The Morning After The Night Before

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: If the description of “The Griffin's Door” seems familiar, it's because I actually wrote it for this story, but when I uploaded “Child's Play”, I realized that I didn't really describe the place very well there and added it. Sorry for the repetition. 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 One)

“The Next Day”

“It is not good that a man should be alone.”

Genesis 2:18

Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, found himself on the roof of the Paris Opera House where he had practically been dragged by beautiful young opera singer, Christine Daaé, who was telling him an incredible story about her being kidnapped by the infamous “Opera Ghost” and carried deep into the cellars far below the city streets. “The Phantom Of The Opera” had revealed himself to be Erik, a demented musical genius who haunted the tunnels and secret passages of the theatre, his face hidden from the world by an impenetrable mask. From the shadows he had secretly tutored Christine, nurturing her voice and her singing career. As repayment, he had demanded that she sing only for him in his secret lair at the edge of a vast black subterranean lake. As he played on his sinister pipe organ selections from his masterpiece, a grand opera entitled Don Juan Triumphant, Christine could no longer contain her curiosity. She had to see the face behind his mask. Silently she had crept up behind him, her hands reaching out, fingers grasping…

As the object of his affections relived her waking nightmare, Raoul drew her close and began to sing…

No more talk of darkness,
Forget these wide-eyed fears.

In row six, seat forty-two of Her Majesty's Theater in Haymarket, Hermione Granger felt a hand taking hold of hers. She turned and looked into Harry Potter's eyes.

I'm here, nothing can harm you -
my words will warm and calm you.

She had lived through her own waking nightmare and now it was as though Andrew Lloyd Webber and his collaborators were looking directly into her heart.

Let me be your freedom,
let daylight dry your tears.

For some reason, Hermione found her thoughts drifting back to the morning she had been sitting on the balcony of the Honeymoon Suite, watching the sunrise over London. Though she had been wearing only a terrycloth bathrobe with the Dorchester Hotel's logo embroidered on the breast pocket, she hadn't felt the cold in the air—her shivers had come from an entirely different source. It had only just then begun to sink in that she was looking out on an entirely different world.

Harry's theory about parallel universes had been the only explanation for her being in this place that had made any sense. There had seemed to be nothing to stand in the way of Lord Voldemort conquering the Wizarding World back home. A single tear had run down her cheek as she silently mourned the dear friends she had lost in the struggle—especially her beloved Harry Potter. She had wondered if Voldemort would now turn his wrath against the Muggles—and if Dumbledore had been right about what would happen if he did.

“Beautiful,” had come Harry's voice from the doorway.

I'm here, with you, beside you,
to guard you and to guide you . . .

As far as I was concerned, it had been nothing short of a miracle. Harry had died—and yet there he was, alive and well. Dear old Professor Dumbledore had not only whisked me away to another dimension, he had somehow managed to set me down on the front steps of yet another Number Four, Privet Drive where yet another Harry Potter had been waiting for me. It was true that this particular Harry Potter had known nothing of Hogwarts— I had subsequently learned that the school didn't even exist in this reality—but thank Merlin, he was still Harry Potter!

His jet-black hair had fluttered in the gentle morning breeze as the first rays of the sun were reflected in his glasses. He had worn a bathrobe identical to mine, which he had been tying around his waist. I had been sure that he had nothing on underneath but his boxer shorts—if that.

“Yes, the sunrise is lovely.” I had quickly wiped the tear from my cheek. “I imagine you didn't get to see too many from that awful cupboard of yours back at the Dursleys.”

“The sunrise is nice, too,” he had said with one of those grins that had always made my heart skip a beat.

“Silver-tongued devil.” I had blushed again as he sat down beside me. “I bet you've used that line before.”

“On every witch I've ever met from a parallel universe.” Harry had taken hold of my left hand. We had both still been wearing the wedding rings I had conjured up to fool the hotel Concierge the day before. “So, what's the plan for today, Mrs. Potter?”

“About that—” I had blushed again. “I didn't mean to embarrass you. I just thought that it might make things a little easier for us. But if it makes you uncomfortable—” Perhaps it had been my natural insecurity talking, but at the time there still had been a part of me which feared that once Harry had been liberated from the Dursleys and learned of his powers, he would quickly lose interest in me and wish to move on to “greener pastures”.

“Not at all,” Harry had said as he gently caressed my hand. “In fact, I'm beginning to enjoy married life.” Once in the Honeymoon Suite, the two of us had become much more relaxed and comfortable together. Wonderful as had been our first time in the sleeping bag on the Dursleys' sitting room floor, it had still been somewhat tentative and awkward, as most first times are—the fevered intensity of our coupling coming as much from our shared despair and loneliness, as from any great sexual passion. We had clung to one another like drowning men grasping for a life preserver. Once the fear, need and desperation had been exhausted, we had come to the startling realization that we genuinely liked each other. “It's barely been two days,” Harry had whispered. “Why does it feel as if I've known you all my life?”

My heart had been racing. Could it possibly have been more than just gratitude that Harry had felt? Could I have dared to hope that this hadn't been simply the exhilaration of his first sexual adventure?

Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime.

Let me lead you from your solitude

“Do you believe in `soul mates', Harry Potter?”

Share each day with me,

“I didn't before—but I didn't believe in much of anything before.”

Each night, each morning .

“And now?”

Anywhere you go let me go too.

“Now that I've met you, I feel as if nothing is impossible.” Having kissed me on the cheek, he had stood up and had taken my wand out of the pocket of his robe. “Quo signo nata fuis!” Trays and plates full of food had suddenly flown through the door and had carefully arranged themselves into a full Continental Breakfast on the patio table.

“That's incredible!” I had gasped. “Were you able to materialize all this?”

“Not quite,” Harry had grinned sheepishly. “The Bellhop Twins—Fred and George—brought it up a few minutes ago. I just moved it out here.”

“That's still pretty impressive for someone who's only been studying for one day!”

“I had a good teacher,” he had said as he pulled out my chair. Before I had sat down, I had wrapped my arms around Harry's neck and had given him a passionate kiss.

Love me.

That's all I ask of you .

Without warning, the great chandelier came crashing down onto the stage to end the first act of Phantom Of The Opera, jolting Hermione back to the present.

“Great show, isn't it?” Harry said as they stood to applaud.

Later that evening, they wandered around Piccadilly Circus.

“Are you warm enough?” Harry made a motion to remove the expensive Dimi Major jacket Hermione had bought for him at the fashionable Saville Row tailors during their shopping spree that afternoon. His elegant silk tie had long ago been stuffed into one of the pockets.

Hermione was wearing a sleeveless multi-colored silk dress than ended just above her ankles. Not too daring, but showing just enough décolletage to give Harry a problem maintaining eye contact. “Actually…” She was just about to say that the pashmina shawl she had wrapped around her bare shoulders was more than warm enough, “…I am a bit chilly now you mention it.” Before Harry could get his coat off, she'd moved in close and wrapped her arm around his waist.

Harry's skin still tingled every time she was near him. He had known prettier girls, to be sure, but they had always seemed unobtainable—lovely to look at, but unreachable, like the stars in the heavens. As far as Harry was concerned, the girl walking beside him was Aphrodite incarnate: his own personal goddess of Love. After so many years of his being barred from the temple gates, it had been Hermione who had led him into the Holy of Holies and had initiated him into the secrets of that sweet mystery known as “woman”. (It was difficult for Harry to believe that this wondrous creature could even be of the same species as his Aunt Petunia, let alone the same gender.) The new convert smiled, hoping that he had won his goddess's favor during the course of the previous night's worship service.

Of all that had happened in the past seventy-two hours, this was perhaps the most unbelievable. He realized that henceforth “The Harry Potter Calendar” would now be divided into two distinct eras: “Before Hermione” and “After Hermione”.

“So, where to now?” she asked.

“I would imagine that you know more about London nightlife than I,” Harry mused. “It's difficult to keep one's finger on the pulse of modern culture from a cupboard in Little Whinging.” Hermione smiled in apology. “It wasn't your fault,” he reassured her. “Since you were the one who rescued me, I'll put myself entirely in your hands.”

“Actually, that comes later,” she said very provocatively. “Just keep in mind that I'm not exactly a member of the `jet-set' myself.”

As they walked, Harry's head suddenly turned as something caught his eye. “Aston Martin,” he sighed dreamily. He was like a little boy looking in a toyshop window at Christmas time.

“Pardon?”

Harry nodded in the direction of the street. A low-slung sliver sports car glided past them. “A 1964 DB5—and in mint condition by the look of her. Aunt Petunia's cousin Monte used to have one. Even let me ride in it once. Beautiful!”

Hermione shook her head. “Boys and their toys!”

In his close examination of the car, Harry entirely failed to notice that the driver was studying him just as carefully.

Harry and Hermione came upon a small crowd gathered at a street corner. The center of attention was a young man about their age dressed in a cloth cap, a cockney button-covered vest and a Night Ranger T-shirt. With his bright red hair and his freckled face he bore more than a passing resemblance to the twin bellhops back at the Dorchester.

“We certainly are running into an unusual number of redheads lately,” Harry observed.

“By Merlin's athletic supporter!” Hermione gasped. “It's Ron!”

Ronald Weasley was performing an impromptu magic show. The tricks were fairly standard stuff—pulling coins from children's ears and making handkerchiefs change colors—and the crowd was quickly starting to lose interest, judging by the pitiful number of coins in his tip jar. As Ron's gaze suddenly fell upon Hermione, he stepped forward, producing a bouquet of paper flowers from his sleeve. “Flowers for a beautiful English rose!” A tiny British flag popped out of the bouquet.

Once again, the crowd was unimpressed.

One disappearing ball and three card tricks later, even Hermione's presence was failing to keep them interested.

“Now, I want you to take this pen,” Ron said, fumbling in his jacket. What the hell did I do with—? “There!” He handed her a marker and a playing card. “Now I want you to write something on this card—preferably your telephone number.”

