existed side-by-side with the Muggle world." Hermione waved her wand over Molly's Tarot cards. She turned the first card over to reveal a picture of witches and wizards bustling through the streets of Diagon Alley. She then began describing Hogwarts.
"A school for young witches and wizards!" Molly was almost giddy at the idea. "If only I'd had something like that-as much for my children as for me!"
"It could happen here," Hermione said, "if you help us."
The shop bell rang again. They turned at the sound to see a man and woman enter. Tall, loose-limbed and gangly, the man cut quite a curious figure. Hands stuffed into his pockets, his head slouched forward when he walked, as though led by his large, beak-like proboscis. He was dressed in a long red velvet coat, a tartan waistcoat, baggy brown trousers, buccaneer boots and a ridiculously long multicolored scarf, which wound around his neck like a hand-knitted boa constrictor. A floppy, wide-brimmed soft felt hat was crushed onto an explosion of brown curls.
The young woman with him was much shorter, barely coming up to his shoulders. She had the lean sinewy body of a dancer or a gymnast. Her clothes, a simple low-cut sleeveless tunic with a very short skirt (or maybe it was a loincloth) and boots, were stitched together out of tanned animal skins. In combination with her own deeply tanned skin, her shoulder-length dark brown hair and her dark eyes, the effect was that of a watercolor painted only in earth tones.
Her face was rather plain, (she wore no make up), but not unattractive, yet there was something disconcerting about her eyes-the way they continually darted back and forth like an animal on the watch for predators. No, Hermione corrected herself, she is the predator. Her look was almost feral. Her right hand kept traveling to an empty leather sheath hanging from her belt. It contained no knife at the moment-and the girl didn't seem the least bit happy about it.
As they were about to come in, they were accosted by an earnest young woman in her twenties carrying a stack of leaflets. Molly recognized her as one of the local animal rights activists.
"Miss? Do you have any idea how many animals had to die to make the clothes that you're wearing?"
"Of course I do." The feral girl cocked her head as if the question were totally absurd. "I killed them myself." She lifted up a section of her skirt. "This was from a deer that I brought down with a single arrow through the heart. Of course, the difficult bit was the skinning. " She began to pantomime slicing the animal open.
As the lady with the leaflets lost most of the color from her cheeks, the tall, curly-haired man walked over to the counter and inserted himself between Harry and Hermione to speak to Molly.
"We'd like two orders of fish and chips and a small pot of tea, please."
"Certainly, sir." The man paid with some very old coins and Molly stuck her head through the kitchen door. "Ginny! Two fish and chips and a pot of tea!"
The curly-haired man abruptly turned to Hermione.
"You're not from another dimension, by any chance?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"A dangerous business, dimension hopping," the man said. "Any number of things can be knocked off-kilter if one isn't careful."
"What makes you think she's from another dimension?" Harry asked, standing. The strange man towered over him, but that wasn't going to deter Harry if Hermione were threatened.
The man tilted his head, apparently puzzled by Harry's reaction. "Did I say that? I was simply making idle conversation." From behind them came a strangled, choking sound as if someone were about to lose their lunch. "Excuse me a moment." He then lifted his hat and flashed a grin that would have been the envy of Alice's Cheshire cat. Hermione was amazed that so many teeth could fit into a single mouth, yet the effect was neither grotesque nor unpleasant. He walked over to where his companion was still assailing the leaflet lady with tales of slaughtering wildlife. "Trust me," he said into her ear. "You don't want to hear about the boots." He politely took a leaflet and stuffed it into one of the pockets of his jacket. The leaflet lady quickly excused herself and headed for parts unknown.
The feral girl could only shake her head. "I thought she wanted advice on tanning animal skins."
"I think she heard everything she needed to hear." The tall man grabbed the floppy hat from his head and hung it on a hook by the door, keeping his coat and his ridiculous scarf.
"Would you like anything else with your order, sir?" Molly was ready with her order pad.
"Make the tea medium sweet, no lemon." He nodded to his companion. "You don't have any raw meat, by any chance?"
"Doctor!" the feral girl said, slightly offended. "I'm not a savage, you know!" She turned to Molly. "I shall have a cup of tea as well, thank you very much." The way she said it suggested that the girl had been practicing for ages for this particular moment. Harry and Hermione were particularly amused at the way the girl made a point of extending her little finger as she sipped her tea. The man she called "Doctor" smiled indulgently like a proud father.
