2. "The Morning After The Night Before"
“HAVE WE MET?”
(Chapter Two)
“The Morning After The Night Before”
“It is not good that man should be alone.”
Genesis 2:18
The kitchen was small—especially considering the number of mouths it had to feed every day—cluttered, but by no means dirty. A woman sat holding a deck of tarot cards. Plump but highly skilled hands shuffled the deck and then began dealing the cards onto the table before her in a traditional tarot suit. To the petite red-headed teenage girl looking over her shoulder, the arrangement of the cards appeared totally random, but she knew that for those who had the gift, they could spell out messages just as plain as the text printed in a book.
“What is it? What do you see, Mum?”
The woman dealt another card. “Call Fred and George up at the Dorchester and tell them to let Ron know.”
“Is it really them—the ones you predicted would come?”
All around London and around the globe, those who could read the signs—through tea leaves, crystal balls, I-Ching wands and the other many and varied paraphernalia of divination—read them with as many varied responses, from unbridled joy to soul-searing dread.
“Put the kettle on, luv,” the woman said as she gathered up the cards from the table. “Company's coming.”
Harry sleepily groped for the pull chain that turned on the light. Unable to locate it, he felt around until he found his glasses. Much to his surprise, he was not lying on his grungy old cot in his spider-filled cupboard under the Dursleys' stairs, but on a huge luxurious bed with clean white satin sheets and big fluffy pillows. He reached across the bed. Hermione was not there, but the sheets were still warm where she had lain. It wasn't a dream.
Hermione was standing on the balcony, watching the sunrise over London. Though she was wearing only a terrycloth bathrobe with the Dorchester's logo embroidered on the breast pocket, she didn't feel the chill in the air—her shivers came from an entirely different source.
“Beautiful,” Harry called from the doorway. His jet-black hair fluttered in the gentle morning breeze as the first rays of the sun reflected in his glasses. He wore a bathrobe identical to Hermione's, which he was tying around his waist. She was certain that he had nothing on underneath but his boxer shorts—if that.
“Yes, the sunrise is lovely.” Hermione quickly wiped the tear from her cheek. “I imagine you didn't get to see too many from that awful cupboard of yours.”
“The sunrise is nice, too.” He swept her into his arms and before she knew it, they were waltzing around the balcony. In lieu of music, Harry was absently humming a tune to himself that Hermione was certain she recognized. How did the words go again?
Pardon me, Miss, but I've never done this
With a real live girl.
Strayed off the farm with an actual arm
Full of real live girl.
Pardon me if your affectionate squeeze
Fogs up my goggles and buckles my knees.
I'm simply drowned in the sight and the sound
And the scent and the feel
Of a real live girl.
“Silver-tongued devil.” She was blushing as he twirled her around the balcony once more. The change in Harry since they had met was nothing short of miraculous. His confidence and self-assurance seemed to be growing with every moment they spent together. “I bet you've used that line before.”
“On every witch I've ever met from a parallel universe.”
Her smile faded and they came to a halt at the railing.
“Parallel universe,” she repeated grimly. “It hardly seems possible, and yet it's the only explanation that makes any sense.” She turned to look out at the city once more. It was only just beginning to sink in that she was looking out on an entirely different world from the one she had known. Everything was the same—and yet different. This Westminster Abbey showed none of the scars from the battle that took the lives of Kingsley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks, and here Lord Nelson was still perched proudly atop his column in Trafalgar Square. (No doubt, the Muggles of her world were still blaming the incidents on human terrorists—they would learn the awful truth soon enough.)
And then there was Harry. She had watched helplessly as he died a horrible, humiliating death at the hands of Lord Voldemort, and yet here he was, very much alive and well—particularly judging by his performance the previous evening. “In some ways it's as if the world has been re-born, rising from the ashes like Professor Dumbledore's pet phoenix.” She choked back a sob. “I miss him, Harry. I miss them all so terribly!”
“I know,” he said gently as he wrapped his arms around her once more, “but just remember that they'll never be truly gone as long as you keep them alive in your heart.”
“You're absolutely right.” There was a look of renewed determination in her eyes, “And the best way to do that is to get on with the business of rebuilding Hogwarts!” She started for the doorway. “We'd best be getting started. We have a lot of work to do.”
“How about a little breakfast first—” Harry caught her left hand and brought it up to his lips. They were both still wearing the wedding rings that Hermione had conjured up to fool the hotel concierge the day before. “—Mrs. Potter?”
“About that—” She was blushing 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 was her natural insecurity talking, but there was still a part of her which feared that once Harry had been liberated from the Dursleys and learned of his powers, he would quickly lose interest in her and wish to move on to “greener pastures”.
