Have We Met? by Quickdraw

Rating: PG
Genres: Drama, Romance
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 25/07/2004
Last Updated: 28/11/2004
Status: In Progress

You wake up in a world where no one knows you. The faces all look familiar, but these are not
the same people you knew back home. Most frightening of all THERE IS NO HOGWARTS. What do you do
now?




1. "Stranger In A Strange Land"
-------------------------------

“Have We Met?”

Chapter One
"I am a stranger in a strange land."
-Exodus 2:22
Harry Potter carried the unconscious girl to the sitting room and gently laid her down on the
sofa. When he’d gone to answer the doorbell, he’d found her lying in a crumpled heap on the front
steps. He brushed a few strands of light brown hair out of her face. She looked to be about sixteen
or so, the same age as Harry, but he didn’t recognize her from school or from the neighborhood. Nor
did he recognize the school uniform she was wearing: a blue jumper and a charcoal gray skirt, over
which she wore some kind of black robe. While the girl wasn’t fashion-model beautiful, there was
something about her that Harry found very attractive.

She had cuts and bruises on her hands and her face. Clearly she’d had a rough time of it. Harry
went to fetch the First-Aid kid from the downstairs bathroom. His mind was racing as returned.

*A damsel in distress--and a cute one at that! Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Cousin Dudley
won’t be back from Blackpool until Sunday night!* He stopped and took a deep breath. *Now get
hold of yourself, Potter. For all you know she’s got a boyfriend the size of King Kong…and with
your luck, he’s a footballer, as well!*

“Harry!” The girl suddenly called out in her delirium.

“It’s all right,” Harry sat down beside her and began to minister to her wounds. “Just lie back.
I hope this antiseptic doesn’t sting too much.”

The girl’s eyes suddenly leapt open.

“Harry!” She suddenly sat bolt upright and threw her arms around his neck, causing him to spill
the First-Aid kit onto the floor. “Thank God! I thought you were dead!” She buried her head in his
shoulder and sobbed uncontrollably. After what seemed like an eternity, Harry was finally able to
move his arms. He wrapped them around this strange, intriguing creature, who frightened him and
fascinated him all at the same time.

“I’m fine,” he said gently. What else *could* he say? “I’m right here.”

“I was so afraid,” she sobbed. “I thought I’d lost you forever!”

It was then that she kissed him—and this was no sisterly peck on the cheek. She nailed him right
on the mouth. Fireworks went off in Harry’s head. At first, he was too stunned to respond, but
slowly he began to kiss her back. He’d never felt anything so wonderful in his life.

*You can do that again any time you want!* He thought as he held her in his arms. *PLEASE
want to do that again!*

“Are they all gone, Harry?” the girl sobbed into his shoulder, “Dumbledore? McGonagall? Even
Ron? Are they really dead?”

“Don’t think about that now,” Harry said gently, “You’re safe here. I promise I won’t let
anything happen to you.”

“I know I’m safe when I’m in Harry Potter’s arms.” She looked up at him through her tears, her
hand gently caressing his face.

*I have no idea what you’re talking about,* Harry thought to himself, *but I could listen
to you talk about it all night. I could sure get lost in those big brown eyes of yours…* Even
brimming with tears they were beautiful.

Harry froze again.

*She called me by name! It’s enough of a coincidence that she has a boyfriend with the same
first name as mine, but the odds are astronomical that she just happened to run into someone with
the same last name as well!*

“Don’t leave me, Harry,” she said groggily, “Promise that you won’t leave me…” Harry could feel
her body relax. The poor thing was so exhausted she had fallen asleep in his arms.

“I promise,” he whispered. He gently laid her back onto the sofa, then went to his uncle’s
bedroom, pulled a big crocheted afghan from Aunt Petunia’s bed, and laid it over her.

He dug around until he located Uncle Vernon’s old shotgun and a box of shells in the upstairs
closet. Uncle Vernon hadn’t hunted grouse since before Dudley was born, so there was no guarantee
that the thing would even fire. Still, it was better than nothing if the girl were in as much
trouble as she claimed.

For a long time, Harry just sat there watching her sleep and pondering this pleasant mystery.
He’d never seen this girl before in his life, but she certainly seemed to know him—plus, she was a
great kisser.

*Who were the people she mentioned?* *Dumbledore, McGonagall, Ron?* Are *they all
dead? What horrible ordeal has the poor thing been through? Should I call for a doctor? Should I
call the police?*

Around ten o’clock Harry pulled an old sleeping bag from the hall closet and rolled it out
beside the sofa. If the girl woke up in the middle of the night, he would be there.

He wondered if she would even remember the kiss.

***********

The next morning, the girl awoke to the smell of sausages and eggs cooking.

“That smells wonderful!” She stood in the kitchen doorway, stretching. Her color was coming back
and there was more of a sparkle in her big brown eyes. “I can’t even remember the last time I ate
anything.”

“Sit down. Everything will be ready in a minute!” Unlike the times he was forced to cook for the
Dursleys, Harry was going all out to impress his houseguest. “How are you feeling—?” Much to his
embarrassment, Harry suddenly realized that for all the snogging they’d done last night, he’d never
actually gotten round to asking the girl her name! He’d just have to bluff his way through this.
“—love?” Harry began to divvy up the sausages between them.

“A damn sight better than I did last night.” She giggled as Harry tried to show off, taking the
frying pan and attempting to flip the flapjacks in the air. It had been a very long time since
she’d had anything to laugh about. She was beginning to think that everything she’d been through in
the past few days was simply a horrible nightmare. There was Harry, alive and well and making an
ass of himself as usual. As she sat down she happened to notice the pile of mail that was sitting
on the table awaiting Uncle Vernon’s and Aunt Petunia’s return. The girl’s face suddenly went pale.
She looked around as if she were seeing the place for the first time.

“Little Whinging?” she gasped. “This is Privet Drive!”

“Yes…” The look on her face had Harry worried. “Number four.”

Her eyes grew wide as if she’d just seen the Angel Of Death hovering over her bed.

“I saw this place go up in flames! This whole neighborhood burned to the ground!”

“I wish,” Harry muttered to himself, immediately regretting his flippant tone. Even though
number four Privet Drive was obviously still here, the girl was clearly haunted by some terrible
tragedy.

“That was the night we lost Ron…”

“Was he a friend of yours?”

“A friend of *mine*? You don’t remember Ron Weasley?”

“Sorry.” Harry shrugged.

The girl’s shoulders drooped. Clearly Harry had no idea what she was talking about.

“Do you even know who *I* am?” Her eyes were pleading. Harry longed to be able to give her
the answers she wanted, just to see her smile again.

“I know I’d remember meeting *you* before.” She realized that in his own charmingly clumsy
way Harry was trying to flirt with her. Some things never changed. That seemed to lift her spirits
a little.

“What’s your name?”

“Hermione… Hermione Pot—Granger.”

*Was she about to say, “Potter”?* Harry wondered. *Great… She’s a stalker! She’s created
this whole imaginary world inside her head where we’re married and have six kids.* Harry had a
sudden mental picture of the girl coming after him with a butcher knife if he said or did the wrong
thing. He certainly didn’t like the idea that the girl who’d given him his first kiss might be a
raving nutter! *Wait just one minute! Why would* any *girl-- even a nut case-- be obsessed
with a "nobody" like me? My instincts are telling me that she's not dangerous.*
All the same, Harry made a quick mental count of all the knives sitting in the rack by the
stove.