It's doubtful that even Harry could've given a good reason for what he did next. After all, he'd never even met Ron before—at least not this Harry in this dimension. Perhaps it was all those years of being pushed around by the Dursleys and never getting to push back. Perhaps it was the sense of empowerment that learning he was a wizard had given him. Perhaps it was a post-coital excess of testosterone—then again, maybe it was just that he felt like giving this clown a hard time. “Is that the best you can come up with?” he snorted.

Ron wasn't sure if Harry was referring to his card tricks or his pick-up lines. “I'd like to see you do any better, mate!”

Hermione could see the evil grin spread across Harry's face. Positioning herself out of Ron's line of sight, she shook her head at Harry, but it was too late. He grabbed Ron's cap from his head, turned it upside down and waved a hand over it. He then reached in and pulled out a gorgeous genuine red rose, which he presented to Hermione, who accepted it with a look of reproach. The crowd began to applaud, so Harry took a couple of quick bows.

“'Ere!” the magician said through gritted teeth. “I'm workin' this side of the street, mate!”

“That's what you get for trying to chat-up another bloke's bird.” Harry could almost hear Hermione's teeth grinding at the use of the term, “bird”. He knew would get an earful from her the next time they were alone, but there was no turning back now. Harry plopped the magician's cap back on Ron's head, but for some reason it refused to sit still. Ron removed it again, only to find a pigeon perched underneath. The bird proceeded to relieve himself on Ron's head, then took wing and disappeared into the night.

The crowd laughed and applauded as Harry took another bow. Hermione quickly hooked her arm around his and practically dragged him away.

“Harry James Potter! I can't believe you did that!” She was doing her best to sound angry as she desperately fought to keep from giggling. “That was inexcusable! Do you seriously believe that I would be so fickle as to run off with the first man to flirt with me?”

“I'm sorry.” He was looking back at her with one of those “Harry” looks that always made her go wobbly at the knees.

After all, she thought, it was only a silly joke. It wasn't as if he'd punched Ron in the nose. What must it be like for him, suddenly going from one extreme—his cold, loveless life with the Dursleys—to the other—total intimacy with another human being? Admit it, you were more than a little flattered that he could be jealous of you—and the look on Ron's face when the bird let go on him was priceless! Best not to mention to Harry that you and Ron had dated for a bit back at Hogwarts. No sense complicating matters more than they already are. “As soon as the crowd breaks up, you are going to go back there and apologize. Do you have any idea who he—?”

Harry wasn't listening. His thoughts were a million miles away. “It's actually not a bad idea…”

“Stop! Thief!” came Ron's voice from behind them. As Harry and Hermione turned around, a couple of teenage hoodlums darted past them—one of them carrying Ron's tip jar.

“Hermione!” Even before the words were out of Harry's mouth, Hermione had whipped out her wand and aimed it at a silver sports car parked just down the block. To the surprise of the driver, the door opened by itself at the very instant the two would-be thieves would have occupied the same space. Much to their chagrin, they found that the door would not allow them to pass through it—and that running at full speed into an open car door is a very painful experience.

Ron was still cleaning the last of the pigeon's little gift off his head with a handkerchief when he caught up to them. Hermione wasn't sure if she'd hidden her wand in time, because he was looking at them in an odd way—as if he was suddenly viewing them in a new light. “Funny thing, the car door opening like that.”

“Funny old world, isn't it?” Hermione said with a slightly forced laugh. “Harry was just about to come back and apologize for the way he acted. Weren't you, Harry?” It sounded more like an order than a question.

Harry grinned sheepishly and extended his hand. “No hard feelings?”

Now it was Ron's turn to look sheepish. “If truth be told, thanks to you I made more money than I've made all month—otherwise those two probably wouldn't have bothered to steal my jar.”

“In that case,” Harry pointed out, “we're entitled to at least ten percent.”

“Harry!” Hermione slapped his arm in mock outrage.

“I'm kidding!”

Hermione convinced Harry that they should stay while Ron gave a statement to the police. Harry was overjoyed when he realized that the car that had thwarted the villains was the very same Aston Martin he had been admiring earlier. While he was quietly drooling over it, Hermione was sizing up the driver. He looked to be in his forties, tall, well dressed, not bad looking—but he appeared to her slightly agitated, as if he was in a hurry to get somewhere—or perhaps just in a hurry to get away from here. Every time she tried to examine his face, he would turn away as if he didn't want her to get a good look.

Once the police were through with Ron, he and Hermione managed to drag Harry away from the Aston Martin.

“I thought I was going to be stuck here all night!” he told them.

“What's the problem?”

“The radio in their patrol car conked out, so they've been trying to get into that old Police Box over there to call in for a wagon. But they can't get it open.”

On the corner sat a large blue painted wooden box about the size and shape of a telephone booth, capped off by a domed light fixture. One of the officers was applying a crowbar to the doors with no success.

The other officer finally exploded.“Just use the bloody pay phone, Tomkins!”

“Funny, I hadn't noticed that there before.” Hermione shook her head. “I'd read somewhere that they'd decommissioned all the old Police Boxes in London.” She Ron and Harry could only shrug. Soon the conversation returned to magic.

“You know, you're not half bad,” Ron told Harry. “Are you a professional?”

“Just a dabbler, really.” Harry shrugged. “But I'm at a point where I'm wondering what I want to do with the rest of my life.”

“You've definitely got the talent,” Ron said a little wistfully. “I'm beginning to think I just don't have the knack for magic.”

Hermione gave Harry a significant look. “Maybe Harry could give you a few pointers.”

“Great!” Down the street, the police were loading the two would-be robbers into a Paddywagon. “I must go! I still have to convince those coppers not to impound my tip jar as evidence! I'm saving up for a car—after I get my license, of course.” He reached into his vest pocket. “Damn! I forgot to pick up more business cards!” He pulled out his wallet and fished around until he found a card, which he handed to Hermione. “There's usually someone there who knows how to get hold of me.” He waved as he dashed off down the block.

“Let's get something to eat,” Hermione abruptly suggested.

“Suits me,” Harry said, slightly confused. “So, where to? Chez Bruce? Fifteen? Locanda Locatelli?”

“I think I may have something even better.” She strode over to the curb and extended her arm. “Taxi!”

Hermione was playing it very mysterious on the cab ride to the Soho district. Every now and then she would turn to look behind them or glance at the rear view mirror.

“The KGB trailing us again?” Harry finally asked.

“Old habits die hard, I suppose,” Hermione said. “With Voldemort, it was unusual if you weren't being followed.”

“So, where is this place we're going?”

“You'll see,” she said with an enigmatic smile. “It's a bit out of the way, but I have a feeling it will be well worth the trip.”

“Out of the way” was putting it mildly. The cab passed it three times before Hermione finally spotted the sign. Hidden away among the other nondescript vendors that lined the high street was a small eatery.

The Griffin's Door

Natural Remedy Emporium

&

Tea Room.

A shop bell tinkled as they entered.

“Come in, luvs. I've been expecting you,” said a woman's voice from somewhere inside. “Two orphans, all alone in the world, brought together by fate.”

Harry and Hermione hesitated in the doorway as their eyes became adjusted to the harsh fluorescent light. The place seemed to be suffering from an extreme case of split personality. Parts of it looked like an ordinary little “greasy spoon” diner, complete with Coca-Cola ads on the wall menus and a bill-of-fare that included fish & chips, sausage rolls and bacon sandwiches. Against a far wall was a long wooden counter flanked by half a dozen barstools and topped off by an old fashioned soda fountain. The rest was an odd cornucopia of bric-a-brac straight out of a medieval apothecary. Behind the counter were shelves stacked with bottles and jars of all shapes and sizes, containing all manner of liquids and powders—and a few substances that were not readily identifiable—in every color of the rainbow.

A petite, pleasantly plump, middle aged woman with flaming red hair sat dealing herself a hand of Tarot cards on the counter beside the antique cash register. She was dressed in a simple blue waitress uniform with a big white apron tied around her ample middle.

“Another redhead,” Harry whispered to Hermione. “I don't care what universe you're from, this has got to be some kind of an omen.”

At her silent invitation, Harry and Hermione pulled up two barstools and sat across from her.

“You have both known terrible unhappiness,” the woman solemnly intoned as she drew the top card from the deck, “but now that you have found each other…Oh my!” Blushing slightly, she turned the card around for Harry and Hermione to see. It showed a crude drawing of a nude man and woman in a passionate embrace, with the legend “The Lovers”. She waggled a sausage-like finger at them. “Naughty! Naughty!” Now it was Harry's and Hermione's turn to blush. The woman suddenly reached across the counter and put a hand to Hermione's abdomen. “Not yet,” the woman said cryptically, “but you'll hit the jackpot soon enough.”

“Jackpot?” Hermione gulped, her face turning slightly pale.

“Four, ” the woman clucked her tongue as she drew another card. “Four at the very least. Boys mostly, but I'll wager you'll end up with a pretty little girl before all's said and done.” She winked at Hermione. “She'll have her Daddy's green eyes, too!”

“Barefoot and pregnant, eh?” Harry grinned.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you?” She playfully slugged him in the arm.

“You shall indeed be blessed as a mother, my dear,” the woman said in all seriousness, “but destiny has far more in mind for you than just changing dirty nappies!” The woman frowned as if even she didn't fully understand what her pronouncements meant. “You have come a great distance and yet you have found yourself back at the beginning.” She picked up the next card. “You come with a great purpose—to bring light and enlightenment—to rebuild what has been destroyed.” Harry and Hermione looked at each other, astonished. “You will be revered as a great teacher one day.”

“What about me?” Harry asked.

She picked up the cards, shuffled them and dealt a new run. She frowned again, her visions apparently confusing. “Your face will be known throughout the world—but few will truly know you, for that face will be but a mask to hide your true purpose. 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. And when you are gone, no monuments will be erected to your memory—save those in the hearts of the millions whose lives you will have touched.”

“That's amazing,” Hermione said, “but what does it all mean?