In the meantime, Harry ordered the corned beef hash while Hermione opted for the lentil soup. For a long time everyone ate their meals in silence, occasionally stealing curious glances at each other.
As the Doctor and the feral girl were looking over the dessert menu, a young man walked into the shop.
"What can I get you, dearie?" A look of recognition spread across Molly's face. "Marcus?"
"I'm really sorry, Molly." The young man appeared very agitated. His skin was pale and there were dark circles under his eyes. His face was beaded with perspiration. His clothes were torn and ragged and looked as if they hadn't been washed in weeks. One hand never left the pocket of his dirty camouflage jacket. "Nobody try anything funny. Just give me all the money in the till and nobody gets hurt!"
Hermione's hand edged to her purse where she kept her wand.
Harry and the Doctor both looked at each other, each wondering what the other was going to do.
"He is a thief, isn't he, Doctor?" the feral girl said as if she'd just been given a Christmas present.
"What?" The young man pointed his jacket at her.
"You are a thief," the woman said with an unnerving smile. "You wish to steal money from this nice old woman who was kind enough to prepare this meal for us."
Molly was about to object to the word "old" when Hermione held up a hand.
"That's right," the young hoodlum was starting to tremble. "I'll shoot anyone who tries to be a hero."
The woman looked over at the Doctor as if to ask permission for what she was about to do.
"Remember, Leela," the Doctor said, "he is a thief, not a warrior-and he's not well by the look of him."
"I will not do any permanent damage, Doctor," the woman assured him.
"What's she goin' on about?" the young man asked.
James Bond rolled down the window of the Aston Martin, drew his Walther PPK from its holster and carefully took aim at the would-be thief. Once again, he was risking discovery, but if this Harry Potter character and his girlfriend were that important, it was a safe bet that Whitehall would prefer that they remain alive.
His finger tightened around the trigger.
Leela suddenly sprang like a panther, knocking the interloper to the ground. The young man quickly scampered into the nearest corner, cowering in terror as she clawed at him like an animal. His hand came out of his pocket, exposing to all that he had been bluffing about having a gun.
"Keep her away from me!" he whimpered. "She's crazy!"
"LEELA!" Like a well-trained attack dog, at the Doctor's command, Leela ceased her onslaught. As Molly reluctantly phoned the police, Hermione and the Doctor checked the would-be thief for weapons and injuries. The many needle tracks on his arm told them all they needed to know.
"That was very brave, but very dangerous," Hermione said to Leela. "He could just as easily have had a real gun."
"I would have smelled the oil and the gunpowder," Leela said dismissively. "Apart from urine and alcohol, the only thing I could smell from this pathetic creature was his fear." She gave him a kick in the side to show her disgust.
"Have a bit of compassion, my dear," Molly said as she brought the young man a bowl of soup. "Most of Marcus's troubles are of his own making, but he's not had an easy time of it." In her heart she knew that he had to be punished for what he had done, but she couldn't help hoping that somehow Marcus Flint's life might still be turned around-perhaps this time the authorities would find room for him in a drug treatment program.
"I'm sorry, Molly," the young man sobbed. "I needed the money."
"I know, luv," she said soothingly.
Bond's trigger finger relaxed. He slowly let out the breath he was holding and replaced the Walther in its holster. The strange girl in the leather togs had spared him the wrath of his superiors, but she had no idea how close to death she herself had come. Anyone but 007 would have been startled by her unexpected attack and pulled the trigger anyway.
"You two just seem to attract trouble," Ron Weasley said to Harry and Hermione. He had arrived at The Griffin's Door shortly after the police, who were currently trying to get a statement out of the strange man with the floppy hat and the long scarf.
"…you see I discovered that the name of Leela's tribe, the 'Sevateem' was a corruption of 'Survey Team', and that they were in fact descended from a spaceship survey team who were exploring the planet as a prelude to colonization. Now their enemies, the 'Tesh' or 'Technicians' had remained behind to tend the ship. It turned out that the ship's computer, Xoanon was actually conducting an experiment in selective breeding-one group totally devoted to physical courage and strength, the other to cultivating their mental powers-"
"All very interesting, I'm sure, sir," said the exasperated constable, "but if we could concentrate on the matter at hand."
"Actually, it's quite germane to the matter at hand," the Doctor insisted. "You see, it all started just after my fourth regeneration." He reached into the pocket of his velvet coat and pulled out a small paper bag full of sweets, offering it to the constable. "Would you like a jelly-baby?"
