HAVE WE MET
(Chapter Six)
"Strangers"
"So he traveled throughout Galilee, preaching in their synagogues
and driving out demons."
Mark 1:39
******
"Harry, wake up!"
Hermione hated to disturb her husband's sleep. Considering the workout they'd had earlier, he had to be as sore as she was, but this was important. Harry rolled over, buried his face in the huge goose down pillow and mumbled something incoherent.
"wstfgl."
"Harry!"
This time, the noises that came out of his mouth began to sound something like English.
"Hermione. At the very least, the mattress better be on fire-"
Harry was still rubbing the sleep from his eyes as Hermione led him downstairs, through the kitchens, and out into the back garden of Moonlight Court. It was then that Harry saw why he had been dragged from his nice warm bed. Dozens of acolytes surrounded the stone circle and chanted. The "Enlightened One" herself stood in the exact center, leading the chorus in a low, repetitive, insistent cadence. The two visitors watched in awe as the sky changed color from purple to red to gold and the sun inched slowly above the hills, perfectly silhouetting Trelawney against its divine glow. It was as if the believers actually spurred the heavens on as Sol moved in its celestial travels.
They came upon a small group of followers who for one reason or another were unable to participate in the ritual, but were content to sit on the sidelines and cheer on their fellows. "Can you imagine what it must have been like in the days of the Druids," Hermione heard one of them ask breathlessly, "to live in awe of Nature and wonder at both her fury and her benevolence?"
"To work in the fields from dawn to dusk?" Hermione said a bit too loudly. "To give birth to baby after baby in the hope that at least a few of them will survive to adulthood? No medicines, no heating, no air conditioning, no leisure time? No, thank you! Give me the twenty-first century any day." Her outburst earned her more than a few dirty looks as the acolytes got up and moved to another spot.
"Can we go back to bed now?" Harry took Hermione's hand and tried to lead her back toward the house, but she was glued to the spot. "What is it?"
"That chant… Where have I heard it before?"
Harry could only shrug as he fought back another yawn. "I couldn't say. You're the big magic school graduate."
"You're right," she muttered. "I am. I should know this."
Harry tugged at her arm again, but she was hypnotized by the spectacle playing out before them. The noise from the acolyte's chanting faded from her ears. Everything around her, including the heavens, slowed as if time were somehow grinding inexorably to a stop. At that moment, it appeared that the only two living things in the entire universe were Hermione and the Enlightened One. The eerie silence was broken by a voice, which Hermione recognized as her own-yet she wasn't speaking aloud.
"What are you doing, Sibyll?" she heard her voice demand. "What in Merlin's name are you after?"
"Foolish girl." Sibyll Trelawney simply looked at her and smiled. "I've told you already," her voice said, without ever passing through her lips, "I seek enlightenment. Total enlightenment."
The sun's rays sliced between the great stones, causing Harry and Hermione to shield their eyes with their hands and breaking Hermione out of her reverie.
"Remarkable craftsmanship," Hermione heard a familiar voice say as she recovered. "Even after thousands of years of stellar drift and planetary orbital decay, the alignment with the sun is almost perfect."
"Doctor!" Hermione gasped. "You scared the life out of us! What are you doing here?"
The gangly Bohemian tossed one of the trailing ends of his extraordinary multi-colored scarf over his shoulder as he stepped from the shadows. "Same as you, I expect." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Spying."
"`Spying'?" Hermione squeaked. "Us?"
The Doctor flashed one of his Cheshire cat grins and tapped the side of his nose. "Let's just say that it takes one to know one. Judging by your little speech, you two don't strike me as sort to buy into this nonsense."
"Of all the infernal cheek!" Hermione protested. "Besides," she added, doing her best to play dumb, "why would anyone want to spy on these people?"
"Obviously, because they're up to something."
"C'mon," Harry protested. "This is just their version of sunrise services."
"I suspect that there's far more to it than that. This is more than just a simple pagan ritual. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there's a lot more going on here than meets the eye." The Doctor pulled a small hand-held electronic device from one of his pockets and pointed it at the circle. His brow furrowed with concern. "I've been getting some very unusual readings on some critical wave bands."