“Can I get you some milk?” At least it was something *semi*-intelligent to say.

“Just some orange juice, thank you.”

*Glasses!* In his excitement over his houseguest, Harry’s mind suddenly went blank. *I
can’t remember where Aunt Petunia keeps the “good” glasses.* He just stood there, staring at the
cupboards.

“They’re in the cupboard to the left of the sink. Bottom shelf.”

Harry had two choices, crawl under the sink and die of embarrassment right there or just get a
glass, get her some orange juice and go on. He opted for the latter.

“How did you know that?”

“I know all about you, Harry Potter,” Hermione got up. “I know that your parents died when you
were a baby. I know that the Dursleys have been treating you like dirt ever since you came to live
with them.”

“They’re not *that* bad,” Harry shrugged feebly.

Hermione sighed. She took his hand and escorted him to the staircase that led up from the entry
hall. She pushed aside the latch and pulled open the door to the cupboard.

“I know that *this* is where you’ve been living for the past fifteen years.” The shame on
Harry’s face was almost unbearable. “I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” She reached
up to touch his face. Harry allowed it, but she could feel his body tense. It was a harsh reminder
that this wasn’t the Harry she knew. She was looking into the eyes of a stranger. She brushed the
hair away from Harry’s forehead as if she expected to find something underneath. She seemed
disappointed when she found nothing there. Her eyes filled with tears again. Harry took her hand
and pressed it reassuringly between his.

“Who are you?” Harry whispered. “How do you know so much about me?”

She took a deep breath and wiped her eyes.

“Let’s go eat that wonderful breakfast you’ve worked so hard to make and I’ll try to
explain.”

Slowly, carefully, Hermione began to sketch out as best she could remember, the life of Harry
James Potter—the one she had known. She told him about a magical school called “Hogwarts” where
young witches and wizards learned their craft. She told him about a virtual avalanche of letters
he’d received and that no matter how many his Uncle Vernon destroyed, thousands more would take
their place. She told him about the gentle half-giant Hagrid, keeper of the keys and grounds. She
spoke of a place in London called Diagon Alley, of the magical train “The Hogwarts Express,"
and of how they and Ron Weasley had met. There were so many names to remember: McGonagall, Snape,
Flitwick, Lockhart…and the all-wise Professor Dumbledore. She spoke of the feasts in the Great
Hall, of classes high up in the Astronomy Tower and deep below in the dark dungeons. Of
transfigurations, divinations, nearly headless ghosts and centaurs! Of Whomping Willows, flying
cars and a game called Quidditch where the players ride broomsticks. She spoke of adventures:
*The Sorcerer’s Stone*, *The Goblet of Fire*, and *The Chamber of Secrets*… As crazy
as it all sounded, Harry found himself wishing he’d actually lived this strange, exciting,
topsy-turvy life as a junior wizard.

*She really needs to write this stuff down,* Harry thought, *if she could turn it into a
book she’d make a fortune!*

Then the story took a dark turn. She had told him of the sinister Lord Voldemort; of how he had
murdered Harry’s parents (As far as Harry knew, his parents had died in a car crash.), and of his
plans to conquer the Wizarding World. Apparently the villain had decided to strike before Professor
Dumbledore and his allies were ready for him.

Those survivors who still opposed the Dark Lord gathered to make a final stand at Hogwarts. It
was suspected that someone from within Hogwarts betrayed them but Hermione never learned who it
was. She had watched helplessly as one by one her friends fell in battle— even Harry.

Harry wasn’t quite sure how to react to the news of his own death.

It took a few moments for Hermione to compose herself after that. Though she could never quite
bring herself to say it aloud, Harry could tell that she and the Harry she knew had become “more
than friends”. (The way she had kissed him last night was a clue as well.) When she introduced
herself, she had started to say her name was “Hermione *Potter*”. Harry wondered if they had
married just before the end. He suddenly found himself envying this other version of himself.

At last she was able to go on.

She and Professor Dumbledore were the only ones left. They had barricaded themselves in what
remained of his office. They both knew the horrible fate they would suffer if they were captured
alive. Hermione was preparing to take poison when Dumbledore stopped her.

“No!” he insisted, “You must start again! You must rebuild! You are the only one who can!” With
his last ounce of strength, the old wizard had conjured up some kind of magical portal and shoved
her through just as the enemy broke down the door. The next thing she remembered was waking up on
the Dursley’s sofa—looking up into the face of the young man she thought she’d lost forever.

The memories of all those she had lost started her crying again. She excused herself, saying she
really needed to freshen up and could she borrow some of Harry’s *clothes*?

While Hermione took a shower, Harry cleaned up the breakfast dishes and pondered all that she’d
told him. The whole thing was insane—and yet Harry couldn’t help wondering if she might actually be
telling the truth. Did he really believe her—or did he just *want* to believe those big brown
eyes?

“A parallel universe?”

Harry and Hermione sat on the floor by the fireplace in the sitting room. Like many men, Harry
found a woman wearing a man’s shirt, (and little else), to be quite sexy, but did his best to
concentrate on the matter at hand. While he was trying *not* to stare at her bare legs, he
suddenly realized something.

“The bruises are gone!” Upon closer examination, he saw that most of the cuts on her hands and
face were nearly healed.

“A simple little healing charm.” Hermione showed off her arms. “I’m no Madame Pomfrey, but you
always seemed to appreciate it after Quidditch practice. But what’s this about a parallel
universe?”

“It’s the only theory that fits the facts. I mean assuming everything you’ve told me is--” Harry
cut himself off. He could see the look in Hermione’s eyes.

*You mean*, “*Assuming that I’m not crazy and that I didn’t just make the whole thing
up!”*

Harry decided that the only thing to do was press on.

“The theory’s been around for a long time: That our universe is only one of many, each existing
on a different dimensional plane. One hypothesis says that every time we make a decision, another
reality is created along with an opposite reality where we made the opposite decision.”

“You mean there could be one reality where we had kippers for breakfast instead of
sausages?”

“Something like that. At least that’s the theory.” He poured her another cup of tea. “You said
that where you come from, we’ve known each other for about six years?”

“And yet,” she said with a hint of sadness, “you say that *here* we’ve never met
before?”

“No one’s sorrier about that than I am… I could’ve used a friend like you.” Now that Harry was
growing up, he was beginning to attract a bit of attention around school. Even with his
unfashionable clothes and shy manner, the girls were beginning to notice him—particularly in
contrast to his revolting cousin Dudley. Still, no one so far had taken the next step and tried to
befriend him. Hermione was suddenly angry at the basic unfairness of the universe. At least
*her* Harry had Dumbledore looking out for him. For that matter, where was *her*
counterpart in this universe and why was she laying down on the job?

“So, what are you going to do?” Harry finally asked.

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “I have no idea how to get back—and even if I could, there’s
probably nothing to go back to. Dumbledore said something about ‘rebuilding’, ‘starting over’—but
rebuild *what*? Hogwarts? The Wizarding World? All by myself?”

“That’s a good point. Does Hogwarts even exist in this reality?” Harry gathered up the teacups
onto the tray. “If it does, and I really am some kind of wizard, surely I’d have gotten my letter
by now. For that matter do wizards and magic exist here? I know I’ve never run across anything like
it before.”