In the meantime, Ron had discovered Leela. He had never seen anyone quite like this strange savage girl and she had certainly never seen anyone quite like Ronald Weasley. He was more than happy to let her run her fingers through his bright red hair and examine his numerous freckles.
"So," Ron said, trying to keep the conversation going, "what brings you to London?"
"The Doctor's TARDIS."
"Really?" He was too busy looking at her cleavage to be bothered to ask what a TARDIS was.
"Can you keep a secret?" the girl whispered. Ron nodded. She beckoned him closer with her finger. "We're on a mission for the Time Lords. Some terrible creature has broken through the 'demented barrier'-at least I think that's what the Doctor called it."
Ron shook his head sadly. She might have been cute, but she was also completely bonkers.
* * * * * *
The words "Privet Drive" on the street sign meant nothing to the creature. That it could derive no energy from eating them was all that was important. So far, this place had yielded little in the way of food. The angry, yapping quadrupeds it had encountered wandering the area had hardly satisfied its enormous appetite. Perhaps the elusive bipeds would provide more sustenance but they appeared to be most active under the blazing light of their accursed yellow sun-and only rarely would one venture out into the darkness alone.
"Take out the garbage! Trim the privet! Look after the bacon!" Dudley Dursley muttered bitterly under his breath. It's all your fault, Harry Potter! While you're off snogging yourself senseless with that little tart of yours, I'm turning into a slave! Dudley dropped the sack into one of the big metal dustbins sitting behind the house, and then gave it a kick for good measure. Next thing you know they'll have me washing the dishes!
It was the injustice of it all that really galled him. I get the brains, the devilish good looks and the roguish charm and it's Potter who ends up with a girlfriend-and not only that, but he's-she's-they're-and in my bloody sleeping bag, too! The nerve!
An owl hooted in the night, causing Dudley to jump. The bird gazed down at him from its perch in the big tree near his bedroom window with what Dudley took to be a look of mocking amusement. Its pure white feathers made the owl an inviting target for Dudley's resentment. He picked up a rock from the path and hurled it at the bird, who simply scooted to one side. The rock whizzed past right him and into Dudley's window, shattering the glass.
"What in blazes is going on out there?" Vernon roared from his recliner in the sitting room.
"Nothing Dad--!" He grimaced. That broken window certainly wasn't "nothing". Dudley was sure that he was going to be skinned alive. "'Ere!" He suddenly shouted at nothing in particular. "What's your game, then? Did you break that window?" He ran to the back fence, pretending to be chasing someone. "Come back here you vandals!"
The owl slowly shook its head. Dudley was sure that it was smiling at him.
Vernon Dursley appeared at the back door, breathing hard from the exertion of running the twenty feet from the sitting room. "What's happening, boy?"
"I think it was just some kids, Dad," Dudley lied. "One of them threw a rock at my window."
"It wasn't that little wretch Potter, was it?" Vernon growled suspiciously.
It would have been a perfect opportunity to get his cousin in deeper trouble, but a small twinge of conscience made Dudley hesitate. "I didn't get a very good look, I'm afraid."
"It's just as well," his father snarled. "We'd have made him sorry he was ever born, eh, son?" Muttering curses to himself, Vernon Dursley went back inside to find a sheet of plastic to cover the shattered window. "You'd think money grew on trees the way some people…"
As Dudley let out a sigh of relief and started back toward the house, there was a rustling in the bushes.
"Who's there?" He could see nothing in the darkness between the street lamps, but somewhere, perhaps in the most primitive reptilian area of his tiny brain, Dudley could sense it. He was sure that something was out there-something big and mean and horrible-and it was moving toward him. He could hear the creature's labored breathing as it advanced on him. Dudley backed toward the house, not even bothering to turn around. That was when he backed into the dustbins.
As he lay there surrounded by refuse, his joints and his head throbbing from the impact with the ground and the bins, the snow-white owl who seemed to take such pleasure in harassing him earlier landed on the garden shed. Dudley could see the smug look on its feathered visage. He could almost hear the bird saying, Idiot.
Dudley Dursley had never been a particularly religious person-he went through the motions when required only to placate his mother-but now he was praying with a fervor that he had never know before. "Uh-'Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake-' Forget that!"