“Haven't a clue, dear.” The woman extended her hand. “I'm Molly, by the way. You must be Harry and Hermione.”

“The cards told you our names too?”

Molly gave them an embarrassed smile. “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,” Molly said as she gathered up the tarot cards. “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.”

End Of Chapter One

See: “Have We Met” By Quickdraw

“All I Ask Of You” from “The Phantom Of The Opera” Music By Andrew Lloyd Webber, Lyrics by Charles Hart,

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

“The Morning After The Night Before”

Chapter Three

“A Little Side Trip”

“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven”

Ecclesiastes 3:1

“No! You can't—!” Harry stopped mid-cry. For a moment, he was once again the sad, mistreated little boy locked in the Dursleys' cupboard. You can't take her away from me! was his unspoken plea. But he had grown since then, due in great measure to his beloved Hermione. The words he eventually spoke were more altruistic, more the words of a man and a husband. “You can't send her back to that terrible place! Who knows what that creep Voldemort would do to her!”

“Now just a minute, Harry,” Hermione said, trying to calm him. “Who says that I have to go back? Just who or what are you anyway, Doctor? The `time police' or something?”

“I hold no office and I have no official title,” the Doctor said enigmatically. “Let's just say that I'm a concerned citizen of the galaxy who wants to prevent an entire universe from collapsing in on itself.”

“Says you!” Harry shot back.

The Doctor ignored him and focused on Hermione. “You're a bright young woman, Hermione. Do the math for yourself.” He hit a control and the columns of computer figures on the viewscreen were instantly translated into English. To Harry it was still nothing but numerical gibberish, but Hermione appeared to understand them.

“If these figures are correct...” She turned back to the Doctor. “If it really is that important…” She gently squeezed Harry's hand. “If it means that other lives will be spared, I'm willing to go back.” She was doing her best to put up a brave front, but Harry could feel her trembling.

“If she has to go back, then I go with her!” Harry insisted.

The Doctor was confronted with the most pitiful expressions he'd ever seen, the two lovers' eyes begging him for some scrap of hope. How could he tell them that in order to save the universe, they might have to be parted forever? Face it Doctor, he thought, for all your supposed scientific detachment, you're nothing but an old softy.

“Before we decide on a definite course of action,” the Doctor began, searching desperately for a solution, “it might be a good idea for Mrs. Potter to tell me exactly how she got here. It could make a difference as to how we proceed.” The corners of the Doctor's mouth turned up slightly into a half-smile. “The laws of time and space aren't nearly as inflexible as you might think. If one studies the fine print carefully enough, it is possible to find the occasional loophole.” Harry and Hermione gripped each other's hands tighter. The half-smile blossomed into an enormous toothy grin. He pretended to be occupied with the TARDIS console, turning his back so that they wouldn't see the flush of embarrassment in his cheeks at the sight of their embrace.

“Nobody move—what in blazes…?” All heads turned to the doorway. The man who had been driving the Aston Martin stood aiming a gun at the Doctor, but he was clearly as dazzled by the TARDIS interior as Harry and Hermione had been.

“Walther PPK?” The Doctor looked slightly puzzled. “Obviously you're from MI6, but I understood that your department had switched to the P99 by the twenty-first century.”

“Call me sentimental.” Harry started to aim Hermione's wand but the stranger's reflexes were remarkable. Before Harry could fully raise his arm, the stranger had pointed his Walther directly at Harry's head. “I don't think your playmate would be very happy if I were to shoot you between the eyes, Sonny.” He motioned with his gun. “Let whatever it was that you were about to point at me fall to the floor.”

Harry let go of Hermione's wand. It rolled to a stop at the man's feet.

“A baton?” The man couldn't resist a chuckle. “What were you going to do, boy? Conduct a few bars of Chopin?”

“Who are you and how did you get into my TARDIS?” the Doctor demanded.

“Bond, James Bond—and you left the door open.” Satisfied that he was now in full control of the situation, he allowed himself a quick look around. “I'll say this for you, Doctor, you certainly know how to make the most of a limited space.”

“It's `dimensionally transcendental',” Hermione pointed out.

“Impressive, but I've been impressed before: Dr. No's nuclear power plant, Blofeld's volcano base, Sir Hugo Drax's space station…As far as I'm concerned, you're just one more twisted genius trying to take over the world. It's obvious now why Whitehall had me following these kids around. They led me straight to you. So what's your game, Doctor? Nuclear blackmail? Germ warfare?”

“Tiddlywinks,” the Doctor said with a perfectly straight face. “If you've come to challenge me, I must warn you that back at my old public school on Gallifrey, I was undefeated champ for seven years running.”

While they were talking, Bond failed to notice the odd mechanical device that had glided silently into the room behind them. What appeared to be a pair of miniature radar dishes swept back and forth on either side of its “head”, giving the impression of ears, while a long antenna protruded from the other end, suggesting a wagging tail.

“A mechanical dog!” Hermione squealed as it passed by her leg. “How cute!” The bizarre little machine did indeed resemble a dog. It even had “K-9” etched on one side of its body.

“You have got to be kidding,” Harry said.

As 007 turned at the sound of Harry's remark, a small metal cylinder extended from the dog's “snout”. A pencil-thin beam of light struck him squarely in the chest. His gun dropped from his hand and he collapsed unconscious to the floor.

“Well done, K-9!” said the Doctor.

“Thanks are not necessary, Master,” chirped K-9 in reply.

“Will he be all right?” Hermione knelt down and felt for her wand. It had become lodged underneath Bond's body, out of the Doctor's and K-9's sight.

“He's only stunned,” the Doctor assured her. “Just as well,” he muttered. “Wouldn't want him turning the TARDIS into a shooting gallery. Pity the weapons neutralizer won't work on primitive mechanisms like that.”

“TARDIS?” Harry asked.

The Doctor extended his arms. “It stands for `Time And Relative Dimensions In Space'. The Time Lords' greatest achievement,” he proclaimed, then gently patted the console. “Aren't you, my girl?” Noticing a smudge of dirt on the one of the instruments, he took the end of his scarf and wiped it away.

With the Doctor's attention on the console, Hermione retrieved her wand. 007's gun was lying nearby. She was about to stuff them both of them into her robe when K-9 turned and aimed its ray projector at her. “Nice doggie.”

“In the interest of passenger safety,” the little robot chirped, “all weapons must be surrendered.”

Reluctantly, she turned the gun over to the Doctor, who unloaded it, then set it down on the TARDIS console. The magazine went into his pocket. Apparently the little dog didn't recognize the significance of Hermione's wand, because it took no notice when she slipped it into the pocket of her robe.

Harry eyed her with concern. “What was all that about—” he whispered.

“Where were we?” The Doctor turned his attention to Hermione. “I believe you were about to explain how you came to be in this dimension.”

“If truth be told, I don't really know the mechanics of how I got here,” Hermione admitted. “Professor Dumbledore actually cast the spell that opened the portal. I have no idea how what spell he used.”

“Spell?” The Doctor gave her a suspicious glare. “Are you seriously telling me that he did it with,” he spat out the word disdainfully, “magic?”

“Of course.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” the Doctor said irritably. “As I've told Leela over and over since we've met, there is no such thing as…” The Doctor looked down. “Excuse me? Why am I floating ten feet off the floor?” He looked over to Hermione, who was pointing her wand at him. “Oh dear.”

As Hermione launched into a detailed history of Hogwarts, the wizarding world and the war with Lord Voldemort, Harry was astonished to see how the seemingly unflappable Doctor appeared to be positively traumatized by the whole idea. Clearly he was a devout believer in science. There was no place in his reality for spells and incantations.

“In an infinite universe, it's conceivable that in certain dimensions the laws of physics are such that matter could be manipulated in ways that superficially resemble magic,” the Doctor tried to reassure himself. “Perhaps through some form of advanced telekinesis.” It wasn't completely satisfying, but at least he was able to turn his attention back to his mission. “From what you describe, it sounds like a simple, straightforward opening of a dimensional barrier. But if that's true, where did all that excess energy come from? Are you sure you're telling me everything?”

“Everything I remember. I lost consciousness right after Dumbledore shoved me through. I don't remember anything else until I woke up on the Dursleys' sofa.”

“That professor of yours sounds like a very clever chap—but even so, using magic to penetrate the dimensional barrier sounds like a very risky business. Give me a good old TARDIS any day.” He shook his head. “We're still missing something.”

“Wouldn't the simplest solution be to see what happened for yourself?” Hermione suggested.

“Visit the `scene of the crime', as it were?” The idea clearly appealed to him, but then the Doctor's brow furrowed suspiciously. “It wouldn't be breaking the laws of time, exactly—but it would definitely be bending them. Technically speaking, I shouldn't be taking someone back into their own past. There's too much temptation to try and fiddle with events in order to change the future.”

“We could stay in the TARDIS and watch on the viewscreen,” Hermione suggested. “Surely we wouldn't change anything by simply observing.”

“I should introduce you to Werner Heisenberg,” the Doctor muttered as he set the controls. “He might disagree with you on that point.”

The wheezing, groaning noise returned as the transparent central column of the TARDIS console began to rise and fall in a rhythm almost like someone breathing in and out. Harry watched Hermione carefully studying the Doctor as he operated the TARDIS controls. He could almost hear the wheels turning inside his wife's head.

Within a few moments, the wheezing and groaning began to fade. The central column slowed and came to a stop.

“Where are we?” asked Harry.

“If your wife gave me the proper coordinates, we're inside Hogwarts.” The Doctor flipped a switch on the console and the viewscreen came to life. They were in the ruins of Professor Dumbledore's office. They could hear in the distance the sounds of curses being cast and the screams and moans of wizards dying in agony as Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters took the castle. Hermione was holding onto Harry's hand so tightly that he thought she might crush it.

A desperate and exhausted Hermione supported a wounded and dying Professor Dumbledore as he limped up the stairs.

“Poor, dear Minerva,” the old man said sadly.

“Is there anyone else left, Professor?”