“Haven’t you?” Hermione prodded. “What about the trip to the London zoo?”

Harry’s eyes went wide.

“You know about that?”

“I wonder…” Hermione went back to the bathroom and retrieved her wand from her school robes,
then handed it to Harry. “Wands are supposed to be specifically attuned to their owners, so this
may not work—but at least it’s worth a try.” There were no feathers about so she looked around
until she could find some relatively light object that wouldn’t be too dangerous for a beginner.
She finally settled on one of the letters sitting on the kitchen table. It turned out to be the gas
bill. She set the envelope down in the middle of the sitting room floor then demonstrated the
“Swish and Flick” technique that Professor Flitwick had taught them in their early days of Charms
classes.

Harry felt a complete ass but did as he was instructed.

“*Wingardium Leviosa*!”

Slowly, the letter began to rise into the air. Startled, Harry instinctively scooted
backwards.

“Brilliant…!” Harry muttered to himself. Hermione hugged him, both of them grinning from ear to
ear. Within moments the letter was dancing around the room, doing loop-the-loops and spinning like
a pinwheel. Carpets, chairs, the sofa and even Hermione took flight over the course of the
afternoon.

“I really am a wizard…” Harry kept repeating to himself. “It’s all true!”

“You know what this means?” Hermione’s excitement was growing. “There must be *other*
wizards out there!”

“But if they *are* there, why haven’t they contacted me?”

“That’s a good question.” Hermione rubbed her chin. “Maybe in *this* reality, wizards
exist, but they never organized the way we did back home—or they went even deeper underground.”
Hermione had Harry dig out the Greater London Phone Book and she began flipping through the “G”
section. There was no listing for the Granger family at her home address. She even checked under
her mother’s maiden name.

“They could have moved out of London,” Harry suggested.

“Who knows? Maybe in this dimension my parents never even met. Maybe there is no Hermione
Granger in this reality.”

“Perhaps that’s why Dumbledore sent you. If you ask me, we’ve been needing one for ages.” At
least that got a smile out of her.

Further research proved just as fruitless. The phonebook and the Information Operator failed to
turn up any Weasleys, Longbottoms, Flitwicks, McGonagalls—not even a Snape. On the bright side,
there were no Tom Marvelo Riddles and the only Lucius Malfoy they could find was a lower level
bureaucrat for the Ministry of Sanitation.

“So what now?” asked Harry.

“How would you like to take a little trip to London?

Harry and Hermione materialized in a broom cupboard at King’s Cross Station. She explained that
when the war with Voldemort broke out, their training had been accelerated to include apparating.
Once they were satisfied no one was looking, they emerged and immediately did their best to blend
into the crowd. Hermione led him towards platform Nine, and then spent quite a while investigating
a brick wall located between platforms Nine and Ten. Eventually she concluded that what she was
looking for wasn’t there.

“No Nine and Three-Quarters…” she muttered cryptically to herself.

She then transported them to a rather seedy section of the city. Again, she seemed disappointed.
For a long time, she stood staring at an old pub sign that hung out over the street: *The
Weathercock*.

“No *Leaky Cauldron*…”

Climbing a fence behind the pub put them in litter-strewn alley. Hermione located a brick wall
behind the pub and began touching the bricks with her wand as though hitting the right pattern
would somehow cause the wall to open. Again, nothing happened.
“No Diagon Alley, either…”

“’Ere!” came the landlord’s voice from the rear door of the pub. “Clear off!” Harry and Hermione
quickly scrambled out of the alley.

Hermione then transported them to the nearest McDonalds. She wasn’t all that hungry, she just
needed a place to sit and think.

As they ate, Hermione couldn’t help noticing Harry noticing her. She had borrowed a T-Shirt and
jeans from him, and after a few magical alterations, they fit remarkably well, in spite of the
differences in their sizes and builds. Harry seemed particularly struck by the way Dudley’s
hand-me-down jeans hugged her curves. Maybe he wasn’t the Harry she had known, but this was still
Harry Potter. All the things that made her Harry special were here. All he needed was a little
encouragement.

At some level, Hermione couldn’t help wondering if she was somehow being unfaithful to
*her* Harry back home, but she quickly pushed the idea from her mind.

*No! That’s just too much to deal with right now,* she thought. *I can’t even begin to
wrap my head around what’s happened to me. All I know is that I’m here and Harry’s here. Somehow,
I’ve got him back! I’ve been given a second chance!*

*Maybe there is a greater intelligence at work in the universe, and I’ve been sent here as
part of some grand design. Well, if that’s the case, then what’s wrong with asking for a little
consideration for myself in return? So here’s the deal: If I’m going to carry out this great cosmic
mission, then I need Harry Potter! This one will do just fine, thank you!* *Maybe it’s selfish
of me, but damn it, after everything I’ve been through I figure I’ve bloody well earned the right
to be a little selfish! Just let me have Harry by my side and I’ll do whatever needs doing.*

“So, where to next?”

Hermione sighed, “I’m tempted to try and find my house, but I’m not sure I could deal with
seeing strangers living there. I suppose I should try and find Hogwarts. I think I need to see for
myself that it’s really not there.”

“Why torture yourself?” Harry reached over and covered her hand with his. “Maybe it’s time to
start thinking about the future.”

“*What* future? I’m only *one* witch, Harry! What could I do, all alone in an alien
world?”

“You’re not exactly *alone,* you know.”

She smiled up at him.

“Thank you, Harry. That means more to me than you’ll ever know.” She swirled a french-fry in her
ketchup, remembering the days of mixing potions in cauldrons. “But even with two of us, what could
we possibly do?”

“You could teach *me*.”

Hermione froze for just a second.

“But I’m not a professor! I was only in my sixth year! I hadn’t even graduated yet!”

“Teach me everything you *know*, then! I have to start *somewhere*!”

As much as she wanted to protest, Hermione couldn’t help but think this was exactly what old
Dumbledore had in mind.

“Don’t you see? Once I master the basics, we’ll have something to build on! The rest we’ll learn
by trial and error—by experimenting! I’m sure that’s how the early wizards in your world did it!
Then we start searching the libraries for old books and papers! And if you’re right about there
being other wizards, it’ll just be a matter of finding them! There are bound to be people out there
who already know more than we do.” Harry was bubbling with enthusiasm and it was catching. “What
have we got to lose?”

“You know, you almost make me believe it could work.” She leaned over and kissed Harry on the
cheek.

Before they returned to Privet Drive, Hermione borrowed some Muggle money from Harry and bought
a big spiral notebook and a pen at a convenience store. Once they arrived back at the Dursley home
in Little Whinging, Hermione gave Harry a few simple spells to practice, and then began carefully
setting to paper the knowledge she had received in her six years at Hogwarts. She knew it would be
a massive undertaking that would eventually fill many notebooks. She also knew that even with her
nearly photographic memory, there would be pieces missing. She would have to be careful to
highlight these areas so Harry wouldn’t attempt any spell that was incomplete.

It was around nine o’clock that evening when both Harry and Hermione decided they’d had enough
for the day. There was nothing remotely interesting on television so they ended up watching an old
*Thunderbirds* tape of Dudley’s and thoroughly enjoying themselves. When the tape was over
they both decided it was time for bed.

“You’re not going to sleep in that awful cupboard tonight, are you Harry?” Hermione had a very
intriguing look in her eyes.