A hideous black shadow oozed into view, blotting out the light from the streetlamp. It slowly formed into the shape of a man wearing a long robe with a black hood that covered his face. Just before Dudley passed out completely, he could have sworn that the strange figure pulled its hood down, revealing a face-his own.
* * * * * *
Upon receiving 007's report, M had the descriptions of the curly-haired man and the feral girl checked against the MI-6 database. There was no information about the woman on file with Interpol, with the CIA or with the other intelligence agencies. The curly-haired man's file consisted of a single acronym: U.N.I.T. Only M understood what it meant.
Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart (ret.) had been enjoying a quiet evening with his wife Doris when the government helicopter landed on the back garden of their Devonshire home. Mrs. Lethbridge-Stewart became nearly apoplectic, not only at the damage to their flower beds, but also because her husband had long ago promised her that his "blood and thunder days" were behind him.
"Just remember that you're the one who gets to re-plant the begonias when you get back," she said, trying not to let him see her genuine concern.
About an hour and a half later, M was waiting as the helicopter landed on the roof of Secret Service HQ. She extended her hand. "Brigadier."
"It's been a very long time since anyone addressed me by that title," Lethbridge-Stewart said wistfully. "These days I'm simply a mathematics teacher at Brendon School." In spite of his obviously arthritic joints, the old man stood straight and tall. His salt and pepper hair and his dark black mustache were immaculately trimmed. Even dressed in a comfortable old cardigan and rumpled trousers, he still had the air of a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed. The only things missing were his hat and a swagger stick under his arm.
"You were the regional commander of United Nations Intelligence Task-Force before you retired." As they entered her office, M motioned her guest to a chair and then sat down behind her desk. "I'm afraid I don't know much about UNIT operations."
"That's not surprising," the Brigadier said with an enigmatic smile. "Suffice it to say," he tried to choose his words carefully, "we dealt chiefly with 'non-terrestrial' threats."
"Aliens?" There was more than a little skepticism in her voice.
"What exactly can I do for Her Majesty's Secret Service?"
"We need some information about a man who may have been one of your people." She handed him a stack of photographs. "I believe he was your scientific advisor at one time."
"The Doctor?" The Brigadier shook his head. Just when I think I've heard that name for the last time… He leafed through the photos. On the surface, each one appeared to be of a different person: a silver-haired old gent with a severe face, dressed in a long black Edwardian coat; a short troll of a man with an unruly mop of black hair in a bowl cut and a suit that looked as though he had slept in it; a tall, elegant fellow in a velvet jacket and cape with a large mane of white hair and a prominent hawkish nose; a rumpled Bohemian with a mass of brown curls, a gigantic toothy grin and a long, multicolored scarf; a young man in his late twenties with wispy blonde hair and a boyish grin, dressed in a yellow-striped cricketer's jacket with a stalk of celery pinned to the lapel; and so on. The Brigadier tried not to smirk, knowing exactly what M's next question would be.
"I'm afraid that the file we managed to acquire from UNIT HQ in Geneva is a bit vague," she said.
"Exactly which one of those men is the Doctor?"
"All of them." The Brigadier handed back the photos, enjoying M's perplexed expression.
"The Doctor has changed his appearance several times since I've known him. In fact, there are a few faces that
you've missed."
She handed him the photo of the Bohemian with the toothy grin and the long scarf, "But you're sure that this man is definitely the Doctor?"
"Absolutely. Mind you, I haven't seen that particular face since the late seventies-the business with the Loch Ness Monster." He almost wanted to laugh at the skeptical way the head of Her Majesty's Secret Service was regarding him. "Yes, that is definitely the Doctor."
"I seem to recall that the fellow had a bit of a problem with authority."
As they were speaking, they came to notice a strange apparition standing in the office doorway. He was dressed as a gentleman. His immaculately tailored pin striped business suit bespoke Savile Row and fit his almost skeletal frame perfectly. He wore a black bowler hat and carried an umbrella. He had a neat white beard and silver hair that came down to his collar. He extended his hand. "It's been far too long, Alistair."
"Minister? I'd have thought Whitehall would have chucked you out ages ago."
"They'll never put this old war-horse out to pasture, Alistair," the old man said with a mischievous grin. "If I ever do decide to die, it will be in battle. But about this 'Doctor' of yours. Are you certain that he can be trusted?"
"I owe him my life a dozen times over," the Brigadier said. "The Doctor tends to play by his own rules, but I can tell you from experience that he always acts with humanity's best interests in mind. He is a firm believer in freedom and democracy."
