"The Morning After The Night Before"
Chapter Five:
"Meanwhile…"
"But select capable men from all the people …
and appoint them as officials over thousands, hundreds,
fifties and tens."
Exodus 18:21
******
It's astounding[1]
To Leela, the girl savage, the whole thing was reminiscent of the rites her tribe performed on the longest, coldest night of winter. The elders would dress up in grotesque masks and dance around the communal fire to frighten away the evil spirits that lived in the dark forests surrounding their village.
Time is fleeting
No doubt, the Doctor would have said that the costumes depicted legendary archetypes from terrestrial mythology, each embodying a different fear or vice to be ritually exorcised. For example, the character of Frank N. Furter represents the young male's fear of emasculation and the feminine aspects of his own nature.
Madness takes its toll.
Of course, the Doctor said a lot of things like that and most of the time Leela had no idea what he was talking about.
But listen closely
At any rate, everyone seemed to be having a good time as the revelers, dressed in their strange attire, shouted obscenities at the images projected on the big white screen above them and danced along with the music.
Not for very much longer
It had been nearly a week since the TARDIS had disappeared from its temporary berth across the street from the Griffin's Door. The Doctor had said that he wanted to speak to the young man with the spectacles and his bushy-haired girlfriend. Leela wasn't sure exactly what the young couple they had met there had to do with their mission for the Time Lords, but that was nothing new. The Doctor could be infuriatingly obtuse at times.
I've got to keep control…
All Leela knew was that she was thoroughly enjoying herself. Just this once, she had decided that she was going to forget about saving the universe and have a bit of fun. Let the Doctor handle the monsters and his megalomaniacal aliens by himself this time, she told herself. He never really appreciated you, anyway! Half the time he couldn't even be bothered to explain what was going on, and the other half he was berating you because you'd committed the unpardonable sin of acting, rather than simply standing around twiddling your thumbs waiting for the enemy to strike first.
All the same, she was worried about her friend.
******
"Do you suppose he'll ever come back, Ronweezlee?" Leela broke the comfortable silence that they shared as she and Ron walked back to the Griffin's Door from the movie theatre.
Ron was not eager to resume this discussion. In the brief time they had been together, he had grown quite fond of this strange girl that his mother referred to as "Our Little Savage". Through her eyes, even the littlest things like eating fish and chips from a newspaper or sharing Italian ices were miracles experienced for the first time. Though he missed her skimpy leather loincloth, the N'Synch T-shirt and jeans borrowed from his sister Ginny displayed Leela's lean figure quite nicely. He was even beginning to like the way that she said his name, "Ronweezlee", as a single word.
"Do you really want to leave, Leela?"
Leela lowered her head and bit her lip. "Your family has taken me into their hearts as well as into their home. I will never forget their kindness towards me-but I do not belong here, Ronweezlee. I am a huntress-trained to stalk wild game in the jungles of my home world, not to wait tables at the Griffin's Door." Ron lowered his head, clearly dreading what was coming next. She reached up to caress his cheek. "Still, if the Doctor does not return," she leaned in close enough for Ron to feel her hot breath on his lips, "the thought of being stranded here is not totally unpleasant…"
"So Weasel's finally got himself a girlfriend," drawled a voice from the shadows.
From the day he was born,
He was trouble[2]
Dennis Malfoy-"Draco" to his skinhead mates-sat on the landing of number sixteen, Uxbridge Road, flanked by his toadies, Crabbe and Goyle, and a few hangers on from the neighborhood whom Ron didn't immediately recognize.
He was the thorn
In his mother's side
He did recognize Pansy Parkinson, Draco's- well, everyone just sort of assumed that she was Draco's girlfriend, but there were plenty of rumors to suggest that neither one of them played exclusively for a single team.
She tried in vain
But he never caused her nothing but shame
The entire crew was outfitted in steel-toed army boots and black leather jackets decorated with enough chains to bind King Kong. Draco, Crabbe and Goyle sported swastika tattoos on the top of their shaved heads, just inside the areas previously occupied by hair, while Pansy displayed an image of her namesake just above her right breast.
He left home the day she died
"Is harassing me the only thing you can find to do with yourself, Malfoy?" Ron called back. "If you ask me, you're in serious need of a hobby."