“No one in a position to help us, my dear,” the old man wheezed. As Hermione helped the old wizard drag himself to the chair behind his desk, Dumbledore pulled out his wand. Chairs, tables and books piled themselves in front of the door to form a crude barricade. “I'm so dreadfully sorry about your parents, my dear. You must know that I did everything in my power to protect them.”

“I know you did, Professor,” She clutched the tiny heart-shaped locket hanging around her neck. “But my life was over even before they were taken. It ended the day we lost Harry.”

The old man shook his head. “I was so certain that he was the one who would fulfill the prophecy and destroy Voldemort.” He buried his head in his wizened, wrinkled hands. “I sent that poor boy to his death… How could I have been so completely wrong?” Looking up, he saw a dusty, leather-bound journal—his diary—sitting amid the debris on his desk. He picked it up and clutched it to his heart. “Can such hubris ever be forgiven?”

“You mustn't blame yourself, Professor,” Hermione said gently. “We did our best. It simply wasn't meant to be.” She opened the locket. In a secret compartment behind the picture of Harry was a small glass vial—his final gift to her. Looking around, she found two goblets lying on the floor amid the rubble, then located Dumbledore's supply of brandy. “Will you join me in a drink, Professor?”

“Eh?”

She filled both goblets then opened the vial and started to put a few drops in each.

“NO!” the old man roared. With a sudden burst of renewed vigor, Dumbledore leapt to his feet and grabbed the drinks away from her, tossing them out one of the shattered windows. “THIS IS NOT OVER!”

In the distance they could hear the sounds of the fighting moving closer as the enemy advanced through the castle corridors.

“You know what they'll do to us if we're taken alive!”

The old man wasn't listening. He seemed to be concentrating, as if gathering his remaining strength.

“Una salus victis nullam sperare salutem!” A tiny disc of light began to glow in the center of the room. As the old man continued to chant, it grew larger and larger until it was the size of a door. “You must start again!” Whatever he was doing, it was clearly a tremendous effort and the strain was beginning to tell. “You must rebuild! You are the only one who can!”

“What is it, Professor?” She peered inside. Unseen by Hermione, the old wizard placed a hand in the small of her back and shoved her into the portal. His last energies spent, the old man dropped to his knees as the portal slowly faded away. A blast of magic reduced the doors to the Headmaster's private sanctuary to splinters and now the Dark Lord stood triumphant over the body of his greatest enemy. He raised his wand.

“Avada--!” He knelt down beside the old man and felt for a pulse. “Stubborn old fool! You wouldn't even grant me the satisfaction of killing you myself.”

“Turn it off,” Hermione wailed as she buried her head in Harry's chest.

The Doctor hit a switch and the screen went dark, but he wasn't really listening to her. “A simple, straightforward portal from one dimension into another.” He began pacing back and forth across the control room. “I just don't understand it…”

“So, what do we do now, Doctor?” Harry asked.

“Perhaps if I could observe Hermione emerging into your dimension, I might—.”

“No, Doctor,” Hermione said in a strangely calm voice. “We're going to stay in this dimension for a little while.” She was pointing her wand at the Doctor once more.

“Hermione!” cried Harry. “What are you doing?”

“Giving in to temptation, I'm afraid,” she said. “I'm sorry.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw K-9 swing around and extend his ray emitter. Hermione quickly whirled to face him. “Alea iacta est!”

“Master!” A fountain of sparks suddenly erupted from the mechanical dog's body. Its head lowered and the lights on its control panel went out.

Horrified, the Doctor turned to Hermione. “You've killed my second-best friend!”

“I just blew his fuses, Doctor,” she assured him. “I didn't do any permanent damage.”

“Hermione, what is going on?” Harry asked.

“We're going back into the past, Harry.” She turned to where the Doctor now knelt over the lifeless form of his little mechanical friend. “You're going to help me stop the war with Voldemort before it begins, Doctor.”

“You're not the first person ever to ask such a thing of me, Hermione--and I suspect that you won't be the last person that I refuse.”

“I'm not giving you a choice, Doctor.”

“You can kill me if you like.” The Doctor shrugged. “It wouldn't be the first time for that, either.” (Hermione had no idea that the Time Lords were capable of regenerating entirely new bodies if they became fatally ill or were mortally wounded, so there was little chance that she could actually kill him—but to the Doctor it seemed a shame to waste such a precious gift over a petty little argument such as this.) ”If I'm dead, who's going to pilot the TARDIS for you?”

Hermione strode over to the console and looked it over. With a self-satisfied smile, she reached across and hit a series of switches, then turned a dial. The Doctor's face went chalk white. This little girl from the primitive, backward planet of Earth actually seemed to know how to program space/time coordinates into the TARDIS' navigation system.

“WAIT!” The Doctor walked over to the console. “I'll take you to the past,” he said with a look of resignation, “but that's as much as I can do for you.”

“But what could you possibly do, once you get there?” asked Harry.

Hermione's answer was as much for the Doctor's benefit as for her husband. “There are a few key places where Voldemort made mistakes and we were unable to capitalize on them. A victory at any one of those points could turn the tide in our favor.”

“And if it doesn't?” The Doctor almost seemed to be taunting her.

“Then we'll go back even further and try again.”

“Oh no you won't!” said the Doctor. “You only get `one bite of the apple' as the lawyers say. Once I drop you off, you're on your own. I'm not going to spend the rest of my lives in prison for aiding and abetting!”

Hermione was unfazed. “Fair enough, Doctor. As long as I get my `bite' as you say, I'll make it count.”

“How can you be sure which event to change?” Harry asked. “Suppose you end up making things even worse?”

“It's a risk I'm willing to take, Harry! Don't you see? It's not just for me! It's for all the millions of wizards and Muggles that Voldemort has killed over the years! If I were a Holocaust survivor, would anyone blame me for trying to assassinate Adolph Hitler before he could murder all those people? I'd be willing to strangle the infant Tom Riddle in front of his mother if that's what it takes.”

“I'm not unsympathetic, Hermione,” the Doctor said gently. “Among my people I am considered a renegade. Long ago the Time Lords adopted a policy of non-interference. They were content to simply observe and not get involved in the affairs of others. I was different; I couldn't just stand by while the strong bullied the weak and evil triumphed over good. That was why I left. No one knows more than I how tempting it is to go back and tamper with the past. In my travels I've witnessed more than my share of horrors. Not to diminish in any way the pain that you're feeling, but I've seen entire star systems wiped out by megalomaniacs who make your Lord Voldemort look like an amateur. If I had time, I could tell you stories about the Sontarans, the Cybermen, the Daleks, the Master… It took me a long time to learn that along with all the death and destruction, a great deal of good can also come out of adversity. You used the example of World War II. Peoples who had never gotten along before put aside their differences in order to unite against a common enemy. The United States became a world power and, in spite of some missteps here and there, a force for freedom and democracy around the world.”

“If it weren't for the war, you might not have been born,” Harry said, jumping in. “You told me yourself that your grandparents would never have met if your grandfather hadn't been in the RAF.”

“War can also be the impetus for technological innovation,” the Doctor continued. “Radar, jet engines, computers. Many of the engineers who were responsible for the moon landing—”

“Well then!” Hermione was almost hysterical. “Obviously, all those people being slaughtered was a good thing!”

“No.” The Doctor shook his head. “That's just the way that history works. You have to take the bad along with the good. Slavery and genocide are abominations, but unfortunately without them, much of your modern world would not exist as it does. The trick is knowing when to intervene and when to let things run their course.”

“And just what good could possibly come from the death of an entire magical civilization?”

“The birth of a new magical civilization,” Harry pointed out. “We were going to build it together. Remember?”

Hermione's lower lip began to quiver, but she was determined not to lose her resolve.

“Set the coordinates, Doctor,” she ordered. “I'll give you the time period and the location.”

A hand grabbed hold of Hermione's ankle. James Bond had regained consciousness, but had been playing possum for some time. As Hermione aimed her wand and attempted to hex him, she stumbled backwards, sending the spell right into the TARDIS console. The entire room began to vibrate like a washing machine with an unbalanced load. The wheezing and groaning was almost deafening this time.

“We're out of control!” yelled the Doctor.

End Of Chapter Three

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Due to the demands of the “real world” and the diversion of my energies into creating my own original stories, it may be a while before this story is updated.

“”
I'm the urban spaceman, baby, I could fly,
I'm a supersonic guy
I don't need pleasure, I don't feel pain,
If you were to knock me down, I'd just get up again
I'm the urban spaceman, baby, I'm making out,
I'm all about

I wake up every morning with a smile upon my face
My natural exuberance spills out all over the place
I'm the urban spaceman, I'm intelligent and clean,
Know what I mean?

I'm the urban spaceman, as a lover second to none,
It's a lot of fun
I never let my friends down, I've never made a boob
I'm a glossy magazine, an advert on the tube
I'm the urban spaceman, baby, here comes the twist
I don't exist.

See “Have We Met?” at www.astronomytower.org or “Child's Play” Chapter One at www.fanfiction.net

“The Morning After The Night Before”

Chapter Four:

“Previews of Coming Attractions”

“Train up a child in the way he should go,

and when he is old,

he will not depart from it.”

Proverbs, 22:6

“Hello, Joseph. Trouble?”

“It looks like we'll have to send someone down. A lot of people keep asking for help for a man named George Bailey.”

“George Bailey. Yes. Tonight's his crucial night. You're right. We'll have to send someone down immediately. Whose turn is it?”

“That's why I came to see you, sir. It's that clock-maker's turn again.”

“Oh, Clarence. Hasn't got his wings yet, has he?”

“We've passed him up right along. Because, you know, sir, he's got the I.Q. of a rabbit.”

“Yes, but he has the faith of a child.”

“It’s A Wonderful Life”

.

*******

“Professor Potter?” Victoria Strabel reached out a tentative hand and touched the shoulder of the sleeping form lying on the ground at her feet, who lifted her head and, blinking her eyes in the glare of the afternoon sun, reached up a hand to shade them. “Are you all right, Professor?”