The Minister gave a slight snort. In spite of the Brigadier's great respect for the man, there were times when it seemed as if his old friend looked on freedom and democracy as something of an inconvenience-all very well unless it got in the way of the business of government.
The conversation drifted away from aliens and the Doctor to pleasantries and small talk, until the Minister remembered a previous appointment.
"That's quite all right, Minister. I really should be getting back to Doris. I'm sure that by now she's convinced that I staged the whole thing to get out of my chores and slip off down the pub for a bit." The Brigadier paused at the doorway. "Meaning no offense to your people, M, but if the Doctor is involved, my best advice would be to stay out of his way."
M looked positively insulted. "Stay out of--!"
"Believe me, the chances are that he's chasing something with which your people simply aren't equipped to deal. Far be it from me to give you advice of course, but if I were you, I might want to give UNIT HQ in Geneva a ring-just to be on the safe side."
"Of course, Alistair. Of course." The old man got to his feet, leaning heavily on his old umbrella for support. Almost as an afterthought, the Minister picked up another pair of photographs from M's desk. "Before I forget, Brigadier, you don't happen to know either of these two young people, do you?" The photos were slightly blurred as if taken in a hurry and from a considerable distance. One was of a teenage boy with messy black hair and round owlish spectacles. The other was of a young girl with bushy brown hair.
"Well, if you turn your head and squint, the boy looks a little like my sister's middle grandson-only he doesn't wear spectacles." He shook his head. "No, I can't say that I've ever seen either of them before."
"You're quite sure you've never heard the name 'Harry Potter' before?"
The Brigadier shook his head. "I had a Potter back at UNIT, but he was killed by a Yeti."
"Well, never mind, Alistair," the old man interjected before M could say anything. "It wasn't anything important. It's good to see that retirement agrees with you. Do give my love to Doris."
"I certainly will." The Brigadier shook M's hand then the Minister's. "It was good to see you again, Lord Dumbledore."
* * * * * *
Having decided that they'd had enough adventures for one night, Harry and Hermione returned to the Dorchester Hotel.
"Mrs. Potter! How delightful to see you. Back so soon?" It was amazing to witness the amount of sheer willpower that the concierge, Severus Snape had summoned in order to force himself to remain polite, even though Harry suspected that he detested them both.
"What do you think?" Hermione did a quick turn to show off her new outfit. Since she and Harry had little more than the clothes on their backs when they checked in, Hermione had decided to put her magical American Express card to good use.[1] They had asked the snooty hotel concierge to recommend some fashionable clothiers. "Are we a bit more presentable now?"
"Yes," he said quietly. "Quite lovely."
"Dirty old man," Harry muttered under his breath. Harry did not like the look that the concierge was giving her-particularly the way he seemed to be eying her cleavage. The older man cleared his throat uncomfortably when his eyes met Harry's.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Nothing."
The concierge quickly tried to change the subject. "Is you're room satisfactory?"
"It's fine, thank you."
"How about the bed? Did you sleep at all?" The concierge's eyes went wide. "Er-um-I mean-was the bed big enough-I-? That is-!" By now his cheeks were bright red.
From the sounds of snickering coming from the bellhop station, Fred and George Weasley were on duty.
Growing up, Hermione's friends had always considered her something of a prude. She seemed to get flustered at the mere mention of sex. She silently wondered if it was simply her joy in rediscovering Harry that brought about her change in attitude. More likely, she thought, it was the concierge's resemblance to a certain Hogwarts Potions Master that caused her to take such delight in his embarrassment.
"The bed was wonderful!" she said. "We're hoping to get a chance to see the rest of the room before we leave." She beckoned the concierge to lean in closer. Nodding in Harry's direction, she whispered, "He's an animal, you know." She made a low growling noise in her throat, which caused him to flinch. By now Harry's cheeks were also bright red and it was difficult to tell who was more mortified. Fred and George, the twin bellhops were about to fall off their bench laughing.
Thankfully for both Harry and the concierge the front desk phone chose that moment to ring. Harry quickly grabbed Hermione's arm and dragged her away. Just as they were about to make their escape from the lobby, Fred and George intercepted them.
"Sorry we missed all the fun at the café," Fred said.
"Mum thought you might need this." George surreptitiously pressed a slip of paper into Hermione's hand just as the elevator doors opened.