"I've got a hobby," Malfoy growled as he got to his feet. "It's exterminating vermin-like you, Weasel."
"Draco, wait!" Pansy Parkinson leaned over to speak into her leader's ear. "That's her, the girl who took out those five South American drug dealers when they tried to shake down the Griffin's Door!"
Ron fought back a laugh. Leela's legend was growing. On Monday, there were only two villains and they were simply crack addicts with switchblades. Now they were machine-gun-toting Columbian kingpins running a protection racket.
"You finally wised up and found yourself a bodyguard," Malfoy taunted. "I knew there had to be a reason why a good looking bird like that was hanging around with a wanker like you."
Draco nodded to two goons, who appeared from the shadows and seized Leela by the forearms. "Don't worry, luv. You won't get left out of the fun. I just want to make sure Ronnikins doesn't have an unfair advantage."
Leela had no trouble freeing herself from their grip, but instead of attacking, she folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the wall. "If you truly desire a fair fight, I will not interfere."
"You won't?" Draco raised an eyebrow.
"You won't?" Ron's voice raised several octaves.
"Of course not," she said calmly. "In my tribe, the young men are encouraged to fight. It keeps them from getting soft and sharpens their reflexes for the hunt."
Draco grinned, slamming his fist into his palm and cracking his knuckles. "Well, we wouldn't want ickle Ronnie to get soft, now would we?"
Ron swallowed hard. He'd been in a few scraps in his time and he felt that he'd always given a good accounting of himself, but he wasn't exactly known around the neighborhood as a fighter. As far as he was concerned, there was no shame in running away from trouble-particularly in a situation like this when he was badly outnumbered. For all Malfoy's talk of fairness, there was no guarantee that he and his goons could be trusted. All the same, some vestige of male ego caused him to step forward, taking a deep breath in an attempt to puff up what little chest he had. Whatever happened, he wasn't going to let Leela see him cower.
"I should warn you," Leela interrupted, "that Ronweezlee has turned out to be an excellent pupil."
"You've been teaching him to fight?" Pansy looked over at Draco. A tiny bead of sweat trickled down her leader's forehead.
"Just remember what I taught you," Leela said to Ron, "the vulnerable areas first--the eyes, the groin-and don't be afraid to break bones if you have to. They will heal-in time." She turned back to Malfoy. "In my experience, pain is the best teacher of all."
Taking his cue from Leela, Ron did his best imitation of a Kung Fu "ready" position. Bruce Lee would have laughed, but evidently it was good enough for Malfoy. Ron was convinced that he could see fear in the young man's eyes.
"I don't trust you, Weasel," Malfoy suddenly blurted out. This time it was Malfoy's voice that getting higher. As he spoke, he began slowly backing away. "That is, I don't trust her to stay out of it."
"I can come back." Leela shrugged. "Would ten minutes be long enough?"
"Make it five," Ron replied, his lips parting in a feral grin. "This won't take long."
"Not a chance, Weasley," Malfoy shrieked. He cleared his throat, bringing his voice back down to its normal timbre. "We'll settle this latter-when the odds are a little more even!"
As one, the entire skinhead crew fled down the street.
"And just who do you think you're calling 'vermin' anyway, Malfoy?" Ron yelled after them. "I'll have you know that the weasel family includes the wolverine-the 'bearcat'-who can make mincemeat of the mountain lion without breaking a sweat!"
Leela shook her head as she took Ron's arm and started walking again.
"If you want to talk about 'vermin'," Leela said, "remind me to tell you about Weng Chiang and the little pets he kept down in the sewers. Ten feet from snout to tail…!"
*****
A block or two down the street, a man had just finished setting out dustbins to be collected the following morning. Where once there had been a neatly arranged row of bins, there was now a pile of tangled, squirming bodies.
"Let me help you, young man." He took hold of the nearest hand, which belonged to Malfoy, and helped him to his feet.
"Thanks, Gov," Malfoy said, without any real gratitude.
"Why don't you come in and let me help you get cleaned up," the man said as he fished his keys from the pocket of his sweater. They were standing outside a small storefront with Amazing Grace Gospel Mission stenciled on the big plate glass window. "By the way, I'm the Reverend Gilderoy Lockheart."