"From holding hands in a circle and chanting?" Harry's tone suggested that he was beginning to have doubts about the good Doctor's competence-and his sanity. Cleary the man was just as loony as their new friend Miss Lovegood.
Hermione motioned for Harry to keep quiet. "You sound as if you think that they might really have some kind of magical powers," she said nervously, still trying to play innocent.
"Magic?" The Doctor cocked an eyebrow then gave a dismissive snort. "Hardly. Mind you, that's not to say that they couldn't have found a way of channeling psycho-kinetic energy. Very powerful stuff if harnessed properly…" His brow furrowed thoughtfully. "…but to what purpose?"
"Even if it's true," Harry asked, folding his arms across his chest, "what concern is it of yours?"
"Someone is interfering with time," the Doctor declared, "and time is my business."
******
"Forgive me for intruding, Reverend."
"Nonsense, my child," said a velvety smooth voice. "My door is always open to those in need." The tiny office at the rear of the Amazing Grace Mission was comfortable, if a bit on the shabby side. The paint was peeling and a dog-eared copy of Pilgrim's Progress served as a shim to steady one leg of the small metal desk. Several different translations of the Bible sat on a bookshelf improvised from wooden boards and cinder blocks. A handsome young man dressed in jeans and Cardigan sweater reached out his hand to select from among these translations, only to land instead on a well-thumbed copy of Donald Trump's The Art of the Deal. He placed it reverentially on the desk before settling into the frayed vinyl office chair. The chair's long-neglected casters squealed in protest as he scooted forward to avoid the narrow shaft of sunlight peeking through a hole in the window shade. "Please sit down, Miss-?"
"Missus," she corrected, blushing. "Mrs. Dursley-Petunia Dursley."
"Surely you're much too young to be married," the man flattered. "Your lucky dog of a husband must have snatched you right out of the cradle." Petunia sighed as a halo of sunlight formed around the man's perfectly coiffed reddish blonde hair. At that moment she was convinced that the Reverend Gilderoy Lockhart was an angel sent straight from heaven.
"Believe it or not," she giggled, "I have a son who is nearly seventeen." The mention of Dudley jolted her back to reality and the smile faded from her lips." She took off her large straw sunhat, then carefully pulled off her white gloves and set them inside the crown. "In fact, it is my son who so desperately needs your help, Reverend Lockhart."
"And just what can I do for him, Mrs. Dursley?"
"My husband, the doctors, the teachers at Dudley's school, they say that my son is simply going through a phase-that I'm imagining it all. Anyone who knows me knows perfectly well that I am utterly incapable of such a thing."
"Imagination?"
"I am British, after all."
"Quite."
"My family has always been touched by darkness, Reverend Lockhart," she continued, her voice trembling. "It is a terrible black cloud that follows us no matter how we endeavor to escape. My grandmother, my aunts, even my own sister, Lily--!" Sobbing, she opened her purse, took out a tissue and dabbed the corners of her eyes. "My husband and I have done our best to separate ourselves from my family's evil influence and to lead pure and upright lives but, I fear, to no avail. This terrible power has stretched out its hand to strike at my poor, innocent son for his mother's sinful pride in daring to believe that destiny could be averted."
Lockhart pinched the bridge of his nose. The woman's voice grated on his nerves and her caterwauling was starting to give him a migraine. "Excuse me, Mrs. Dursley," he finally interrupted. "Exactly what is it that you believe is wrong with your son?"
"Oh Reverend," she sobbed, "it's almost too horrible for a mother and a God-fearing Christian woman to contemplate, but I fear that my baby-my poor darling Dudley is… possessed!"
There was a long silence before Lockhart finally spoke.
"You mean by a demon? Like in the cinema?"
Oblivious to his incredulous tone, she reached into her purse and pulled out a collection of creased, yellowing newspaper clippings.