Later that evening, in the Honeymoon Suite, as Harry Potter lay fast asleep, Hermione sat up in bed checking the magical homework she had assigned him. This Harry Potter was turning out to be much more motivated in his studies than was his counterpart-in no small part because Hermione was using motivational techniques that would never have been permitted back at Hogwarts.
She rubbed her eyes and rolled her head to relieve the kinks in her neck. A great deal had happened to them that day. It was apparent from their brief conversation with Molly that some sort of loosely knit magical community already existed in London, but the attempted robbery, the appearance of the Doctor and his odd companion, and the presence of the stranger in the Aston Martin prevented them from finding out any more. They were going to have to find some way of meeting with the proprietress of The Griffin's Door away from prying eyes.
She picked up the small slip of paper that Fred and George had given her. It was a page from Molly's order pad. Across it was scrawled an address on Portobello Road, along with the words "wand" and "Molly sent me." Hermione could only marvel at the woman's insight. She hadn't even had a chance to mention that Harry needed a wand of his own.
James Bond let himself into the room just below the Honeymoon Suite.
Robinson was manning the surveillance equipment, listening with a headphone over one ear. "I sent Caruthers on a food run."
"That means Chinese again," Bond said, making a face. "Anything new from the honeymooners?" He tossed his jacket on to the bed and began undoing his tie.
"Mr. and Mrs. Potter have retired for the evening."
"Which means we're in for at least two or three more hours of heavy breathing."
"Actually, It's been pretty quiet. I think they finally wore each other out." As Bond began removing his shoes, Robinson tossed him a notepad.
"What's this?"
"You missed 'Lesson Time' again. The girl seems to have some weird kink for Latin. She has Potter drilling on it day and night-but from what I can hear, she definitely makes it worth his while."
"Brings new meaning to the term 'Teacher's Pet'-but I can't imagine old Professor MacGreggor inspiring the same sort of enthusiasm." Bond examined the phrases Robinson had written down. He'd not had the same classical education as 007, so some of them were written out phonetically. " 'Wingardium Leviosa' 'Petrificus Totalus'…? "They almost sound like some sort of magic spells."
Robinson suddenly frowned. "What in blazes--?"
"What is it?" As he took the headphones, Bond's eyes grew wide. "I could swear I've heard that sound before."
Harry awoke to a strange wheezing, groaning noise coming from the main sitting room of their hotel suite. Hermione was gone, but the sheets beside him were still warm, suggesting that she had only just gotten out of bed. He quickly felt for his glasses on the end table.
"What's going on?" Harry yawned from the top of the stairway. His eyes suddenly grew wide. "Hermione? Why is there a police box in our room?"
"I'm not sure," she said as she examined the doors, "but I'm convinced that this is the same one that was sitting across the street from The Griffin's Door, and the one that we saw in Piccadilly. Notice the marks on the door from where the officers tried to force it open?"
"You're right," said Harry, wondering at what point he had stepped through the looking glass. "It's obviously been following us."
The double doors opened and the Doctor poked his head out. "I'm terribly sorry to barge in like this, but you don't happen to know what became of my friend Leela by any chance?" The Doctor's long legs had him in the center of the room before Harry or Hermione could utter even a single syllable of protest. He helped himself to a banana from a bowl of fruit that was sitting on the sideboard. "It's not that she can't take care of herself," he rambled as he peeled away the skin. "In fact, she's been known to kill large wild animals armed with only a pen knife, but that's hardly the sort of thing one is likely to run across in the big city, wouldn't you agree?"
"The last time we saw her, she was with Ron Weasley." Hermione became uncomfortably aware of the skimpy negligee she was wearing and pulled her robe tighter. "I shouldn't worry. We haven't known him for very long, but he strikes me as a decent sort."
"For his sake, he'd better be," the Doctor muttered cryptically. "But that's not really what I need to talk to you about."
"Doctor," Harry said as he came down the stairs. "Exactly what is that thing and why is it sitting in the middle of our hotel room?"
"Harry Potter!" the Doctor exclaimed, flashing his enormous trademark grin. "I don't know why I didn't recognize you earlier!" He thrust out his hand. Realizing that he was still holding the banana peel, he stuffed it into his pocket, then seized Harry's hand and shook it vigorously. "I'm a great admirer of yours, you know."
"Really?" Harry asked, his brain still foggy from sleep. "What exactly have I done?" Surely the man didn't mean what he and Hermione had been up to earlier?