*******
If one disliked cigar smoke, the Diogenes Club was the last place on earth anyone would ever think of going, but M knew that this was the most likely place that she would find the answers that she was seeking. As she pulled open one of the massive carved oak doors and caught the full brunt of the atmosphere inside, she smelled the aroma of past Havanas lingering there from as far back as Churchill's day.
The man at the front desk loudly cleared his throat. "I'm terribly sorry, madam, but all visitors must register-"
As M turned to give the fellow a piece of her mind, she heard a familiar voice coming from the bar.
"You realize, Jenkins, that this woman has been a member in good standing of this club since 1986?" M immediately recognized the elegantly tailored suit jacket with the velvet lapels, the umbrella and the bowler hat. He was a little heavier than the last time she had seen him, the swagger in his walk was impaired slightly by arthritis in his knees, and the dark hair was threaded with gray, but there was no mistaking…
"Steed! John Steed!"
"It's been ages!" He took her hand and held it between his. His smile radiated warmth and friendship.
"Forgive me, madam," the club concierge said icily. "It is difficult for me to keep track of the new members."
"I haven't set foot in here for ages," M confessed to Steed as the concierge retreated into his office. "I can never quite shake the feeling that I'm still regarded as something of an interloper."
"They'll come around." Steed shrugged. "After all, it took the Catholic Church only five hundred years to pardon Galileo."
Only the occasional rustle of a Financial Times or the clink of a brandy snifter broke the silence as Steed and M strode through the marble-columned halls and past the oak-paneled salons of the mausoleum that was the Diogenes Club. The aging former warriors and captains of industry never stirred from the comfort of their huge leather armchairs. (Rumor had it that Sherlock Holmes's brother Mycroft still haunted this place-either as an actual spirit or as a desiccated shell still somehow clinging to life on a steady diet of port, cigars and the occasional steak and kidney pudding.) The place reminded M of England itself: populated with once-important men living mainly on memories of past glories while others carried on with the actual business of running the world.
As they paused at the foot of the great marble staircase, Steed drew her hand to his lips and kissed it. "As soon as you're through with the old man, why don't you join me for a bite of luncheon?"
M's eyes went wide.
"How did you-?"
Steed simply smiled.
"I have my sources."
M paused to catch her breath at the third floor landing, cursing the age of the building, which antedated the invention of the lift by nearly a hundred years. On this floor were the small private flats that members used when they were "staying in town". The big oak door marked number thirteen was slightly ajar as M approached.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, my Lord Minister," she began. As hard as she tried to sound confident, she still felt like a schoolgirl being called to the headmaster's office.
Albus, Lord Dumbledore, set aside the red dispatch boxes piled before him, removed his round spectacles and rubbed his ancient eyes. It was clear that he knew why M was here and he was in no mood to resume this topic of conversation.
"Bond?"
"It's been nearly a week."
"I seem to recall you once describing the fellow as "a sexist, misogynist dinosaur" and "a relic of the Cold War."
"He also happens to be one of the best agents my department has ever seen. I won't let him go without a fight."
Lord Dumbledore picked up another dispatch box from the end table. M didn't recognize anyone in the stack of photographs and names like Ian Chesterton, Barbara Wright, Jo Grant, Liz Shaw and Sarah Jane Smith meant nothing to her. "If my theory is correct, Mr. Bond has simply gone off on a little joy ride with that fellow from U.N.I.T.-what was it that Lethbridge Stewart called him? The Doctor? I suspect that like these others, he will turn up eventually," his steely eyes seemed to peer into her very soul, "but Mr. Bond's disappearance is not the only thing that brings you here, is it?"
M reached over to open another box and picked up a photo of the messy-haired young man with the round spectacles whom 007 had been tailing. "Who is this boy, Minister? Why is it so important that Her Majesty's government spend my department's valuable time and resources following Harry Potter?"
The old man didn't even look up. "It would serve your Department far better to confine its efforts to matters properly within your authority…"
*****
"…With respect to this matter," M repeated the conversation to Steed as they dined in the club restaurant, "I and the Ministry have decided this is not the case." Steed was doing his best not to laugh at her dead-on impersonation of the old man's haughty tone. "I really shouldn't be chewing your ear off like this, John," M said contritely. "It's just that you're the only person I can confide in without violating the Official Secrets Act!" She added another spoonful of sugar to her tea. "It's the damnedest case I've ever worked on and Whitehall seems determined to keep all of us in the dark. It's like trying to play cricket wearing a blindfold!"