“I’m used to it,” he shrugged.

“I’m sure it would be much nicer out here with me.”

Was she really suggesting…? *This sort of thing just doesn’t happen to Harry Potter*, he
thought. He couldn’t help but wonder if the regular fellow in charge of his luck had taken the day
off.

“Please…” Hermione’s mouth was as dry as the Sahara, but tonight she wasn’t going to take “no”
for an answer. “Stay with me.”

**********

“VERNON!”

The ear-piercing screech woke both of them with a start. Harry and Hermione had fallen asleep in
the sleeping bag, their clothes scattered around them on the sitting room floor. Harry still had an
idiotic grin on his face like—well, like a teenage boy who’s just gotten lucky for the first time
in his life. Aunt Petunia was standing over them, her eyes big as saucers. Hermione clutched the
sleeping bag to cover herself.

Uncle Vernon dropped the half-dozen suitcases he was struggling to squeeze through the front
door and came charging to the rescue like a bull elephant in heat. He stopped dead in his tracks,
his round face still red from the exertion. It took a moment of huffing and puffing for him to
catch his breath, and then the redness came from his anger.

“Why you little pervert!”

“How dare you bring your depraved carnal lusts into this decent, God-fearing home, Harry
Potter?” Aunt Petunia pointed a bony finger at Hermione. “You and this—this—“

“Harlot?” Hermione suggested helpfully, “Vixen? Jezebel?” Trollop? Am I getting warm?” She felt
around for Harry’s T-shirt. “Yes, I got the feeling there hasn’t been an awful lot of carnal lust
going on around this place.”

Vernon suddenly drew back his arm, ready to backhand Hermione across the face.

“You keep a civil tongue in your head my girl!”

“Don’t you touch her!” Harry snarled at him.

“Now you listen to me! I may have performed my *wifely duties* but it was always strictly
for procreation as prescribed by scripture! I pride myself in having *never once* enjoyed
myself!”

“I can vouch for that,” Vernon sighed. He grabbed Hermione’s arm and tried to jerk her to her
feet.

“I said keep your filthy hands off her!” Harry couldn’t remember ever being so angry. Before he
even realized what he was doing, Harry’s right hand had clenched into a fist and launched itself
right into Uncle Vernon’s great bulbous nose. Tiny droplets of blood sprayed all over his bushy
mustache. It was hard to tell who among them was more astonished. Aunt Petunia couldn’t have been
more shocked if she’d just seen Vernon dancing naked in the House of Lords. For his part, Vernon
became even more enraged.

“Why you little—!”

By now Hermione had located her wand.

“Oh shut up, you great stupid walrus!”

Vernon suddenly froze in his tracks like a statue, his mouth hanging open in sheer terror.

“Vernon!” Aunt Petunia wailed. “What have they done to you? Speak to me, Vernon!”

“And *you*!” Another flick and Petunia was silenced.

Dudley was shoveling popcorn into his face when he stepped into the sitting room and saw his
parents frozen like sculptures, their faces set in grimaces of terror.

“What’s all the shouting about—Mum? Dad?” His cousin Harry was quickly pulling up his trousers
and a strange, but pretty young girl was sitting up in his old Boy Scout sleeping bag, covering
herself while pointing an orchestra conductor’s baton at his mother. It suddenly occurred to Dudley
that the girl didn’t appear to have any clothes on.

“What’s going on, Harry?” He gasped in astonishment at the sudden realization. “Harry…? Have you
been…?”

“*Do you mind*?”

The girl flicked the conductor’s baton at him and suddenly his whole body went rigid. With
another flick, he spun around until he could no longer see what she was doing.

Hermione quickly pulled on Harry’s old shirt. The idea of either Dudley or Vernon seeing her
naked and possibly fantasizing about her later made her very uncomfortable. Now properly covered,
she sank down onto the couch.

“How long will they stay like that?” Harry sat down beside her.

“A couple of hours, unless I release them myself.” She finished dressing and took Harry’s hand.
“So, what do you want to do, Harry? We could stay here long enough to start making some definite
plans.” She tapped her wand against the palm of her hand. “I’m sure your family will be *much*
easier to get along with now.”

“All my life I’ve dreamed of turning eighteen so I could finally get away from this place.”

“Well Happy Birthday, Harry. Get your things. Today you leave Privet Drive forever.”

Once Harry left the room, Hermione spun the Dursleys around to face her once more. Vernon’s
nosebleed was starting to gross her out, so she quickly cast a healing charm to clean it up.

“For ages I’ve been wanting to give you three a piece of my mind!” She looked them over. “Hardly
seems worth it, now. Do you have any idea how pathetic you look? I almost feel sorry for you. Harry
lived with you all this time and you never understood what a truly wonderful person he is. You want
to know the real topper? Even after everything you’ve done to him, I don’t think Harry hates you.
It’s just not in him.”

“Don’t waste your time with them,” Harry said as he returned with his few possessions stuffed
into a backpack. “Let’s go.”

As Harry stepped out the door, Hermione paused at the doorway and called back to the Dursley
family:

“Don’t think it hasn’t been a little slice of Heaven—because it *hasn’t*.”

With that, she flicked her wand and released them from the spell. For a few moments they could
only stand there in shock. Vernon sank down onto the sofa. Petunia could only stand there shaking,
pausing only to let out the occasional disbelieving wail. Perhaps it was Dudley who best summed up
their situation when he said:

“Oy! Who’s gonna cook my breakfast?”

Harry paused at the end of the walk and looked back at number four Privet Drive.

“You’re not going to get all sentimental on me are you, Potter?”

“What? Waxing nostalgic about my childhood? Forget it! I’ll miss this place about as much as I’d
miss a toothache.” Harry turned to face her. “It is a bit ironic, though. Horrible as it was, I did
spend the most wonderful night of my life there.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Potter.” Hermione was beginning to blush. “But I promise you it will
only be ‘the most wonderful night of your life’ until *tonight*—and *tomorrow night*—and
the *night after*. But I’m the one who should be thanking you. I’d lost everything and I
thought my life was over. You showed me that there were still some things worth living for.”

As Harry leaned in to kiss her, out of the corner of her eye Hermione spotted the Dursleys
peering through the front window. Never breaking the kiss, she reached into her pocket and pulled
out her wand, pointing the tip back toward the house. The Dursleys disappeared behind the
curtains.

“Mornin’ Harry!” called old Mr. Cates the postman. “Who’s your friend?”

“She’s a witch from a parallel universe.”

“You don’t say! Well, give my best to your family.”

“Not in *this* universe,” Harry muttered under his breath.

“I can’t help but wonder if there’s a dimension out there, where the Dursleys are kind, loving
people,” Hermione mused as Mr. Cates walked away.

“In an infinite universe, I suppose *anything* is possible. Maybe there’s even one where my
parents are still alive…”

“I guess with everything else that was going on,” Hermione sighed, “I never really had a chance
to think about it—But, I suppose I’m an orphan now, too.”

They walked in silence for a long time, holding tightly to each other’s hands.

“You know, we really didn’t think this thing through very well,” Harry finally said. They were
walking down Privet Drive toward Cherry Tree Lane. “I mean, where will we go? How will we support
ourselves? I’d rather go back and live with the Dursleys before I’d let you sleep on the
streets.”