The woman could just make out the blurry form of a young girl standing over her, who looked to be about twelve, with straight brown hair that hung just past her shoulders and small eyes that were so dark that they looked like black dots painted on the face of a doll.

“Why do you call me ‘Professor’?” the woman asked blearily. “Do I know you?”

“There are times when we both wish that you didn’t.” Victoria smiled, her eyes narrowing into tiny black half-moons. “Of course, if you could manage to forget about my test scores from last term, I wouldn’t object.” She was dressed in a school blazer and a long black robe just like…

“Hogwarts…?”

“We’re not too far from the school, Professor.” Victoria knelt down and gently felt the back of her teacher’s head. There were no lumps but there was plenty of grass, dirt and dead leaves clinging to her bushy light brown hair. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swollen as if she had been crying. “Did you fall and hurt yourself?”

“I’m not sure. My head’s still pretty foggy. I remember being in the TARDIS… Then that fellow from MI6 turned up… There was that mechanical dog… Did you say that I’m your teacher?”

Victoria nodded, even more concerned at the way the woman was rambling. “Professor Hermione Potter: Transfiguration, Muggle Studies and advanced Arithmancy. Some of us feel as though we’ve spent more time with you than with our own parents—not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course!” she hastily added.

“What’s your name?”

“Strabel, Victoria Strabel. Second year.” Victoria reached out a hand to help the professor to her feet. “You do remember that I’m one of your favorite pupils, don’t you?” she added hopefully.

“Top of the list.” Professor Potter had been lying in the grass beneath a massive, centuries-old oak tree at the edge of a large lake—and though Victoria was dying of curiosity, she had yet to mention the fact that her teacher was dressed only in a nightgown, a robe and bedroom slippers.

It appeared that the professor was finally beginning to recognize her surroundings. She focused (as best she could) on Victoria. “Just what were you doing out here, young lady?”

“We—um—that is— I—like to come out here and…” For all Victoria’s attempts at subtlety, Professor Potter could hardly miss her attempt to nudge an empty bottle under a nearby shrub with the heel of her foot—or that the ground around them was covered with cigarette butts. The sounds of nervous whispers were coming from the bushes behind them. “…study?”

Professor Potter shook her head and said, “It’s all right, girls,” loud enough for the others to hear— and evidently causing her head to begin hurting again. “I’m assuming that it was only butterbeer, so I won’t turn you in this time, but if I ever catch you out here again—”

There was much bowing and scraping along with a chorus of “Yes, Professor!” “We won’t, Professor,” and “Thank you, Professor!” as a small gaggle of twelve and thirteen year-old girls dressed in Hogwarts uniforms and robes emerged from the shrubbery and beat a hasty retreat into the woods. Victoria reluctantly remained behind, still eyeing her teacher with concern as the Professor rubbed her aching head.

“Psssst!” From behind a tree came a voice, as well as a hand and a wrist wearing a bracelet with dangling pink hearts, orange stars, green clovers and yellow moons, all motioning her to come closer. Victoria immediately recognized her younger cousin Melissa’s lucky charm bracelet and sidled up to the trunk.

“I’m going to help her back to the Hospital Wing,” Victoria whispered. “It might improve our chances of avoiding detention for life.”

“What makes you think that we’re the ones in trouble?” Melissa’s blue eyes glistened as her lips curled into that evil half-smile she always got when a scheme was brewing. In many ways, the two cousins were complete opposites. Melissa Peters was as blonde as Victoria was dark. Where Victoria was quiet and introverted, Melissa was outspoken and fearless—often to the point of recklessness. (Their little sojourn into the woods had been Melissa’s idea.) Even though she was the youngest member of their little gang, more often than not, whenever mischief was afoot, Melissa was the instigator. “We weren’t the ones passed out in the woods wearing nothing but a nightgown and bedroom slippers!”

“Are you out of your mind?” After a year and a half of Transfiguration, Victoria knew full well what Professor Potter was capable of doing to them, but before she could say any more, Melissa had quietly disappeared into the trees.

The professor’s voice was still shaky but sounded a little stronger. “To whom are you speaking?”

“No one!” Victoria squeaked. “I—I thought I’d dropped my wand over here.” The professor was rubbing her head again. “Why don’t you let me take you back to the Hospital Wing, Professor?”

“That might be a good idea.” Professor Potter paused, remembering her current state of dress. “Maybe I should change into something more appropriate first.” With a flick of her wand, she transformed her nightgown and robe into a dignified ensemble more befitting a Hogwarts professor: a black knee-length skirt, a blazer and a black robe. She’d also snuck in a few cosmetic charms, which removed the redness from her eyes and secured her unruly hair into a neat ponytail at the back of her head.

*******

“If only she hadn’t taken her wand with her,” Harry Potter complained aloud to the surrounding trees, who did not answer. He and Hermione had intended to get him a wand of his own from the old woman on Portobello Road whom Molly had recommended, but what with running into the Doctor and accidentally being hurtled through time, they just hadn’t gotten ‘round to it. At least the Doctor was kind enough loan him some clothes, so that he didn’t have to go running around the woods in his pajamas.

Judging by the tiny shafts of light that still managed to penetrate the thick canopy of foliage above him, Harry supposed that it was approaching midday, but the forest around him only grew thicker and darker the further he went. There was something disturbing about these woods. Harry half expected to see a young girl in a red hood carrying a picnic basket to her dear old granny.

For some reason, the words to the old children’s song echoed through his mind:

“If you go down to the woods today,
You’d better not go alone!

It’s lovely down in the woods today,
But safer to stay at home!”[1]

Sound advice, Harry thought, but he wasn’t going anywhere until he had found Hermione. Just then Harry’s foot caught on a thick tree root and he stumbled forward. A hand grabbed him by the arm and pulled him upright.

“All right, son?”

Harry turned around with a gasp. “Mr. Bond?” Somehow the man from Her Majesty’s Secret Service had managed to sneak up behind him without so much as a twig snapping to give him away. It was becoming clear to Harry that James Bond was very good as his job.

When Harry was once again securely on his feet, 007 released his grip. “Any sign of your little friend?”

“The ground’s too hard to leave any footprints.” Harry rubbed his arm, rotating his shoulder a few times to make sure it hadn’t been dislocated. “And we’re not a couple of eight-year-olds, Mr. Bond,” he pointed out. “Hermione is my wife.”

Bond was about to say something biting in reply, but instead found himself overwhelmed by the terrible melancholy—and the memories of Tracy.[2]—that the word “wife” always brought him. “Whatever you say, lad.”

Bond knelt down and checked the ground for signs. He picked up a broken branch and showed Harry how the inside was still green and oozing sap. “The breaks are fresh, and she can’t have gotten far in the state she was in.” They silently followed the trail of broken branches and recently trampled plants. “You know, it wasn’t terribly smart to go charging after her like that when she ran out of the TARDIS,” Bond scolded. “The Doctor still isn’t sure exactly where—or for that matter, when we are. Considering that he’s already managed to land us in the middle of three battles: the siege of Troy, Agincourt and the Little Big Horn—”

“I don’t care were we are, Mr. Bond,” Harry told him. “I’m not giving up until I find her.”

“Harry,” Bond’s voice softened. “For all we know it’s 1944 and this forest is the Argonne.” The boy’s puzzled look told Bond that Harry had no idea what that meant. “Never mind.” The secret agent shook his head. “Just do me a favor. If you happen to hear a bunch of men singing Lili Marlene in German, run as fast as you can in the opposite direction.”

They explored in silence for a short time until Harry finally spoke. “Was the Doctor having any luck repairing the TARDIS?”

“When I left him, he was still fiddling with that ridiculous mechanical dog of his.”

“He did say that things would go faster if he had K-9 to help him.”

“Perhaps our luck will improve,” 007 said, shrugging, “and we’ll wind up at Balaclava just in time to join the charge of the Light Brigade.”

********

For a long time student and teacher walked in silence around the edge of the lake until Victoria finally worked up enough courage to speak.

“Professor? If you don’t mind my saying so—you look different.”

“Really? How so?”

“I don’t know… Younger, I think. Did you have a…?” Victoria patted the underside of her chin with the back of her hand.

“A Face Lift Charm? Something like that.” Professor Potter cleared her throat uncomfortably, and then quickly changed the subject. “I can’t quite place your accent. American?”

“Texan,” the girl replied self-consciously. “I think I’ve just about convinced the other girls to stop calling me ‘Big Tex’.” She had pulled her wand from the pocket of her robes and had begun tapping it against the palm of her left hand. “I’m a little taller than most of the kids in my year.”

“Pretty ‘fast on the draw’, eh?” Her student winced at the obvious joke and nodded in reply. “Just between us girls, what hex do you use?”

“Well…If I do say so myself, I’m pretty handy with a Jelly Legs Jinx.”

“So was I—but I was better with a Full Body Bind.” Once again she quickly changed the subject. “So, what brings you to Hogwarts?”

“A big steam locomotive.” Her sly grin drew a “We are not amused” look from the professor. “My cousin Melissa and I are studying here until the school in New Orleans is finished.”

“We’re building a school in America…?” It was more like a revelation than a question. Construction on the American schools had been underway for well over a year, but it was as if the Professor were hearing about it for the first time. Victoria’s puzzled expression seemed to bring the older woman back to reality. “So, tell me about yourself, Miss Strabel. Any signs of magic in your family, before—?”

“A few things…” the girl began. “Somehow my parents always managed to explain them away. They kept trying to convince me that I was a normal little girl just like everyone else. Of course, that all went out the window when the package arrived…”

Victoria eagerly tore open the big manila envelope and poured the contents out onto her bed. Her little brother Derik and her cousins Melissa and Shelby would be so jealous because their Harry Potter® Fan Club Kit ^TM hadn’t arrived yet. There were stickers, puzzles, games and even a free sample of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans®. Best of all there was an official membership card and an autographed picture of Harry Potter®. As Victoria inventoried her treasures, she discovered a large sheet of yellow parchment and a big eagle-feather quill. She dug around some more until she found a tiny bottle labeled “Magic Ink for Secret Messages.”