“Not at all,” Harry said as he gently massaged her fingers. “In fact, I think I'm going to enjoy married life.” His hand moved to caress her cheek. “It's barely been two days,” he whispered. “Why does it feel as if I've known you all my life?”
“Do you believe in `soul mates', Harry Potter?”
“I didn't before—but I didn't believe in much of anything before.”
“And now?”
“Now that I've met you, it feels as if nothing is impossible!” He reached into the pocket of his robe and brought out Hermione's wand, which he aimed toward the doorway. “Quo signo nata fuis!” Trays and plates full of food flew through the door and carefully arranged themselves into a full English breakfast on the patio table. “I wonder if I'll ever get used to that.”
Hermione gasped. “Were you able to materialize all this by yourself?”
“Not quite,” Harry 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!”
As Hermione started to sit down, he quickly moved around the table to pull out the chair for her, then leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.
“I had a good teacher.”
They spent the rest of the morning falling in love.
Wonderful as their first time had been in the sleeping bag on the Dursleys' sitting room floor, it had still been somewhat tentative and awkward, as most first times generally are—the fevered intensity of their coupling coming as much from their shared despair and loneliness, as from any great sexual passion. They had clung to one another like drowning men grasping for a life preserver. Here in the Honeymoon Suite, they were much more relaxed and comfortable together. Once the fear, need and desperation had been exhausted, they had both come to the startling realization that they genuinely liked each other.
Harry had known prettier girls than Hermione, to be sure, but they had always seemed unobtainable—lovely to look at, but unreachable, like the stars in the heavens. As far as he was concerned, the woman in his arms was Aphrodite incarnate: his own personal goddess of Love. After so many years of being barred from the temple gates, it had been she who had led him into the Holy of Holies and 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 as he watched his goddess sleep, confident that he had won her favor during the course of the morning's worship services.
The afternoon was spent on magic lessons. Hermione found Harry to be a remarkably adept pupil and eager to learn, but by early evening they were both ready for a break.
“We really need to get you a wand of your own,” Hermione noted as Harry returned hers to her.
“From where?” Harry inquired. “`Wands 'R' Us'? If there's no organized magical civilization here, I doubt if you're going to find any shops like the ones you had back home.”
“That's something I hadn't even considered.” Hermione frowned, examining her wand. “If we're going to be training a new generation of young wizards at a new Hogwarts some day, they're going to be needing wands as well. I know the basic principles—the kinds of wood to use, that sort of thing—but I hadn't planned to go into wand making as a career, so I didn't take any of the advanced courses.” Her gaze settled on the Ollivander's® trade mark stamped into the handle. All the secrets, she pondered. All the little tricks of the trade old Ollivander used to make his wands the standard by which all others were measured—lost—perhaps forever. “Still,” she said, trying to put a brave face on things, “with a bit of experimentation, I imagine we ought to be able to come up with something. The real trick is going to be finding things like unicorn hairs, dragon heartstrings and phoenix feathers for the cores.” She picked up the spiral notebook she had been using to record her magical knowledge and began furiously scribbling notes to herself.
From her dour expression, Harry could sense her sudden awareness of the Herculean nature of the task before them. With no Diagon Alley, a great many things she once took for granted would be difficult, if not impossible to come by in this world— talismans, potion ingredients, magical plants, parchments, quills, cauldrons...
“We don't have to come up with all the answers in one day,” Harry said gently as he took the pen from her hand and slipped his arms around her. “There's no `Lord What's-His-Name' breathing down our necks here. So, what's the rush?”
“You know, you're absolutely right!” When the realization hit her, it was as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “I've been living under Voldemort's shadow for so long, I'd almost forgotten what a normal life was like.” She threw her arms around Harry's neck and hugged him tightly. “We have all the time in the world!”
“So, what do you say we get out of this hotel room for a bit and have a little fun?”
“What do you think?” Since she and Harry had little more than the clothes on their backs when they checked into the Dorchester, Hermione had decided to put their magical American Express card to good use. She did a quick turn to show off one of the casual, but oh-so-fashionable outfits that she and Harry had bought on their shopping spree. “Are we a bit more presentable now?”
“Mrs. Potter! How lovely to see you again.” It was amazing to witness the amount of sheer willpower that the hotel concierge had to summon in order to remain polite. Hermione was certain that he detested them both and was only being nice because he believed them to be wealthy. All the same, Harry did not like the looks that he was giving her—particularly the way he seemed to be eying her cleavage. “…Quite lovely.”
“Dirty old man,” Harry muttered under his breath.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing.”
The concierge was desperate to move on to another topic—any other topic--but his poor, fevered brain just wouldn't allow it. “Did you sleep at all? Er—that is—Did you sleep well?” The more he tried to restrain himself, the more flustered he became. “I trust you were both satisfied.“ His cheeks flushed at his accidental double entendré. “W-with--with the bed.”