"The family of redheads who run the café," Steed suddenly interrupted, "what was the name again?"
"Wesley…? Wheezy…?" M finally remembered. "Weasley! Only the mother re-married a while back to a fellow named Lupin. I don't think he ever formally adopted the children."
"Weasley… Weasley…" Steed kept repeating to himself. "Why does that name seem so familiar? Why does this case sound so familiar?"
"I hear the food at the café isn't bad," M offered helpfully. "I doubt if it will ever get a star from Michelin's Guide…"
"No, that's not it." Steed's forehead furrowed in deep thought. "It was something to do with my department." He slapped his forehead. "That's it! No wonder I couldn't remember. It's been ages ago. I think I was still working with Mrs. Peel." Steed leaned in, lowering his voice. "For reasons that nobody in the department could fathom at the time, Whitehall became keenly interested in the love life of a pretty little redhead from Kensington named Molly…Molly… I can't, for the life of me, remember her maiden name… Molly Prewett!"
"Was she someone important?"
"Her father was a dustman and her mother was the local midwife," Steed said with a shrug, "but you'd think she was Princess Diana the way the big brass had us hovering over her. Evidently, the security of the realm depended on her marrying the right chap."
M shook her head in astonishment. "And I suppose that you and Mrs. Peel were in charge of dealing with the 'unsuitable suitors'?"
"That was the really strange part." Steed shook his head. "Most mothers would have given their right arms to have the types of young men that Molly attracted court their daughters-doctors, solicitors, businessmen."
"So, how did you manage to get rid of them?"
"A few were lucky enough to experience Mrs. Peels' bravura performance as femme fatale." Steed flashed a devilish grin. "She'd never have admitted it, but I think she rather enjoyed that part. The rest fell victim to various vices-real or imagined-which we were able to manufacture-drinking, gambling, infidelity, you name it. I think we even went so far as to hint that one poor fellow had a fondness for ladies underwear."
"The poor girl must have thought she was having a terrible run of bad luck with men!" Unable to restrain herself any further, M let out a hearty laugh, which drew several cold stares from the other diners. In much too good a mood to start a fight, M simply ignored them. "Well, I trust that your story has a happy ending, Steed. After all that trouble, I'd hate to think that the poor thing wound up as an old maid. So, which superman finally won the day? What valiant knight in shining armor finally claimed the lady's hand?"
"That's the kicker," Steed said, shaking his head incredulously. "After we'd managed to chase off practically every eligible bachelor in England, the girl ends up marrying some little nobody from the Ministry of Housing! What was his name…?" At that moment, the pieces of the puzzle floating around in Steed's brain finally fell into place. He snapped his fingers. "…Arthur… Arthur Weasley!"
"Weasley--?" M gasped. "John, what in heaven's name is going on?"
Steed dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin and stood up. "Let me do a bit of nosing around and I'll get back to you."
"John, there's no reason for you to-"
"I'm not afraid of his Lordship," Steed said with a sly grin. "Besides, I trust your instincts-and mine. If you're getting danger signals, the odds are pretty good that there's something shady at the bottom of this whole thing." He donned his bowler and gave her a peck on the cheek. "I'll let you know when I've found something."
"Thank you, Steed!" she called after him. "Give my love to Mrs. Peel."
******
Cold, efficient, gray steel and aluminum filing cabinets gave way to handcrafted antique wood with brass drawer pulls as John Steed pushed further and further into the rats' maze that was the MI6 archives. In lieu of a wedge of cheese, a nondescript little man emerged from his tiny office at the back of the room, a file in one hand, a tray of biscuits and a cup of tea in the other. The arm with the file folder waved for Steed to follow him into the office.
Judging by his deathly pallor, the Archivist hadn't seen the sun in ages and no doubt would have difficulty recognizing it even if he had.
He handed Steed a file folder.
"I believe this is the file you were looking for, Mr. Steed, but I'm afraid it may not be of much help." As he opened the folder, Steed's heart sank. Huge portions of the text had been blacked out, leaving only a few sentences readable.
…families of both Arthur Weasley and Molly, can be traced back to ancient druids. Affinity towards (blacked out) stronger than any other family observed, with possible exception of (blacked out).