She spread the parchment out on her writing desk and set the bottle next to it. As she searched for the instructions, she failed to notice the inkbottle uncorking itself and the quill rising into the air. It dipped its nib into the bottle and carefully wiped away the excess ink on the rim. As Victoria turned around she saw it float over to the parchment and begin to write:

Are we alone?

Victoria slowly backed away until her legs hit the edge of the bed. The quill wrote another message. Frightened as she was, the girl’s curiosity got the better of her. She scrambled onto the bed and got up on all fours so that she was high enough to see what was being written.

Don’t be afraid.

“Easy for you to say.”

“It’s all right,” came a voice from the end of the bed. The photograph of Harry Potter® was speaking to her! “This wouldn’t be happening unless you were someone very special. These objects only come alive in the presence of someone with a very special gift. It’s nothing evil or dangerous,” Harry said reassuringly, “I promise!” The picture gave her a big juicy wink then nodded toward the desk. “Go on!”

Her curiosity piqued, she climbed off of the bed and warily sat down at her desk. The words on the parchment soaked into the paper and disappeared. The quill then dipped in the inkbottle once more and resumed writing.

Has anything ever happened to you that you simply can’t explain?

Have you ever sensed things that happened far away or in the future?

Do objects or animals behave strangely when you are near?”

Victoria caught her breath, covering her mouth with her hand. All of those things had happened to her at one time or another in her eleven years. “Yes.”

There’s a very simple explanation for all those things.

You’re a witch.

That simple statement was enough to overload poor Victoria’s brain, and the magical objects seemed to understand that a more personal touch was required. Victoria was instructed to write her name and address and the names of her parents and her siblings on the parchment and give it to the owl that appeared at her window a few minutes later. The next morning a nice woman with brown eyes and bushy brown hair calling herself Professor Potter, (the wife of Harry Potter—who was a very nice lady, by the way—even if she wasn’t as glamorous as the actress who played her on television) showed up at the front door and patiently explained the situation to Victoria’s family.

It turned out that, just as on television, Harry Potter was really a wizard pretending to be an ordinary stage magician. He was using his enormous wealth and fame to search out others with magical abilities so that he could help them learn to use their “special gifts” for the benefit of all mankind. It was very important, Mrs. Potter explained, that the true purpose of the school be kept a secret. As far as the outside world was concerned, “Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry” was simply a school for “gifted children” based around the theme of Harry’s television show.

Once the initial shock of their daughter being a witch wore off, Victoria’s parents began to wonder how they would pay for all this—especially since the school was in England! Much to their relief, Professor Potter explained that no money would be required. Hogwarts had received a large special endowment from its alumni. Harry would take care of everyone’s expenses.

After that, amazing experiences seemed to come faster and faster: The limousine that came to collect her from her house in Arlington, Texas; The ride aboard Harry Potter’s private jet to Heathrow airport in London…

The strangest of all was gathering at the platform in King’s Cross Station for the final leg of their journey to the school. A sign had been put up designating Platform Ten as “Platform 9 ¾”. Teenage volunteer “counselors” were running around dressed in pointed wizard hats and cheesy multi-colored polyester robes with silver stars glued on them. The men wore fake cotton beards and everyone carried little plastic battery-powered wands with stars on the ends that would light up when you pushed a button. It was if they were going out of their way to make sure that the outside world treated the whole thing as a big joke. These children weren’t really going to a school to learn about magic. It was all just window dressing—like a “dude ranch” or a Renaissance fair. Everyone would dress up in costume and eat roasted turkey legs in the “Banquet Hall”, but they were really there to study the three “Rs” just like at any other school.

Victoria noted a small but vocal group of protesters standing behind a police line at the end of the platform, carrying signs proclaiming Harry to be the Anti-Christ. She overheard the parents of a third-year student explain that the protesters turned up like clockwork at the beginning of each new term, but that in recent years, their numbers had been steadily dwindling.

Nearby, a BBC camera crew was performing their part of the annual ritual by dutifully recording a Harry Potter critic—in this case, a middle-aged Kindergarten teacher from Birmingham. “Just who does he think he is, anyway? I mean, just what are Harry Potter’s qualifications to run a school?”

“But what about their phenomenal success rate?” the reporter interrupted. “Government figures say that Hogwarts students score higher on standard achievement tests. They’re more likely to go on to university and graduate with honors. They—”

At that point one of the protesters managed to slip past the police barriers and get in front of the camera and yell, “ You are sending your children to damnation!!” before the police hauled him away.

Victoria had never been much of a railroad buff, so the actual journey to Hogwarts held little interest for her. She had, however, become acquainted with a few of the people who would eventually make up her circle of friends— particularly, her best friend, Molly Bree, whose Liverpool accent was the source of nearly as much amusement as was Victoria’s.

The first few days of classes were a nightmare. She dislocated an elbow in her first flying lesson and grew and extra finger on Minnie Post when she improperly mixed a wound-healing potion in Professor Malfoy’s class. Eventually, life settled into a routine, though nothing Victoria would have called “normal”. Even so, after a few weeks she began to learn her way around and begin to feel more at ease. By the end of the first term she was beginning to feel at home—far more than she ever had back in Texas.

In contrast, when her cousin Melissa arrive the next year, she seemed to make friends right away—particularly when the entire school was excused from Divinations class for a week due to her sabotage of Madam Lovegood’s incense burners. (Months later there were still those who claimed that the disagreeable odor had not been completely banished.)

Victoria and Professor Potter emerged from the woods onto a huge well-manicured green, which gently sloped upward. At the top of the hill stood Hogwarts Castle. A few of the towers were still encased in scaffolding, but the building was nearly completed. To Victoria, Professor Potter looked as though she were seeing the place for the very first time. Her eyes lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning. She wiped away a tear. “We really did it, didn’t we, Professor?”

As the professor walked around the courtyard, drinking in her surroundings, a hand tapped Victoria’s shoulder, a familiar bracelet jangled in her ear.

“You were supposed to be pumping her for information, not giving her a family history!” Melissa was standing beside her with a disgusted look on her face.

“I don’t think she remembers what happened to her,” Victoria hissed.

“I’ll just bet she doesn’t.” Melissa was smiling that evil smile again. “Who would have thought that the headmaster’s wife was a boozer?”

“I didn’t smell anything on her breath.”

“I bet she uses that breath freshening charm Marci Tate’s older sister uses when she smokes pot.”

“I’m not so sure.” Victoria frowned. “There’s something more going on than that. Why does she suddenly look more like a kid than one of the teachers?”

“I think you’ve just got a soft spot for her, my dear cousin.”

To be sure, Professor Hermione Potter could be a stern taskmaster, but she had shown a great deal of patience and understanding with both Victoria’s and Melissa’s parents when they first learned that their daughters were witches. It was largely because of her counsel that they finally came to accept what was happening, however reluctantly. If her teacher were truly in trouble, Victoria decided that it was her duty to try and help. She returned her attention to the professor just in time see her heading for the west entrance. “I think maybe I’d better follow her.”

“Good idea.” Melissa had to sprint to catch up with her cousin, who was already halfway to the door. The two girls slowed their pace only when they spotted a pair of prefects emerging from the greenhouse.

Once inside the school, they spotted their quarry headed toward the Great Hall. A few students were finishing their lunch as the girls peered through the great oak doors to look for her. Just then, a big, meaty hand settled onto each girl’s shoulder.

“What do we have here?” said a familiar voice. “It’s Peters and… Strabel! Isn’t it?

“Hello, Mr. Weasley.” Victoria was doing her best not to look guilty. It seemed as though Melissa had been practicing her “innocent” look practically since the day she was born.

Mister Ronald Weasley, (for he had never been truly comfortable with the title “Professor”), stood well over six feet, with a lean, wiry frame. Combined with his bright red hair and Abe Lincoln beard, he looked like an overgrown leprechaun. The teacher looked down at the two mismatched cousins before him and gave them a cockeyed grin. “And just what are you two troublemakers up to this time?”

“Troublemakers?” Melissa was positively insulted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Weasley.”

“Let’s see… a little incident last term in the third floor girls’ restroom. Something about and Blast-Ended Skrewts in the toilets, as I recall?”

“There was no evidence that my cousin and I had anything to do with that,” Melissa reminded him.

“That’s why the verdict was ‘Not Proved’, counselor.” Mr. Weasley grinned even wider. He often joked that his brothers Fred and George should adopt these two. Now he was more convinced than ever. “’Not Guilty’ was never an option.”

Just then, Professor Moroboshi, the History of Magic teacher, walked up and whispered something into Mr. Weasley’s ear. His scarlet brows came together in a look of deep concern. “Inside the castle?” he said, a little louder than he’d intended. The other man nodded. “Alert the prefects. I want the students who are in classes to stay where they are. Keep the lunch crowd in the Great Hall. Anyone who isn’t in class—” He turned to Victoria and Melissa. “You two get up to your dormitories on the double!”

“What’s going on?” Victoria asked.

“We’ve got an intruder in the castle. Now get moving!”

Melissa grabbed Victoria’s hand and quickly dragged her away, but as soon as they reached a bend in the corridor, she stopped and looked back to make sure that they couldn’t be seen.

“You heard Mr. Weasley,” Victoria protested. “We’re supposed to get up to the dorms!”

“Don’t you get it?” her cousin said as the evil twinkle returned to her eyes. “Now it all makes sense!”

“What are you talking about?”

“That woman we thought was Professor Potter! You said yourself that she looked different! It also explains why she doesn’t remember anything!” Melissa’s mind was racing. “She has to be using Polyjuice potion…”

“You think she might be some kind of a spy?”

“What else? The headmaster’s enemies would give anything to get someone inside this place who could prove to the world that they’re really teaching us magic.” Melissa slapped her forehead. “We had her within wand’s reach! One stunning spell and I could have been Valedictorian!”