“If you think I had any intention of sleeping on the streets to begin with, Harry Potter, then
you’ve got another think coming. Give me your wallet.”

“I’ve got a couple of pounds on me.” Harry said, a little embarrassed. “I’ve also got a little
bit of savings in the bank from mowing the neighbors’ yards—about twenty-five pounds altogether. It
was supposed to go toward my first car, but that wouldn’t last us very long.”

“Right now I’m not interested in small change.” She fished around until she found Harry’s school
ID card. Like most ID pictures, the photo of Harry looked like a bad mug shot. “Not the most
flattering picture I’ve seen of you.”

“Okay, Margaret Bourke White, so, what are you going to do with it?”

“This isn’t exactly ethical—but then again, there’s no Ministry Of Magic to bust us for doing
this.” She pulled out her wand and waved it over the card. “*Prescriptio in manibus
tabellariorium est*!” Where Harry’s school ID had been, there was now American Express Gold
Card.

“You’re right,” said Harry, “it’s *not* *exactly* ethical. Is that what they taught
you in that school of yours?”

“It’s not part of the *official* curriculum, if that’s what you mean.” Hermione grinned
sheepishly. “Still, desperate times call for desperate measures. So? Where would you like to stay
tonight? I’m in the mood for a little pampering…”

They got more than a few stares as they walked through the lobby of the Dorchester Hotel in
London. Their blue jeans, sneakers, T-shirts and Harry’s backpack seemed a tad out of place amid
the elegant splendor of the marble-columned lobby. Harry was more than a little self-conscious, but
Hermione strode past the other guests as if she owned the place.

“May I help you?” The Concierge looked down his long, pointed nose at them. His face seemed to
be etched into a permanent sneer. He reminded Harry of that actor… he played the bad guy in the
first “Die Hard” movie… Except for the shorter hair, Hermione could have sworn it was…

“Professor Snape?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Hermione shook her head. No. Obviously it couldn’t be. Harry was starting to get nervous.

“Oh nothing. You just remind me of someone I used to know.”

“I’m flattered beyond words. May I help you, Miss?”

“*Mrs.*,’ Hermione corrected. She held up her left hand to show off an elegant but tasteful
wedding ring. “Mr. and Mrs. Harry Potter, Little Whinging, Surrey. We were married yesterday.”
Harry felt a tingling sensation in his left hand. When he looked down, he discovered that an
equally elegant and equally tasteful wedding band had appeared on the third finger.

“You don’t waste any time, do you?” Harry whispered. She nudged him with her elbow to keep him
quiet.

“My most heartfelt congratulations,” said the Concierge with all the enthusiasm of Charlton
Heston at a Jane Fonda film festival. “Do you have a reservation?”

“As a matter of fact, we do.” Hermione smiled her most angelic smile.

Singularly unimpressed, the Concierge began flipping through the guest register. Obviously this
was some kind of school prank. The boy barely looked old enough to shave and the girl looked even
younger. He would soon be giving these two underage comedians a good dressing down. It was then
that he came upon the listing: “Mr. & Mrs. Harry Potter, Little Whinging, Surrey”—and most
startling of all, it was in *his own handwriting!*

Unaware of what the Concierge had discovered, Harry kept looking around, expecting Hotel
Security to surround them at any time. Hermione was doing her best not to giggle.

“Y-yes,” the Concierge stammered. “The reservation is right here.”

“You did put us in the Honeymoon Suite, didn’t you?”

He glanced back at the entry.

“Of course,” he said through clenched teeth in an odd tone of voice.

As much as he would have liked to toss the two juvenile delinquents out into the street, their
reservation appeared to be in order. They were able to produce ID’s stating that they were both
eighteen and what’s more, a check with American Express indicated that they had a virtually
unlimited line of credit. He decided that it might be a good idea to be nice to these two—just in
case they were the spawn of some important personage with a long pedigree and a short temper.

He snapped his fingers and two identically dressed bellhops appeared. The Concierge rolled his
eyes and let out a sigh. In addition to their uniforms, their faces were also identical, right down
to their flaming red hair.

Hermione shook her head in disbelief. *Could it really be* *Fred and George?*

“Are you two joined at the hip?”

“No, sir! It’s just that ’e owes me five quid and I’m not lettin’ him outa me sight until ’e
pays it back!”

“Show these,” the Concierge struggled for the least offensive word, “*guests* to the
Honeymoon Suite.” He handed George the key.

“Honeymoon Suite?” Fred raised and eyebrow.

The Concierge cleared his throat in a way that said, “Shut up and get moving!”

“Right sir!” He turned to the ‘newlyweds’. “And your luggage?”

“Half-way to Australia by now, I imagine.” Hermione said innocently. “We’d planned to Honeymoon
in Paris, but I’m afraid the airline put the entire lot on the wrong plane. So we’ve decided to say
in London and rough it here for a few days until they find it.”

“‘Rough it’,” the Concierge repeated with a forced smile. “How charming.”

Fred and George weren’t buying it either, but they had both already decided that anyone who
could put one over on their boss like that was okay in their book

As the bellhops escorted them to the elevator, Hermione’s curiosity got the better of her.

“Fred? George? You don’t have a younger brother named ‘Ron’ by any chance?”

“’Ere! How’d you know that?”

“She’s psychic,” Harry informed them. “Things like that just come to her.”

“You also have two older brothers a little sister named Ginny—and your parents are Arthur and
Molly Weasley.”

Their smiles faded a little.

“That’s not bad,” said George, “but you’re a bit out of date. You see, our dad passed away a
while back and Mum remarried.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nothin’ to be sorry about.” Fred told her. “Remus is okay as step-dads go. He really loves Mum
and he treats us okay. That’s what counts.”

Harry and Hermione were amazed. That would explain why Information couldn’t find any “Weasley”
family in Ottery St. Catchpole. And could their ‘step-dad” possibly be Remus Lupin?

The doors to the Honeymoon Suite swung open to reveal an enormous rococo fantasy straight out of
an old RKO Musical. Harry half expected Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers to come dancing down the
marble staircase that led up to the second level.

“I like it,” Harry quipped. “It’s showy, yet ostentatious.”

“’Ang on!” George’s arm shot out, as they were about to step inside. “You’re supposed to carry
the bride over the threshold!”

“We do rent cranes and forklifts at a reasonable rate should they become necessary,” Fred
added.

Hermione was not amused, but before she could kick Fred in the shins, Harry scooped her up into
his arms and carried her inside. He was promptly rewarded with a kiss before he set her down.

“I can’t wait to see the bed!” Hermione bounced up the stairs.

“I think you got a *live one* there, son!” Fred said out of the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t know the *half* of it!” Harry said, rolling his eyes.

George slapped the key into Harry’s hand.

“Well, if you need anything—oysters—vitamin pills—CPR—you just give us a shout!” They hesitated
at the door. Harry realized that they were hinting for a tip. Harry suddenly became aware of a
bulge in his pocket. He reached in and found two twenty pound notes folded together. He handed one
to each of them.

“Thank you, *Sir*,” they said in chorus.

“I had no idea I was such a generous tipper,” Harry called up the stairs once the bellhops were
gone.

He found Hermione sprawled out on the gigantic bed, wallowing in the luxury that surrounded
them.

“They’re going to be very annoyed at us when those bank notes fade away after a few hours.”