"It's clear that you are the only one who can help me. I've been following your career very closely ever since the piece about you in the Times." She shuffled through the clippings. "You told of how you had cast out a demon who had taken possession of a little African boy-!"
Lockhart swallowed hard as she continued to prattle. "You read that, did you?"
"-struggled for three days and nights until you were able to wrench the unclean spirit from the boy's body with your bare hands!"
The Reverend Lockhart muttered something unintelligible. "… completely bonkers … round the bend …"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I-I-was just thinking of a poor young lad in Yonkers I had to defend," he said quickly. "Remarkable case! Floating in the air! Head whirling like a dervish! Pea soup everywhere! What a mess! Went on for days! I was saying to the Pope only the other day, `Demons are a lot like your in-laws. Once they get into your house, you can't get them out with dynamite!'"
"Exactly!" She returned the clippings to her purse. "Unfortunately, our local vicar is one of these modern types who thinks that religion should be all about world peace and making people feel good about themselves-not so much as a word in his sermons about the devil, or judgment or damnation or," her voice dropped to a whisper, "hell." She cleared her throat and her voice returned to normal volume. "To him, evil is simply a disease to be cured in group therapy! He's more a psychiatrist than an ecclesiastic! If truth be told, I sometimes wonder if the man even believes in the supernatural at all!" With what for her was a look of steely-eyed resolve, she began to gather her things. "We must move quickly, Reverend. We haven't a moment to lose!"
"I don't, for a moment, doubt your sincerity, Mrs. Dursley!" Lockhart got to his feet. "But we can't just go rushing into something like this. Exorcism is a very serious business. It takes a highly trained professional to make a proper diagnosis; and, if you'll forgive me for saying so, you are, after all, a layperson." He sat down on the front edge of the desk and took Petunia's hands in his. "And, of course as much as one hates to be so indelicate, few among the laity can truly appreciate the time and, quite frankly, the expense of certain liturgical ingredients and so on…"
"You needn't worry, Reverend," Petunia said with grim determination in her eyes. "Where my Dudders is concerned, money is no object."
Lockhart bit his lip, trying hard to prevent the self-satisfied smirk welling up inside him from spreading across his face.
"Why don't I come round for dinner this evening?" he said after pretending to give the matter careful consideration. "Then I can have a little chat with your son and see what's really going on. After all," he chuckled, "if I were a doctor you wouldn't want me operating on the boy without examining him first. You certainly wouldn't want me taking out his appendix if all he had was a hangnail!" He dropped his voice conspiratorially. "Besides, I haven't had a really good home-cooked meal in ages!"
"You poor dear! Why, yes, of course, if you think it best, Reverend." She took out a note pad and pen, wrote down the address for him, then gathered her things and got to her feet. "It's Number Four, Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey," she said, handing him the slip of paper. "Shall we say seven o'clock?"
"Perfect! Good day, Mrs. Dursley."
"May the Lord bless and keep you, Reverend."
"I'm sure that he will, Mrs. Dursley-in the style to which I intend to become accustomed," Lockhart muttered as Petunia closed the office door behind her.
A moment later, Dennis "Draco" Malfoy stuck his head in the door, loosening the tie and tugging at the collar of the dress shirt Lockhart had loaned him. His platinum blond hair was beginning to grow back, obscuring the swastika tattoo on his head.
"What was that all about?"
"A big fat donation to the Mission, if I play my cards right!" Lockhart grinned.
Malfoy nodded approvingly. "I admit I had my doubts about you, Lockhart, but I must say, this place has real potential." He pulled a large wad of ten pound notes from his pocket. "Even my dad is starting to take an interest."
"I told you the night I caught you and your mates breaking in to this place, Dennis: that whole skinhead scene is yesterday's news! In these uncertain times, religion is the only business with true moneymaking potential! Folks are always going to want to know why bad things happen to good people. We give them the answers and make them pay through the nose for the privilege!"
"So, what's the scam?"