“With your grades?” her cousin snorted derisively.

“Never mind that! There’s still a chance to pull this off!” Pulling her wand from her robes, Melissa set off down the corridor; nose forward like a bloodhound on the scent.

“I just don’t know,” Victoria said, just before her cousin motioned for her to keep her voice down. In spite of the dirty looks she was getting from Melissa, Victoria continued, “She just didn’t act like a spy to me!”

“Like she’s gonna hand you a business card and introduce herself! ‘Hello! I’m a spy! Can you tell me where they keep the classified stuff?’”

“Maybe I’m crazy,” Victoria grumbled, “but to me she seemed—I don’t know—kind of lost.”

“Well, thanks to Mr. Weasley, we’ve definitely lost her.”

“Lost whom?” Aloysius Parker III (known to his friends as “Nosey”) pushed his immense tortoise shell spectacles back from the end of his pudgy freckled nose. The second-year Hufflepuff quickly shifted a lock of sandy blond hair out of his face in an attempt to make himself more presentable. “Hello, Melissa,” he sighed dreamily.

Melissa was in no mood for such nonsense. “Did Professor Potter pass this way?”

“Huh?”

“PRO-FES-SOR POT-TER,” she repeated slowly as if interpreting for the hard of hearing. “HAVE YOU SEEN HER?”

As usual, Nosey was oblivious to Melissa’s sarcasm. “She was walking in the direction of the Astronomy Tower. Is something--?” The girls were gone before he could finish his sentence. “Melissa? Didn’t you hear the orders?” He began following them. “Wouldn’t you like me to walk you back to your dormitory?”

“We’re looking for Professor Potter,” Melissa reiterated.

“Why?”

“Because she’s not really Professor Potter,” Melissa explained.

“She’s not?”

“We think she’s the intruder everyone’s been looking for.”

“Intruder? You mean she’s a spy?”

Melissa’s patience was wearing thin. “We could spend the rest of our lives having this conversation…. Yes, she’s a spy.”

Nosey’s eyes went wide. “Cool!”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Victoria reminded them.

“Well, we’ll never know for sure unless we find her!” Melissa folded her arms and tapped her foot as she tried to think. “If only we had some way of moving around without being seen…”

“Madam Hasenpfeffer’s been teaching us to weave invisibility cloth. I’ve got some with me! You want to see?”

“An invisibility cloak!” Melissa squealed, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Mr. Parker, if you weren’t the most disgusting thing that ever walked on two legs, I’d kiss you!” The girls’ eyes lit up as Nosey reached into the pocket of his robes. They could hear the rustle of cloth as he withdrew his hand, grasping an invisible object in his fingers. He draped the unseen article over his free hand, which promptly vanished up to the end of his sleeve. Judging by the area covered, it was no more than a foot square.

“That’s it?” Melissa asked incredulously. “You call that a cloak? It’s more like a handkerchief!”

“That’s just for practice. We start working on the full cloak on Monday.”

Melissa shook her head. “Maybe the spy will be nice enough to wait around until you’re finished.” She grabbed Victoria’s hand and started to leave.

The boy lowered his head dejectedly, stuffed his hands into his pockets and began to walk away. “I suppose you guys already thought of using a Chameleon Spell.” He shrugged. “Never mind. It was a dumb idea anyway.”

Melissa’s ears pricked up. “Chameleon Spell?”

“Sure. Haven’t you guys studied that yet? It’s not as good as having an invisibility cloak, though, ‘cause technically you’re not really invisible. You’re just the same colors as whatever you’re standing in front of. If you move around too much, people can see you. You see, I’m taking all these advanced classes so I can take my O.W.L.s a year early and then—“

Melissa clamped a hand over his mouth, silencing his diatribe. “Mr. Parker, I want you to listen to me very carefully. I’m going to ask you two very simple questions and I want you to give me simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers. First, do you know how to perform the Chameleon Spell, and second, can you do it without killing, maiming, disfiguring or just plain humiliating us?”

Nosey tried to speak but Melissa’s hand remained firmly pressed to his mouth, so he simply nodded his head.

“Wizard’s honor?”

Nosey nodded, grabbed the end of his nose and both ear lobes in quick succession, then held up three fingers in the traditional “wizard’s honor” sign.

“Good. Then let’s get started.”

***********

Hermione Potter drew more than a few odd stares as she made her way along the corridors. Determined to explore every nook and cranny of the school, she felt compelled to touch practically every brick in order to convince herself that the whole thing wasn’t just a dream. After watching all of her friends fall in battle and seeing the original castle reduced to ruins, this was nothing short of a miracle.

Finding the Astronomy Tower empty, she stood at the school’s highest pinnacle and shouted at the top of her lungs, “We did it, Professor!”

A few minutes later, she paused at the entrance to the headmaster’s office, wondering if she ought to try and go in. What if the headmaster were there? How would she explain herself?

“It’s all right, Mrs. Potter,” the stone gargoyle said. “My orders are to let you go right up.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

The gargoyle moved aside and the staircase began to rotate upwards. Deciding not to argue, Hermione simply hopped onto the next available landing. Perhaps she was imagining things, but she could have sworn that she heard footsteps on the stairs behind her. Ever since she’d left the Astronomy Tower, she’d had the strange feeling that she was being followed, but she had been far too preoccupied to give it any credence. Just underneath the grinding of stone against metal, she thought she heard the gargoyle’s voice.

“Who goes there?”

Though the basic layout of the headmaster’s office was the same as she remembered, there was one significant difference: high-tech video monitors covered an entire wall behind the big walnut desk, each playing a feed from a different network.

Apart from the monitors, the most striking difference from Albus Dumbledore’s office was that there were only a few magical paintings; one was of her, Harry, Ron and a few faces she didn’t recognize—possibly a group portrait of the faculty? The rest of the walls were covered with photographs. Some were magical, but most (particularly the earlier ones) were not.

A large framed picture at the far end of the room caught her eye. It was a portrait of five children, four boys and a girl, lined up like stair steps from the oldest—a sturdy lad of seventeen or eighteen—to the youngest—the little girl, who must have been ten or eleven because she looked exactly like Hermione did her first year at Hogwarts. The boys all resembled Harry, (right down to the spectacles) though the younger two had hair closer in color and texture to their mother.

Five children, Hermione thought. On the one hand, she was overjoyed that she would be able to give Harry the family he always wanted—on the other hand; five children meant five pregnancies, five labors and five births. Various parts of her began to ache at the thought.

Sitting on the desk in a place of honor was a sterling silver frame. In contrast to the expensive frame, the picture inside was a humble five-by-seven inch print of the sort you get from any neighborhood chemists’ shop. It was of herself and Harry standing outside a modest little two-story apartment building. Harry was standing behind her with his arms around her waist—no easy feat, since she was extremely pregnant. The faces that grinned back at her looked to be the most blissfully happy couple on Earth.

“Our first flat,” came a familiar voice from behind her. Hermione spun around. With the exception of a few extra lines around the eyes and mouth, the face that confronted her was the same one that she had seen in the mirror every day of her life. The older woman wore a long black robe, a pointed hat and round spectacles, making her look like a middle-aged version of Professor McGonagall. Her bushy brown hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. Woven among the brown, Hermione could just make out a few strands of gray. The older woman picked up the photograph from the desk and lovingly ran her finger over the image of Harry. “There was something—dare I say, ‘magical’ about that time? Harry and I were still discovering things about each other and about ourselves. Everything was brand new.” She replaced the photo on Harry’s desk.

“You let me in here!” Hermione gasped. “That’s why the gargoyle didn’t care if I knew the password or not! You wanted me to see all this—to see the future! Why?”

“When I—that is, when you ran out of the TARDIS, you were in a terrible state.”

“Yes, I was.” Hermione sank down into a chair facing the headmaster’s desk. “Intellectually, I understood what was happening to me. It’s perfectly normal for someone who’s been through everything that I have to experience a certain amount of ‘survivor’s guilt’—” Her eyes were beginning to tear up once more.

The older woman nodded in sympathy. “—but seeing poor Professor Dumbledore die all over again on the TARDIS viewscreen only served to make it worse.”

“He had sent me here on a mission,” Hermione sobbed, “and all I could think about was being back in Harry’s arms again.”

“But isn’t that exactly where—?”

The younger Hermione wasn’t really listening. “Then the Doctor came along with his wretched time machine!” Her fists clenched in rage. “He dangled hope in front of me like a carrot, then yanked it away! I could have changed the past—defeated Voldemort back in the Wizarding World once and for all! I might even have found a way to prevent Harry’s parents from dying and to give him the normal life he’s always longed for!”

“And if you had accomplished all that?” the older woman prodded gently, “What of this world?”

The younger Hermione was caught off guard, unable to answer for some time. “I hadn’t even considered that.” Her brow furrowed. “If I had managed to alter the past, it means that I would never have come here. The Harry of this world would have been stuck with the Dursleys.”

The older Hermione nodded at her just the way old McGonagall did when a particularly dim student finally seemed to grasp the meaning of a lesson.

“This place would never have been built.” Hermione gazed out the window at the students walking across the lawn to their classes. “Those children would never have learned to use their powers.” She walked over to the portrait of her future offspring. “These children—our children—would never even have been born.” She reached out to touch the image of the little girl.

Neither of them had been paying much attention to the video monitors up to that point, but something the CNN anchor said caught the younger Hermione’s attention.

“…There are unconfirmed reports that the mysterious Order of The Phoenix may have struck again. The incident occurred in the tiny South American country of Corto Maltese. We understand that a prison full of political dissidents is now empty, without a trace of either the prisoners or their jailers. Corto Maltese has been at the top of many human rights organizations’ watch lists for its particularly brutal treatment of those who speak out against the government.

“You may remember a similar incident in the tiny African nation of Nimbia last September. As in this case, the Order proclaimed responsibility with a stylized drawing of a phoenix burned into a stone wall by some unknown means. While the prisoners later turned up at a hospital for torture victims in Sweden run by Doctors Without Borders, the jailers have not been seen or heard from since. Rumors persist that the Order deals harshly with those who torture their fellow human beings and that a most unpleasant end awaits them.