“They won’t.” Hermione took his hand and pulled him onto the bed. “I didn’t just conjure them up
out of nothing. I apparated them out of the ATM machine in the lobby. Trust me, we’re going to need
those two on our side before this is over.”

“They can help us hide when the police arrive.”

“Nothing I’ve done can be traced back to us, Harry.”

“That’s hardly the point.”

“Oh, lighten up, Harry!”

“You’re *enjoying* this, aren’t you?”

“You better believe it, kid. After everything I’ve been through, I figure I’ve earned it—and so
have you!”

“All the same, we’re going to keep track of everything we spend so we can pay it back one
day.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” She pulled him into a kiss. “That’s why Einstein could never
finish his Unified Field Theory. He never met you. *You* are the one true constant in the
universe, Harry Potter.”

***********

Harry felt Hermione catch her breath. He could feel her eyelashes brush against his chest as her
eyes flew open. He could feel her heart beating faster. He had a pretty good idea of what had
happened. He was still perspiring from his own nightmare. He was back in his cupboard under the
stairs with monstrous nightmare versions of the Dursleys taunting him.

“You thought you could get away!”

“You’ll never escape us!”

“Never!”

He could easily imagine what Hermione’s nightmare was like: Standing among the smoldering ruins
of Hogwarts, the only survivor—totally alone.

He felt her relax and snuggle closer.

He felt a tear run down her cheek onto his chest.

After a few more times of waking up like this, it was as if their subconscious minds finally
accepted that neither of them was going anywhere.

They were no longer alone.

At last they could sleep peacefully.

Tomorrow would literally be the first day of the rest of their lives, and Harry thought he might
just have a plan for the future.

THE END?



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*? *Fiftee*n?
*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
  Document created with wvWare/wvWare version 1.0.0
-->



3. "Familiar Faces"
-------------------



*“HAVE WE MET?”*

Chapter Three

“Familiar Faces”

*“For Aaron stretched out his hand with his rod, and smote the*

*dust of the earth, and it became lice in man, and in beast;*

*… And the magicians did so with their enchantments to bring forth lice,*

*but they could not;”*

*Exodus 8:17-18*

“Ginevra! Keep them covered!”

“Right, Mum!”

With a flick of Molly's wand, the blinds came down over the windows, ensuring that the
events that were about to transpire would remain private. Another flick locked the door and flipped
over the sign in the window to read “Closed”.

“I—I—don't understand,” Hermione sputtered. “The cards—!”

“—can be fooled,” Molly said coolly, “if you know what you're doing.”

“If we were going to pull something like that,” Harry pointed out, “we would have come up with
something a bit more believable than all that grandiose nonsense about my influencing the destiny
of mankind.”

“True enough, but there's only one way to be absolutely certain.”

Hermione drew her wand as Molly came out from behind the counter. “Better let me handle this,
Harry.” With her free hand she gave his a quick squeeze for reassurance. “I've had a bit more
experience in magical combat.”

“Whatever you say, darling.” With some bewilderment, Harry noted that Molly and Ginny were the
only ones to draw wands on them. The men-folk seemed content to remain on the sidelines. All the
same, Harry suspected that they wouldn't hesitate to stop anyone who tried to make a break for
it. He swallowed hard. “I've got your back.”

“Let me take her, Mum!” Ginny said as the women faced off from opposite sides of the room. “She
doesn't look so tough.”

“Have you ever taken a life, little girl?” Hermione said in an icy tone that sent shivers down
Harry's spine. “We came here as friends, but if you're determined to pick a fight with me,
be warned. In the world I come from, I fought against a dark wizard and his minions who murdered
with no more thought than a man stepping on an anthill. I'm far too well acquainted with death
to be cowed by a couple of amateurs.”

“Brave talk, little poppet,” Molly shot back, “but can you back it up? *Disarmius*!”

“*Protego*!” With a quick flick of her wand, Hermione easily deflected the spell.

"*Cumulo-Nimbus*!" Molly cried out. A thick black cloud encircled Hermione until
she could no longer see anything around her.

“*Aurora!*” A rainbow burst forth from the heart of the cloud and shone across the entire
length of the room as the cloud evaporated.

"*Carolus equus*!"

Hermione could feel the muscles in her legs begin to cramp and quickly used the counterspell on
herself. "*Linimenta*!" She then aimed her wand at Ginny.
"*Emetico*!" and the girl began retching uncontrollably.

“Good Heavens! *Pepto Bismo*!” Ginny's symptoms immediately subsided.

“*Galvanus*!” An immense white-hot bolt of lightning shot from Molly's wand directly
toward Hermione's chest.

“*Insulatus*!” The electricity dissipated harmlessly around her.

“*Arachnia*!”

“Spiders!” Ron shrieked as an army of arachnids swarmed out of the cracks in the walls. He
clambered onto the nearest table.

“*Vexillum nigrans*!” Molly called out and the eight-legged invaders vanished.

Hermione cast a Banishing charm on the kitchen supplies. Bottles of ketchup, mustard,
Worcestershire sauce and malt vinegar leapt from their tables and made a beeline for Molly, who
fought valiantly to deflect them. Despite the combined efforts of both Weasley women, they still
ended up covered from head to toe in sauces.

The hexes flew ever faster, but soon it became clear that Molly and Ginny were in over their
heads. Before long, they were totally overwhelmed, unable even to speak the counter curses before
Hermione hit them with the next spell. The Weasley men watched helplessly as their sister and their
mother collapsed to the floor and curled up into fetal position with their hands covering their
ears.

“All right! That's enough! You've made your point!” Ron was almost begging. “You
win!”

A look of horror spread over Hermione's face and her wand arm dropped limply to her side. An
eerie silence settled over the room and no one dared to move until a rapping was heard on the outer
door.

“Hello?” said a man's voice. “Is anyone there? Surely it's too early to close!”

“A customer!” Ron gasped. “What do we do?”

“*Finite* *Incantatem**!”* Hermione said. All the pains, spasms, eruptions,
malformations and visions she had inflicted on her opponents vanished as quickly as they had
appeared. The bottles and jars refilled and replaced themselves, the damage to the furniture
miraculously repaired itself and all the walls and floors were now sparkling clean As one, the
Weasley men rushed to aid their mother and sister, giving Hermione a wide berth and more than a few
cold stares. For her part, Hermione seemed to be in shock at what she had done. Harry quickly moved
to comfort her, all the while calculating the quickest escape route in case her little display had
turned their new friends against them.

“You have nothing to feel guilty about, darling,” Harry reminded her. “They were the ones who
wanted a fight.”

Molly shook off her children's assistance and dragged herself to her feet, her expression
one of genuine awe. She looked at Harry and Hermione and nodded in the direction of the counter.
“Sit down.” She then limped over to the door and unlocked it.

Harry briefly considered simply making a break for it, but Hermione was clearly worn out from
the battle and Harry didn't trust his own novice magical skills enough to pit them against
those of the entire Weasley clan. Trusting that another opportunity would present itself, Harry led
Hermione over to the counter and helped her onto a stool.

*Everyone fell silent as the shop bell rang and* *a man and woman entered the
café.*

Tall, loose-limbed and gangly, the man cut quite a curious figure: his 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 looked to be
about eighteen or nineteen, with 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.