"I'm terribly sorry," the Doctor waved his hand in apology. "I keep forgetting that I'm in the wrong time period. You won't have done it yet. Can't say too much, you know." He tapped a finger to the side of his nose. "Mustn't spoil the surprise!"
"What on earth are you babbling about?" Hermione finally demanded. "Are you saying that you've seen Harry's future? Are you a seer like Molly?"
"Not exactly. I know the future simply because I've been there."
Hermione frowned. "You're a time traveler?"
"Time. Space. Even other dimensions." The Doctor gave her a significant look. "But then you've had a bit of experience that department, haven't you, Miss Granger?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Doctor," Hermione said defensively. "And the name is 'Mrs. Potter'." Harry quickly moved to her side.
The Doctor took a deep breath and let it out. He had seen the same thing in the café. The way the two of them rarely strayed more than a few feet from one another. The way their hands always seemed to find one another. It was clear, even to a long time bachelor like himself just how intimate they had become. That was going to make what came next even harder.
"Why don't we step into my 'office' and discuss it?" The Doctor held open the police box door and motioned for them to enter.
"Of course! Let's all go into the police box and have a quick confab!" Harry asked incredulously. "While we're at it, why don't we call the Weasleys? If we cram in enough people, we could raise a bit of money for charity."
"You wanted to know what this is and why it's in your hotel room," the Doctor reminded him. "Now's your chance to find out." Unable to contain his curiosity, Harry stepped forward. Hermione surreptitiously slipped him her wand as he passed, just in case it was some kind of a trap. Harry hesitated at the door, gathered his courage and stepped inside. For a moment, there was no sound, and then from inside the police box came a single amazed exclamation. "Brilliant!"
"Harry?"
"Hermione! Get in here! You have to see this!"
As she stepped through the door, Hermione had to shield her eyes, for all around her was nothing but white. It took a moment to adjust and begin to distinguish objects from one another. When she could finally see clearly, she was astounded. She and Harry were standing in a room that couldn't possibly fit inside the police box. The bright light emanated from large circular discs that were recessed into the walls in a honeycomb pattern. A six-sided control console perched atop a central plinth dominated the room. In the center of the mushroom-shaped device was a transparent cylindrical column filled with flashing lights. From all around came the barely audible thrum of some unimaginable power source.
"A trim little craft, wouldn't you say?" The Doctor dropped his floppy hat onto one of the hooks of a big old wooden coat rack that stood by the doorway.
"Dimensionally transcendental," Hermione said to herself.
The Doctor seemed quite impressed. "You're familiar with the principle?"
"Absolutely fascinating," said Harry. "Now could you translate that into English?"
"It's bigger on the inside than it is on the outside," she explained. "Technically speaking, we're not actually inside the police box. We're really in a parallel dimension-a sort of 'pocket' in the fabric of space and time. In theory the inside could be as big as the Albert Hall if you wanted. In a sense, this vehicle doesn't actually travel anywhere. One simply dematerializes the outside doorway into this dimension from where it is and then materializes it somewhere else."
"Oh." Harry took a moment to digest what he had been told. "But why does the outside look like an old police box?"
"Chameleon circuit," the Doctor muttered irritably. "I've been meaning to get round to mending it, but what with one thing and another, I just haven't had the time. I happen to be a very busy man!" he said defensively. "Places to go! People to see! Which reminds me-" He flipped another switch and a panel on one of the walls split in half to reveal a large monitor screen. A computerized image of Earth appeared, surrounded by columns of unintelligible alien computer codes. A small white dot began flashing on and off over British Isles. "Three days ago there was an enormous burst of energy, that caused a disruption in the space/time continuum." The image enhanced further and further until it showed an image of the Dursley home. "At that precise moment, something crashed through the dimensional barrier not far from Number Four Privet Drive in Little Whinging. I don't suppose you'd know anything about that, would you, Mrs. Potter?"
"What if she did?" Harry put a protective arm around Hermione's shoulders.
"I'm afraid that the method that your wife used to reach this world is extremely crude and incredibly dangerous. Potentially it could upset the balance of the entire universe."
"Assuming that we believe you," said Harry skeptically, "just what exactly are we supposed to do about it?"
"I'm afraid," the Doctor said grimly, "that Hermione may have to go back where she came from."
End of Chapter Two.
[1] See Child's Play, Chapter One,"Have We Met?" at www.fanfiction.net or Have We Met? At www.astronomytower.org