"Nothing too complicated." Lockhart opened the tall cupboard where he kept his clothes, took out a necktie and began to thread it around his shirt collar. "From the sound of it, Master Dudley Dursley is going through a normal phase of teenage rebellion-only mama is convinced that the Devil's making him do it. What do you want to bet that the very thing Junior's rebelling against is mama's ultra-fundamentalist dogma?"
"It sounds as though he could use a bit of `counseling' from his `peers'." Malfoy's lips curled into a disturbing smile as he slammed a fist into his palm.
"I doubt it will come to that," Lockhart chuckled as he preened in the shaving mirror. "Who knows? We might even persuade him to join our `Youth Ministry'-then we can really start milking the old cow. I'll have a better grasp of the situation once I've talked to the boy myself. Either way, I expect young Master Dudley is about to experience an epiphany worthy of the Apostle Paul on the road to Damascus."
******
A bleary-eyed Ron Weasley plopped himself down at the big table in the dining hall.
"Did the chanting wake you up, too?" Hermione yawned and rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
"What chanting?"
Harry shrugged. "A bunch of them were up at five-thirty this morning, holding hands around the stone circle and chanting to greet the sunrise." Harry nodded as Ron's eyelids began to droop. The arm he was leaning on started to give way, putting him in danger of falling off his chair.
"Obviously, Mr. Bright-eyed and Bushy-tailed here slept through the whole thing," Hermione said with a shake of her head.
"Sorry, I must have slept through it," Ron added, suspecting that he had missed a significant part of the conversation. After a few stretches, he was awake enough to help himself to the buffet. Returning to his seat, it was clear that his mood had soured as he began petulantly picking at the selection of fresh fruits on his plate.
"He's got that carnivorous look in his eye again." Harry grinned. "Heaven help any cows we happen to pass on the way home today."
"As soon as we get back to London, I want to skip the other magic lessons and go straight to Summoning Charms. Then maybe I can at least conjure up a Happy Meal in situations like this."
"I don't know what you're complaining about," Hermione said between helpings of cantaloupe. "Actually, this isn't bad-and I daresay it's a lot better for you-"
"No eggs, no bacon, no sausages! Not even the satisfaction of a good old-fashioned sugar rush from some nutritionally suspect breakfast cereal! And after the night I had…"
"What do you mean by that?"
Luna appeared from the kitchen with an odd smile on her face. She was carrying a clipboard and wearing a coach's whistle around her neck. Athletic shoes had taken the place of her usual sandals.
"Good morning, Ronald," she said in a low, throaty voice. "Did you sleep well?" She quite deliberately rubbed up against him.
"Like a baby," Ron said with a half-hearted smile and a wave.
"I must see that everything is in readiness for the volleyball tournament this afternoon. Perhaps we'll run into each other again before you have to leave."
"Super." Ron's forced smile faded as soon as she was gone. Across the table, Hermione was looking at him as if he had just thrown a litter of kittens into wood chipper. "Ron…! You didn't…? Did you?"
"I don't care to discuss it," Ron said, his cheeks flushing.
Just as Hermione was about to read him the Riot Act, a female acolyte stole up beside Ron and playfully ran a finger across his cheek. The girl's hands wandered over Ron's chest.
"I'm sorry I took so long," she purred. "We spent most of the night quartering the grounds while the Doctor took instrument readings and muttered to himself. Mind you, I sometimes think that the Doctor talks to himself because he's the only one who can possibly understand what he's saying. Will you be staying over again tonight, Ronweasley?"
"Leela?" Hermione gasped.
"We do like to live dangerously, don't we?" Harry muttered to himself.
"I'm afraid we have to be getting back to London, Leela," Hermione said as much to Ron as to their new friend. "Are you and the Doctor planning to stay on?"
"It is difficult to say with the Doctor." Leela shrugged. "At some point he says he wants to investigate a nearby village called `Little Whinging'. From his description, it doesn't sound terribly exciting."
"Trust me," Harry assured her. "It isn't. Do you have any idea at all what the Doctor is looking for?"
Leela shook her head. "If our previous adventures are anything to go by, no doubt it will be some sort of horrible ravening monster or an evil genius plotting to rule the universe. If nothing else, there is a strange sort of consistency to traveling with the Doctor."