“Oh, yes,” Hermione purred, clearly enjoying the concierge's discomfort. “I, for one, was completely satisfied.” She took Harry's arm and snuggled close. “What about you, Harry?”
“Absolutely.” Harry smiled, but clearly wanted no part of this discussion.
From the sounds of snickering coming from the bellhop station, Fred and George Weasley were on duty.
“Was it big enough?” By now the concierge's cheeks were bright red. “The bed, I mean”
“The bed was wonderful!” Hermione replied. “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 equally crimson and it was difficult to tell who was more mortified. Fred and George were about to fall off their bench laughing.
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.
“I almost forgot,” she said in a throaty whisper. “Harry and I have something very special in mind for later on this evening and we need a few little items to, shall we say, enhance the experience.”
By now the concierge was looking for a hole to crawl into. “Wh-wh-what exactly did Madam have in mind?”
“Evening clothes, of course. Harry and I are going to the theatre tonight and—“
The concierge fumbled through his pockets until he found his wallet—nearly spilling the entire contents on the desk. His trembling hands somehow managed to retrieve a business card and present it to Hermione.
“My own personal tailors—Saville Row, naturally. I'm sure they can also recommend a fine couturier for Madam as well…”
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.
Fred and George intercepted them as they were about to make their escape from the lobby. “Just in case you feel a bit peckish later.” George surreptitiously pressed another business card into Hermione's hand just before they disappeared through the revolving door.
******
Raoul, Viscomte 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.
I'm here, nothing can harm you -
my words will warm and calm you.
Let me be your freedom,
let daylight dry your tears.
I'm here, with you, beside you,
to guard you and to guide you . . .
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.
Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime.
Let me lead you from your solitude
Share each day with me,
Each night, each morning .
Anywhere you go let me go too.
They had both lived through their own waking nightmares and now it was as though Andrew Lloyd Webber and his collaborators were looking directly into their hearts.
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 out of her reverie and 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. 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.
“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 Surrey.”
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 purred 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.”
“Pardon?” Hermione thought he looked like a little boy in front of a toyshop window at Christmas time.
Harry nodded in the direction of the street. A low-slung silver 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!” Had they not been distracted a moment later, Harry might have noticed that the driver of the Aston Martin was studying them just as intently.
Hermione shook her head. “Boys and their toys!”
As they continued their walkabout, they were accosted from the shadows by an apparition that looked like a walking scarecrow, with a crooked nose, long white hair and a scraggly yellow beard that hung down past his waist. He was dressed in the torn, ragged remains of a patched purple dressing gown with a dirty pointed nightcap rested precariously on the top of his head. In contrast to his ragged appearance, his blue eyes were light, bright and sparkled behind half-moon spectacles.
"The truth,” the old man said in a raspy voice, “is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your questions unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case I beg you'll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie."
“Professor Dumbledore?” Hermione gasped.
“Is that my name?” The old man took hold of Hermione's wrist, startling her. “Always use the proper name for things, my dear. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”
Hermione was so excited that she was almost babbling. “Thank Merlin we found you! When you shoved me through that portal I had no idea you were going to send me into another world! But as you can see, I found Harry and we've made contact with Fred and George, and you won't believe who the concierge is at the hotel—!”
Hermione fell silent. The old man wasn't even listening. His gaze was fixed on Harry's forehead.
“No scar…” the beggar said in an odd tone of voice, tilting his head to one side.
Harry took hold of the old man's hand and gently, but firmly disengaged it from Hermione's. He then produced a small wad of bills from his pocket and pressed them into the old man's palm. “Have a cuppa on us, granddad.”
“Scars can come in very handy, you know. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground.”
Harry handed him another wad of bills. “Order the scones as well.”
“Food…Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”
As the old man continued to prattle, Harry quickly put his arm around Hermione's shoulders and tried to hustle her away.
“But Harry,” she pleaded. “It's Professor Dumbledore! You remember! He's here! He's alive—!” The old man was nowhere to be seen. “Professor? Harry! He's gone! We have to find him!”
It was all Harry could do to restrain her. “We'll find him, darling. I promise—but not tonight! Neither one of us knows this area that well—and magic or no, I have feeling that scouring the back alleys of London looking for a street person is something best done in daylight.”
“I suppose you're right.”
Giddy with excitement, Hermione feet barely touched the ground as they continued their walk.
“He's alive, Harry! We're not on our own! He's alive! He's here!”
Harry almost hated to say what he was thinking. “You saw the state he was in.”
“It's a disguise! It has to be! He is a wizard, remember!”