“In a possibly related story; food, water and medicine continue to find their way into famine-ravaged areas of the Sudan in spite of both government and rebel attempts to prevent it. The famine in that area is now into its second year, made worse by the brutal civil war that has been raging for the last eighteen months.”

“The ‘Order of the Phoenix’?” Hermione turned to her older self, astonished. “Harry?”

The older woman nodded. “Remember what Molly said that first day you met her at the Griffin’s Door? ‘Your face will be known throughout the world—but few will truly know you.’”

“Do you mean to say,” came an incredulous voice from the shadows, “that all these years our great nemesis—the nameless, faceless scourge who thwarted our every plan for world domination was…Harry bloody Potter? The magician from the kid’s television program?”

The older Hermione thought she recognized the face of the boy who stepped out of the shadows, holding a wand to Melissa Peters’s throat, but she didn’t recognize the voice. “Mr. Parker? Miss Peters? What in Merlin’s name do you children think you’re doing in the headmaster’s office?”

“I have to admit,” the strange voice said from the boy’s mouth, “my masters underestimated your husband, Professor. They knew he was a hopeless do-gooder, but I don’t think they ever dreamed that he was in any way connected to the Order. Are they in for a surprise when I make my report!”

“I’m sorry, Professor.” Victoria Strabel sheepishly removed the Chameleon Spell that was concealing her. She pointed at the younger Hermione. “We were following her because we thought she was the spy—Turns out it was him all along.” The younger Hermione grabbed the girl by the arm and pulled her into a protective hug.

“You’re obviously not Mr. Parker. Who are you?” Professor Potter demanded of the intruder. “For whom are you working? Are you one of Reverend Ottwell’s people or that fundamentalist senator from America?”

“Those two fanatics?” The strange voice let out a singularly unpleasant sound that might have been a chuckle. “They’re so paranoid about being corrupted by magic, they wouldn’t accept help from one of us, even if it was offered.” The faux Parker shook his head. “You just don’t get it, do you? I’m not here to blow the whistle on your little school, Professor. In fact, I’ve been telling my masters how impressed I am with your teaching methods. You’ve no idea how much my skills have improved since I’ve been here. In my humble opinion, this place will fit into their plans quite nicely. All they need to do is make a few changes here and there to the curriculum—”

The older Hermione was losing patience. “Who are you?”

As he manhandled his hostage toward the center of the room, the boy began to change. Within seconds he had transformed into a man in his late forties with an unremarkable face and thinning mousy brown hair. The change in build caused Mr. Parker’s robes to hang awkwardly from his slightly taller frame and the ends of his sleeves and the cuffs of his pants to recede several inches. The spy smiled as he watched Professor Potter’s brow furrow in confusion. “You hired me as a janitor. Don’t strain yourself trying to put a name to the face, Professor. I can assure you that I’m not anyone you’d recognize. In fact, I’d wager we’ve passed in the corridors a hundred times and you’ve never given me so much as a second thought. Granted, some of that was magic, but folks have always said that I have the kind of face that just doesn’t stick in people’s minds.” He tapped the side of his nose with his finger. “It’s what makes me a good spy.”

“Evidently not that good,” came a voice from the spy’s left. A hitherto concealed door had opened in the wall and several cloaked and hooded figures had emerged, their wands pointed directly at the intruder’s heart. Hoods flew back revealing four very familiar faces—a bit older than in the portrait on the wall, but definitely the male offspring of Harry Potter. The rest of the team consisted of two redheaded teenage boys and a stunning auburn-haired girl who appeared to be joined at the hip to the eldest Potter. There was little doubt in the younger Hermione’s mind that the three redheads were Weasleys, but it was equally clear that the girl didn’t get her looks from Ron’s side of the family. It took a second for Hermione to recognize the final member of the team, but even the gray hair and the salt-and-pepper beard could not disguise the lantern jaw and the intense, piercing eyes.

“Mr. Bond!” she gasped.

The old man gave her a smile, then returned his attention to the developing hostage crisis.

“Killing the girl gets you nothing,” the senior Potter was saying. He had a quiet confidence and authority, which quite impressed his future mother. “You’re certainly not going to give up the only thing you have to bargain with. Now let’s be reasonable about this and you might still walk out of here on your own feet—or at least on human feet.”

“Compared to the cause I serve, boy, my life is inconsequential. I am not afraid die—or to kill. Avada—” The spy pictured the word “Kedavra” clearly in his mind. He felt his mouth open and the muscles of his tongue and lips forming the word, but even as the breath escaped his lungs and his vocal chords began to vibrate, he could have sworn he also heard a soft voice just behind his right ear.

“Silencio.”

The spy spoke the final word of the forbidden curse, but no sound met his ears. He tried again—and again there was no sound. He tried speaking. He tried shouting. He even tried screaming but nothing audible came out of his mouth.

“Well done, everyone!” came a new voice from the secret door. The newcomer pulled back his hood. The messy black hair, the owlish round glasses, and the boyish grin were quite familiar to the younger Hermione; though the face was much more angular and lined by age, and the hair had streaks of gray forming at the temples. He walked over to Melissa and the spy, looking just past them. “And top marks to you for the silencing charm, Mr. Parker!”

“Thank you, Headmaster!” Melissa and the spy turned around to find themselves staring into another familiar face. With a quick wink in Melissa’s direction, the real Aloysius Parker III snatched the wand from the spy’s hand, and at a nod from Harry, snapped it in two.

“Get him down to the dungeons,” Harry instructed the two Weasley boys as they put a binding charm on their prisoner’s wrists. “We’ll let Professor Malfoy have a go at him and see what he has to say under Veritaserum.”

“We found an enchanted mirror in his room,” the auburn-haired girl reported. “We figure that’s how he was able to communicate with his masters without being detected.”

“Uncle Harry—” said one Weasley twin, just as the other nudged him in the ribs with his elbow. “—Headmaster—If his reports suddenly stop, won’t his bosses know that he’s been captured?”

“Who said that his reports were going to stop?” Harry’s face spread into a wide grin, which proved to be contagious. Hermione was struck by the sincere affection and admiration, which she saw in the eyes of the others. With a nod, Harry sent the Weasley boys on their way with the prisoner, and then turned his attention to the two Hermiones. “Hello, Darling!” He slid his arm around the older woman’s waist and kissed her on the cheek, then gave the younger woman a wink. “Hello, Darling.”

“Is that really you, Harry?”

“A bit older,” Harry sighed. “Hopefully, a bit wiser.”

“A bit.” The older woman snuggled against her husband’s side. “I think you’re going to find,” she said to her younger self, “that it’s true what they say about some things improving with age.”

Mr. Bond loudly cleared his throat. “I’d better be getting get back to my students.” He took the younger woman’s hand and kissed it. “It’s good to see you again, Hermione.”

“You were one of us all along?”

“I was as surprised as anyone else,” he replied. “Mind you, it does explain a lot about my days as a secret agent.” He gave the younger Hermione a hug, then disappeared back into the secret passage.

“Not bad.” The youngest of the Potter boys was intently studying the younger version of his mother. “I’m beginning to see now why Dad fancied you.”

“Richard!” the older Hermione chided, as both turned bright red.

“That is your mum, you know!” The auburn-haired girl playfully punched him in the shoulder.

“He always was a bit of a perv,” noted brother number two. “You should see the sort of things he keeps under his mattress.”

“Arthur—!” Richard Potter’s face was now even redder than his mother(s).

“Come on, Oedipus.” Arthur grabbed Richard’s arm and steered him toward the main entrance, while simultaneously herding Victoria, Melissa and Mr. Parker in the same direction. “Let’s get these three back to their dorms before they get into any more trouble.”

The younger Hermione wondered if she should mention finding the two girls and their friends out in the woods drinking and smoking cigarettes, but decided that it wasn’t her place to bring it up.

“Have you had lunch yet, Mr. Parker?” Melissa asked as she took the boy’s arm. Perhaps it was her imagination, but as they were herded toward the revolving staircase, it occurred to her that this Mr. Parker didn’t seem nearly as repulsive as the phony one. Granted, his hair could use some work, and his taste in clothes could certainly benefit from a woman’s touch… Still, all in all, this version had definite possibilities.

Her cousin Victoria could only shake her head in bewilderment.

“Young love,” the auburn-haired Weasley girl sighed romantically. James Potter took that as a cue to draw her into a kiss.

“I don’t see a wedding ring on her finger yet, Potter.” Ron Weasley was standing at the head of the rotating staircase as it came into view.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Weasley,” James shot back. “You will.”

“There’d better not be any need for one there until after she graduates!”

“So, this is my future.” The younger Hermione shook her head in wonder. “How in Merlin’s name do you keep up with it all?”

“Speaking of ‘futures’,” Harry interrupted, taking the younger Hermione by the arm, “there isn’t going to be one if we don’t get you back to the TARDIS. I seem to recall that while you were taking the fifty pence tour of Hogwarts, I was wandering around in the dark woods, worried sick about you.”

***********

A few minutes later, the future Harry and Hermione watched from behind some bushes as their past selves enjoyed a tender reunion.

“Darling, why did you run away like that?”

“It all seems so foolish now,” Hermione said, looking down at her feet.

“I know you were upset about not being allowed to change the past—”

“Forget about the past, Harry!” she laughed as she threw her arms around his neck. “I’ve seen the future!” With no concern whatsoever for the stares of the Doctor, K-9 or Mr. Bond, she drew him into a passionate kiss, causing him to blush furiously. “You’re going to make a wonderful father!” she giggled as she started back toward the TARDIS.

End of Chapter Four

---

[1] The Teddy Bears Picnic” Music and Lyrics by Jimmy Kennedy

[2] See “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service” By Ian Fleming

“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

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[1] The Time Warp Words and Music by Richard O’Brien

[2] Eddie’s Teddy Words and Music By Richard O’Brien