***
…at least two potential suitors to (blacked out) eliminated to prevent dilution of bloodline.
***
…opposition could see clear results within one generation.
***
…though totally unaware of his significance, we are convinced that Harry Potter is the key to the entire situation.
***
…our enemies are already far advanced in this field. We cannot afford a (blacked out) gap…
Only one other fragment was readable-a heading at the top of the page, which read:
Weapons Development
******
"I'm afraid we really don't know where my nephew has gone." Petunia Dursley nervously pretended to
stir her tea while the man from the Board of Education jotted down notes on his clipboard. Occasionally, she would
glance over at her son, Dudley as if something were wrong with him. It was almost as if she believed him to be some
kind of evil doppelganger. "I suspect," she swallowed hard, almost choking on the admission, "that Harry
wasn't very happy here."
"Not surprising," the young man began, and then cut himself off. "Er-a-considering the tragic loss of his parents," he quickly added.
"Of course," Petunia concurred as she attempted to will her heart to cease palpitating.
"You've no idea who the girl was?"
"None whatsoever. She's not one of the girls from the neighborhood and Harry's never even mentioned having a girlfriend at school." She shrugged, forcing herself to laugh. "You know how young people are these days. These sorts of things happen, I suppose."
"Of course," the young man replied with an equally forced smile. Back home in Bulgaria, pretty young girls are just crawling out of the woodwork to seduce teenage boys into running away from home with them.
As the young man flipped up the collar of his coat, pulled it tighter around his neck and stepped out of the house, the skies over Little Whinging did nothing to dispel the stereotypes of English weather as cold, damp and dreary. Little Whinging was a picture of suburban uniformity, each house virtually indistinguishable from its neighbors. Only the automobiles showed any hint of distinctiveness, and even this was largely superficial-a red Vauxhall as opposed to yellow or blue-the illusion of free choice.
Ironic, the young man thought. As much as westerners claim to cherish individuality, their obsessive desire to "keep up with the Joneses" could be as oppressive a force for conformity as the most totalitarian police state.
Almost as if on cue, a taxi pulled up to the curb beside him, and within a few minutes, he was back at the motor lodge where he was staying. The cabbie smiled at the crisp texture of two brand new fivers and the lovely crackle as he folded them in half and slipped them into his cash box.
"Dudley, darling," Petunia ventured hesitantly, "are you feeling all right?"
"I'm fine, Mother," her son replied in a voice that was almost polite.
"You don't look well, dear." She pressed a hand to his forehead to feel for a temperature, then she began to feel his cheeks. "You seem…I don't know… thinner. Have you been eating properly? You've been acting ever so strange since the night we found you passed out among the dustbins. I did try to get you see Dr. Pertwee! You could have concussion or--!"
"I'm fine, Mother," Dudley declared. "Now I'd like to go up to my room, please. I have a lot of homework to do." Dudley turned and stalked silently up the stairs, leaving his mother aghast.
"Homework?"
"Keep the change." When he concentrated, Viktor Krum could easily lose his Bulgarian accent and sound just like a native Londoner, but at that moment he had more important things on his mind. It hardly mattered, since by the time the driver reached Hampton Court, he would barely remember any details of his passenger's appearance, his destination, or his generous imaginary tip. Only a slight discrepancy in his mileage records and gasoline usage would suggest anything out of the ordinary.
Once inside his room, Viktor tossed aside his coat, plopped down on the bed and pulled out his cell phone. After nearly three hours of Petunia's high-pitched nasal whining, Igor Karkaroff's low growl would seem almost musical.
The elegantly carved wooden handle of a gentleman's umbrella knocked the phone from his hand and sent it clattering across the room. The umbrella's owner then flipped it into the air, but before Viktor could reach into his pocket and retrieve the small automatic pistol he carried, he found himself facing the umbrella's opposite end, which had been carefully filed to a razor-sharp point.
The man holding the bumbershoot stepped forward into the dim light.
"Steed?"
"Viktor, we need to talk."
[1] The Time Warp Words and Music by Richard O'Brien
2 Eddie's Teddy Words and Music By Richard O'Brien
[1] The Time Warp Words and Music by Richard O'Brien
[2] Eddie's Teddy Words and Music By Richard O'Brien