She wore no make up. Her face was rather plain, (though not unattractive, as Harry and the
Weasley men would attest) yet there was something disconcerting about her eyes, the way they
continually darted back and forth like an animal's, perpetually on the watch for predators.
*No,* she *is the predator,* Hermione corrected herself. The feral girl's 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.

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. He and his companion settled into a table near the window. Molly
nodded to Ginny, who reluctantly took out her order pad. “May I help you?”

The tall man nodded toward his companion. “You don't have any raw meat, by any chance?” he
asked with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Doctor!” the girl said, slightly offended. “I'm not a savage, you know!” She turned to
Ginny. “We would like two orders of fish and chips and a small pot of tea, please.” The way she
said it suggested that the girl had been practicing for ages for this particular moment. She looked
over at the man she called “Doctor” for his approval. He smiled indulgently like a proud
father.

“Two orders of fish and chips and a small pot of tea,” Ginny repeated as she scribbled down
their order. “What about for afters? Strawberry tart? Apple pie? Ice cream?”

“Perhaps later,” said the Doctor. “Just make the tea medium sweet, no lemon.”

In spite of, or perhaps, because of their intense interest in their odd new female customer, one
by one the Weasley men were banished to the kitchen and ordered back to work.

“This might be a good time to leave,” Harry whispered to Hermione. “We might not get another
chance.”

“No,” Hermione insisted. “We have to find out where we stand with these people. It could affect
our entire future here.” The determined look in her eyes convinced Harry that it was pointless to
argue. Despite the fact that they were a bit overdressed for the part, they decided that the best
thing to do was to pretend that they were regular customers. Harry ordered the corned beef hash
while Hermione opted for the lentil soup. Molly and Ginny's expressions were unreadable as they
served them their meals. Were they now dining with friends or enemies? For a long time everyone ate
in silence, occasionally stealing curious glances at each other.

An attractive, sincere young woman in her early twenties called out a cheerful “Evening, Mrs.
Lupin!” as she entered the shop. She was dressed in jeans, sandals and a peasant blouse and carried
a large canvas tote bag over her shoulder on which was printed *Animals are people too*! “Is
Percy in?”

“He's in the back, Penelope dear.” Molly looked from Penelope over to the young woman in the
odd leather togs and cringed. “Go on through if you like,” she said, forcing herself to smile.

*Penelope Clearwater and Percy Weasley,* Hermione mused. *I see that Harry and I
aren't the only case of true love traveling across the universes.*

“Can't stop, I'm afraid.” Penelope hoisted the heavy tote bag she was carrying onto the
bar with a satisfying thump. “I've got to deliver these new animal rights leaflets to—”

The color drained from Molly's face as Penelope stalked across the room.

“Excuse me, Miss? Do you have any idea how many animals had to die in order 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.”

Harry and Hermione couldn't quite make out everything that was being said, but
Penelope's face had developed a decidedly unhealthy pallor. Looking as if she were about to
lose her lunch, Penelope fled the café.

Flashing a grin that would have been the envy of Alice's Cheshire cat, the Doctor carried
Penelope's tote bag to the counter and said, “Excuse me. I'm afraid the young lady left
this behind.” Hermione was amazed that so many teeth could fit into a single mouth, yet the effect
was neither grotesque nor unpleasant.

“We'll see that she gets it,” said Molly with some mortification. “I'm terribly sorry if
Penelope embarrassed your friend. She's a sweet girl, really—if a bit high-strung.”

“Think nothing of it. To be fair, my young friend's interpersonal skills could use a bit of
polishing, as well.” The Doctor paused and looked directly at Harry, tilting his head as if he were
puzzled by something. “By any chance, did you ever have a scar on your forehead—shape of a
lightning bolt?”

Harry and Hermione were almost too astonished to answer. “No. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, really. Perhaps I'm thinking of someone else.” He returned to his table.

“Did I say something wrong, Doctor?” the girl asked sheepishly. “I was polite and answered the
lady's question.”

“You simply said things that she wasn't prepared to hear. It's not quite the same
thing.”

Molly settled in behind the counter and began polishing the water glasses. Hermione started to
speak, but the shop bell rang once again and Molly motioned for her to remain silent.

A young towheaded man with a lean pointed face and cold gray eyes swaggered into the shop
flanked by a heavy-set boy and another with dull, deep-set eyes.

Hermione shook her head. Next to Voldemort's, this was the one face she wasn't looking
forward to seeing in this new world.

Ginny's eyes lit up. “Draco!”

“A new face!” Malfoy strode over to Hermione. “About time we got some new blood around this
dump.”

“Speaking of blood,” Ron growled, “isn't it about time you crawled back into your coffin,
*Dennis*?”

“Ron!” Ginny smacked her brother across the back of the head with her dishtowel. “He prefers to
be called `Draco'.”

“It's all right, Gin,” Malfoy said calmly. “You don't need to defend me to these
peasants.”

Ignoring her family's cold stares, Ginny proudly presented the young man to her new friends.
“Harry, Hermione, this is Draco Malfoy.”

Much to Harry's displeasure, Young Malfoy took Hermione's hand and brought it up to his
lips. “Enchanted, Mademoiselle.”

Hermione kept reminding herself that this Draco need not turn out to be an enemy here, but his
arrogant manner (and the clammy kiss), suggested that this Draco Malfoy was going to be just as
insufferable as his counterpart.

“Draco's father is a very important man with the Ministry of Sanitation,” Ginny announced
proudly. The revelation seemed of far greater significance to her than it did to Draco.

“How is the `Duke of Dustbins', by the way?” came Fred's voice from the kitchen
doorway.

“I hear his business is `picking up',” George added.

“Droll, very droll.” Malfoy forced a smile as he sipped the bottled water Ginny had brought him.
“Go ahead. Have your fun. Relish the moment. I wonder if you'll still be laughing when the
Health and Safety Certificates for this fire trap come up for renewal.”

“Don't you dare threaten us, Dennis Malfoy!” Molly's hand reached into the pocket of her
apron. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her wand. “I was the midwife who smacked your
little bottom on the day you were born! Don't think for one moment that I'd hesitate to
slap your smug little face—!”

“Just you wait,” Malfoy snarled. “When my father is a Member of Parliament--!”

The shop bell rang once more.

“Now what?” Harry groused.

“What can I get you, dear—?” 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.
Malfoy and his companions seemed to be doing their best to blend into the woodwork.

“He is a thief, isn't he, Doctor?” Leela bared her teeth in the smile of a hunting leopard
coming upon a lone gazelle.

“What?” The young man pointed his jacket at her.

“You are a thief,” she repeated as she slowly rose to her feet. “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 trembled, out of nervousness or fear. “I'll shoot
anyone who tries to be a hero.”

The girl looked over at the Doctor as if to ask permission for what she was about to do.

“Remember, Leela,” the Doctor said calmly, “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 girl assured him.

“What's she goin' on about?” the young man asked.

Across the street, opposite the Griffin's Door, the window of a silver 1964 Aston Martin DB5
rolled down. The driver drew his Walther PPK from its holster and carefully took aim at the
would-be thief. He was risking discovery, but if this Harry Potter character and his girlfriend
were as important as he had been briefed, 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 alcohol
and urine, 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.

“I'm sorry, Molly,” the young man sobbed. “I needed the money.”