*******
The taxi to take Harry, Hermione and Ron home to London arrived punctually at the stroke of eleven that morning, but Hermione kept the driver waiting while she had one last go at Trelawney.
While they were waiting, Harry's curiosity got the better of him. "Okay, Weasley! Spill it! Just between us blokes, how did you manage…?"
"Two girls in one night? It's an old Weasley family secret, passed down from father to son for generations. All I can tell you is that it involves lots of vitamins, oysters, rhino horn, and plenty of solo practice. If I told you any more, I'd have to kill you."
"I'm serious, Ron! From what I've seen of Leela's temper, you're the one who's lucky to be alive." Harry's eyes narrowed. "You used magic, didn't you? Even after Hermione warned you with your life about attempting certain spells without proper supervision-!"
Ron's face flushed as he motioned for his friend to keep his voice down. "Okay! It's a fair cop, but I swear I didn't do it on purpose!" He looked around to make sure Hermione couldn't overhear them. "You know that banishing spell she taught us? When Leela knocked on the door to my room, I panicked! I guess I used it on Luna without even realizing it. Poor kid had to walk back nearly three miles in nothing but her knickers. Lucky for me, like everything else, she blamed it all on the `saucer people'."
Harry could only shake his head in amazement. "My friend, you must truly lead a charmed life."
Just then Hermione stomped over to the taxi, shoved past Ron and Harry and flung open the door. "Let's get going." Both boys quickly pulled their hands away from the car to avoid having their fingers crushed as she slammed the door shut.
"This is going to be a pleasant trip," Ron noted as he walked around to let himself in the other side.
As he reopened the door, Harry glanced over at Sibyll Trelawney. The look of smug superiority she wore sorely tempted him to walk over and smack her across the face. Calling upon every ounce of self-control he possessed, he climbed into the cab and slid in next to Hermione. She had worked up a pretty good sulk, but she made no objection when he took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. As the cab approached the old iron gate, Harry leaned in and softly whispered into her ear.
"You can't win `em all, luv."
"How can someone who's supposed to have Second Sight, be so blind with her First?" She shook her head. "I really don't give a toss about her-but what about all those children who'll never get a chance to live up to their full potential?"
"Just you wait," Harry reassured her. "Some day Trelawney and her bunch will be begging you to let their kids into your new Hogwarts."
Hermione said nothing as she snuggled up against Harry's side and rested her head on his shoulder.
After a precisely considered interval, the silver Aston Martin that had been parked beside an old-fashioned-and out of place-blue Police Box with "OUT OF ORDER" scrawled in chalk across the door, pulled back onto the road by Moonlight Court and tailed the taxi back to London.
******
For a moment, Gilderoy Lockhart thought he had stepped into the center spread of a women's magazine of the fifties. Small wonder young Dudders is rebelling, he thought as he entered Number Four Privet Drive.
A matchbox of our own
A fence of real chain link,
A grill out on the patio
Disposal in the sink
There's plastic on the furniture
To keep it neat and clean
In the Pine-Sol scented air
Somewhere that's green
Growing up, he'd known friends who had lived in houses like this. Nothing could be touched or played with-only dusted. Entire rooms were off limits for fear that they would become dirty. Everything was forbidden. These were not homes where people lived-they were museums. Such places were pure hell for a small child. This only served to make the head of the household, Vernon Dursley, with his beefy build and walrus mustache, seem even more like the proverbial "bull in a china shop".
Lockhart eagerly shook the sweaty, meaty hand that was offered to him and smiled as the elder Dursley growled the obligatory pleasantries-he sounded as though someone had taught a grizzly bear to speak English-before showing him into the sitting room to growl small talk, while Petunia put the finishing touches on dinner. Not surprisingly, the conversation rarely strayed from Vernon's complaints about the "bleeding-heart liberals" or the "damned foreigners". Fortunately, Lockhart knew this song by heart. It was a favorite refrain among his more bourgeois financial donors.