“It's possible,” Harry conceded, “but you need to remember that this is a different world—a different reality. The people here may look the same as your friends back home, but here they could have led completely different lives.”
“You were the same, Harry,” she said, tenderly caressing his face. “Thank Merlin, you were exactly the same!”
“Even so, I think you need to be prepared for the possibility that in this reality the poor fellow really is nothing more than a homeless old beggar.” The heartbroken look on Hermione's face made Harry want to kick himself for even bringing up the subject in the first place. He took her hand and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. “But what do I know about wizards? I didn't even know that I was one until day before yesterday!”
For a long time they walked without saying anything until Harry could stand the silence no longer.
“You know, I've been thinking about some ways that we could support ourselves. That magic credit card of yours is great, but if we use it too much people could start asking questions—”
Something up ahead distracted Hermione's attention.
“What's that?”
A small crowd was gathered at the next street corner where music was blaring from a small “boom box” radio and tape player:
Roll up!
Roll up for the mystery tour!
The Magical Mystery Tour is coming to take you away
Coming to take you away
Take you today
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 Bilious 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!” Ron hissed 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 cap back on Ron's head, but for some reason it refused to sit still. It was as if there was something underneath trying to get out. Ron removed it again, only to find a pigeon perched on the top of his head. Once revealed, the bird promptly relieved himself on Ron's head, then took wing and disappeared into the night.
The crowd laughed and applauded as Harry took another bow. Figuring that Harry was part of the act, their purses and wallets came open and Ron's tip jar began to fill as never before. Once the crowd began to thin out, Hermione quickly hooked her arm around Harry's and practically dragged him around the nearest corner.
“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 “the other Ron” had dated for a bit back at Hogwarts. No sense complicating matters more than they already are. “As soon as the crowd finishes breaking 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 from his hair 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.
“It was just a joke. I certainly didn't mean any harm.” Harry grinned sheepishly and extended his hand. “I'm Harry Potter and this is my wife, Hermione.”
“Ron Weasley.” Ron was puzzled by the secret smile that his two new friends shared. It was almost as if Harry introducing Hermione as his wife were some kind of private joke between them.
“No hard feelings, I hope?” Harry asked.
Now it was Ron's turn to look sheepish. “If truth be told, thanks to you I made more money tonight 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. “Why don't you just use the bloody pay phone, Tomkins?” He borrowed a piece of chalk from the menu of a nearby restaurant and scrawled “OUT OF ORDER” across the Police Box doorway.
“Funny, I hadn't noticed that there before.” Ron shook his head. “I'd read somewhere that they'd decommissioned all the old Police Boxes in London.” Hermione 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 Paddy wagon. “I have to 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 my new business cards!”
“I'm sure somebody here will know how to get hold of you.” Hermione reached into her purse and pulled out the card that Fred and George had given them earlier.
“So, you're the ones,” Ron said with a grin. “You and Mum should get on famously.” With a quick wave, he took off down the street. “Drop by and say `hello' when you get the chance.”
“What was that all about?” Harry asked.
“Let's get something to eat,” Hermione suggested out of the blue.
“Suits me,” Harry replied, 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 had a maddeningly mysterious air about her on the cab ride to Soho. 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.
As the cab let them out and Harry paid the fare, Hermione happened to glance across the street where yet another Police Box stood vigil. The odd thing was that it also had “OUT OF ORDER” written in chalk across its door—and Hermione could have sworn that the handwriting was identical to the one they'd left behind in Piccadilly. She shook her head. Clearly she was imagining things.
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 checkered table cloths, 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 the woman's silent invitation, Harry and Hermione pulled up two stools and sat down at the bar.
“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?” Hermione 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 find 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.”
“Amazing,” Harry said. “What about me?”
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 remarkable,” 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 mention that we were coming here tonight.” There was no real reason for Hermione to be suspicious, but she kept thinking about Harry's admonition concerning Dumbledore. Familiar faces or not, the residents of this universe were still strangers. It was dangerous to simply assume that everyone would be exactly the same as she had known them before. Someone who was a friend back home could just as easily turn out to be an enemy here.
“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.”
“Really?” Harry said skeptically. “And just who would that be?”
“I think we're about to find out.”
Molly reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a magic wand. Ginny Weasley and her brothers Charlie and Bill burst through the kitchen door, as Ron, Fred, George and Percy came through the main entrance, effectively surrounding Harry and Hermione. Molly pointed her wand directly at Hermione's nose.
“Now defend yourselves.”
End Of Chapter Two
Coleman/Leigh
“All I Ask Of You” from “The Phantom Of The Opera” Music By Andrew Lloyd Webber, Lyrics by Charles Hart,
Words and Music by John Lennon and Paul McCartney
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