Finally, Petunia twittered into the room to announce that dinner was served.
As they took their places around the dining room table, Lockhart was finally introduced to young Dudley Dursley. At first glance, except for his girth, the lad seemed normal enough. There were no visible tattoos, body-piercings or any other obvious sign of teenage rebellion. In fact, young Dudley seemed quite a pleasant, well-mannered young gentleman. However, as the meal went on, Lockhart did begin to sense a good deal of tension in the air. Every so often, Mama Petunia would drop her cheerful "hostess" façade for just a second and aim a look of concern at her son when she thought no one else was watching. Lockhart couldn't help but wonder if Petunia's mothering (or was that smothering?) was at least partly responsible for his size.
The boy said very little, limiting his conversation to short acknowledgements; "Yes, Mother." "No, Father." "I quite agree, Reverend Lockhart." From the boy's expressions, Lockhart sensed that young Dudley had definite opinions on the various topics of discussion (particularly in regard to his father's more reactionary pronouncements about gays and minorities) but for whatever reason, he was doing his best to hold his tongue.
Another touchy subject that Lockhart found intriguing was the topic of "Cousin Harry". From what he could gather, this elusive relation had been intimately involved with the Dursley household and possibly had lived with the family for quite some time because it seemed nearly impossible to engage in any sort of family reminiscences without at least a passing reference to his name. Even so, whatever familiarity he had enjoyed with the Dursleys in the past, it quickly became clear that the family (particularly Vernon) now considered him persona non grata and every effort was made to steer the conversation in a different direction.
The dinner was a lot like the décor: all show and little substance. It was apparent that to Petunia, presentation was everything. She seemed quite proud of how she had carefully arranged each individual lettuce leaf and parsley sprig for maximum visual effect, but Lockhart reckoned that there wasn't enough food on all of their plates combined to satisfy even one of their appetites. As far as flavor was concerned, they might just as well have been eating frozen TV dinners, and to add to the joy of his evening, one look at Vernon's and Dudley's waistlines told Lockhart that this particular menu was an honor reserved strictly for special guests. At that moment, Vernon, Dudley and the Guest of Honor would gladly have traded this honor for the usual heaping plate of old-fashioned fish and chips. The Guest of Honor could only smile his appreciation at Petunia while praising the presentation of each course.
Once the meal had finished, the adults moved to the sitting room for coffee. Young Dudley excused himself, claiming that he had a great deal of homework to finish. While Vernon lit up a cigar on the front porch, Petunia asked if Reverend Lockhart would like to see some of Dudley's kindergarten paintings, which were hanging on the refrigerator. It seemed unusually, if not vitally important to her, so he agreed.
"Your son seems like a very fine young man, Mrs. Dursley," Lockhart said once they were alone. "I'm afraid I don't see why you would think-"
Petunia put a finger to her lips to quiet him, then began pulling the curtains. She then switched off the kitchen light. They waited in darkness until they heard a noise coming from the back garden.
At Mrs. Dursley's insistence, Lockhart peeked through a tiny opening between the curtains. A hooded figure in a long black cloak was carefully climbing down the ivy trellises just below Dudley's bedroom window. As he gracefully jumped onto the roof of the garden shed, the hood slipped. Lockhart gasped in astonishment as the portly Dudley Dursley nimbly scampered along the top of the back fence like a cat and disappeared into the night.
"There's more," Petunia told him grimly.
Upstairs in Dudley's room, Petunia dug through the closet until she found a small shoebox. Inside were newspaper clippings.
On the verge of tears, Petunia sat on the edge of Dudley's bed. "Six people have been attacked within the last few weeks: four of them killed, the other two left completely insane-all within a few miles of here. Shortly before I came to visit you, I found blood on the bottom of Dudley's shoes." Momentarily speechless, Lockhart sat down beside her.
"Gilderoy Lockhart," he whispered, "what the hell have you got yourself into?"
End of Chapter Six
"Somewhere That's Green" from Little Shop Of Horrors, Music By Alan Menken, Lyrics by Howard Ashman
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