“I know, luv,” she whispered soothingly. “Most of Marcus's troubles are of his own making,”
she said to Leela, “and I know he needs to be punished for what he's done, but he's not had
an easy time of it. Call me an old softie, but in my heart I can't help hoping that given half
a chance he might still be able to turn things around. Perhaps this time the authorities will
finally find room for him in a drug treatment program.”

To Hermione, this odd display of compassion only added to her confusion with regard to the
Weasleys' intentions.

The Aston Martin's driver relaxed his trigger finger, 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.
Another man would have been startled by her unexpected attack and pulled the trigger anyway.

Once they arrived, the police seemed anxious to get a statement out of the strange man with the
floppy hat and the long scarf and his companion, but by then they had both disappeared.

“Malfoy's gone too!” Ron noted. “Stinking little coward.”

“I didn't see you exactly jumping into harm's way either, big brother,” Ginny
sneered.

“I was just waiting for the right moment,” Ron said defensively.

“And was that moment going to be before or after the police arrived?”

“`Droll, very droll',” Ron drawled in his best Draco Malfoy impression.

It was nearly midnight by the time the last of the customers departed and Molly was finally able
to close the café for the night. The kitchen was cluttered, but comfortable, filled with the
equipment of a working restaurant mixed with the paraphernalia of magic.

“I don't understand,” Harry said. “First you're nice, then you try to kill us,
then—”

“I'm sorry to put you through that, luvs,” Molly said, “but I had to be certain that you
were telling the truth. We've been fooled before.”

“By whom?”

“Never you mind that now.” They sat down around the tiny kitchen table. “I possess magical
knowledge passed down from mother to daughter for centuries, but your skills are far more advanced
than those of any witch I've ever seen. I doubt if there's anything that I could teach you.
What exactly do you want from us?”

“Companionship, I suppose,” Hermione said as she took Harry's hand. “No one wants to feel
alone.”

“The cards were right. You two really are all alone in the world, aren't you?” Molly was now
in full “mother” mode. She slid a comforting arm around Hermione's shoulders. “Poor lost lambs…
Well, don't you worry. You're definitely among friends here.” She leaned over and called
loudly through the doorway. “Ginny!”

The youngest Weasley stuck her head through the door.

“What is it, Mum?”

“I bet these two could stand a cup of tea. Merlin knows I could use one!”

“Right.”

By the time the kettle whistled for attention, the rest of the Weasley children had assembled in
the kitchen.

“So, you're searching for other witches and wizards like yourselves?” Ron asked. “That's
part of it, anyway,” said Hermione. “The rest of the story is a little complicated.”

Between the two of them, Harry and Hermione did their best to explain in simple terms the
concept of parallel universes. It took some doing, but eventually their new friends seemed to grasp
the idea that Hermione had come from another dimension—another world where there were people who
looked just like the people here, but who had often led very different lives.

“You mean, there was another Weasley family in your world?” Ginny seemed fascinated by the idea.
“Another Ginny Weasley? Another me?”

“There *was*.” Hermione quickly changed the subject, hoping that *this* Ginny Weasley
wouldn't become too curious about the terrible fate of her counterpart. “Where I come from,
there was an entire magical civilization which existed side-by-side with the Muggle world—that is
to say, with those who could do no magic.” Hermione summoned Molly's Tarot cards and waved her
wand over them. She turned the first card over to reveal a picture of witches and wizards bustling
through the streets of Diagon Alley. “Now it's gone.”

After briefly summarizing the conflict with Lord Voldemort, Hermione then turned over more
cards, revealing various views inside and outside of Hogwarts itself. The more Hermione described
the place, the more excited Molly became.

“A school for young witches and wizards! If only I'd had something like that—as much for my
children as for me!”

“You can have precisely that,” Hermione said, “if you help us.”

Molly looked around at each of her children, seeking their consent. Each in turn, nodded their
approval.

“If you'll share your magical knowledge with us,” Molly said, “we'll gladly help you
build your school.” She extended her hand. “Deal?”

“Deal.”

END OF CHAPTER THREE

-->



4. "Bedknobs, Broomsticks and Wands"
------------------------------------



HAVE WE MET

(Chapter Four)

“Bedknobs, Broomsticks and Wands”

*“But take this staff in your hand so you can perform miraculous signs with it.”*

*Exodus 4:17*

As Molly refilled Hermione's cup, she warned her, “If you have any notion of uniting all
magical folk and building a new civilization here, you've got your work cut out for you.”

Before Hermione could ask why, Percy interrupted. “How are you going to round all of them up,
for a start? How many of us are out there who have latent powers and don't even know it? There
are only a very small percentage of us who have any idea who and what we really are.”

“I've got a few ideas for finding them,” Hermione answered Percy thoughtfully, “but
we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“What about the others—that small percentage you mentioned?” asked Harry.

“Scattered about in small groups like us.” Molly shook her head sadly. “Isolated,
suspicious—”

“Paranoid, you mean,” Percy snorted. “Sometimes I think we're more frightened of each other
than we are of the `Muggles', as you call them.”

“We've always kept to ourselves,” Molly said. “It's been that way since The Purge and I
don't expect it's going to change overnight.”

“`The Purge'?” asked Hermione.

“The great massacre of magic folk during the reign of King Arthur, curse his name!” Molly spat.
“You mean to say that you're a witch and you've never heard of it?”

Hermione shook her head. “The History of Magic was required study at Hogwarts. As far as I know,
nothing like that ever occurred in my world.”

“Of course!” Percy was almost giddy with excitement. “This could very well be the key difference
between our two histories—the reason why your magical civilization thrived and ours didn't. If
you agreed to help me, I bet I could write a book about this!”

“Why not?” George noted wryly. “Folks are always looking for new ways to cure insomnia.”

Harry was having trouble wrapping his head around the concept. “But how could the Muggles—how
could they possibly—?”

“That is the Mystery of the Ages, my dear,” Molly said grimly. “How could they even hope to
survive, let alone prevail over an entire society of magic wielders?” She shook her head and let
out a melancholy sigh. “Yet somehow, they did.”

“Some say it was Merlin himself who betrayed us,” Ginny said in a hushed, conspiratorial
whisper.

“Bite your tongue, child!” Molly barked. “I'll not have those sorts of heresies uttered
under my roof! You're as bad as your brother!” She turned to glare at Percy. “See what
you've started? You and your revisionist claptrap!”

“Grow up, Mum! Who else but Merlin could have given them the knowledge they needed to wipe us
out? He saw his fellow wizards becoming ever more corrupt—”

“And that justifies the slaughter of women and children?” Bill snorted.

“But why should Merlin want to destroy his own people?” Hermione asked.

“I honestly don't think he ever intended for things to go that far, but he was blinded by
his affection for Arthur,” Percy said as if the point were perfectly obvious. “He saw his fellow
wizards becoming more and more decadent, and he wanted to prevent them from enslaving the Muggles.
Mind you, there are those who claim that he really did it to eliminate potential rivals—”

“There is absolutely no proof—!” Charlie interrupted.

As the discussion continued, Ron lowered his voice so that only Harry and Hermione could hear
him. “I've been meaning to ask you. Was *your* Percy as big a prat as *ours*?”

Ignoring him, Hermione got to her feet. “I think we're getting a little off track here,
folks!” she said as loudly as she could. It was enough to silence the others.

“Hermione's right,” Molly agreed. “It's getting late and we have more important
business—like getting young Harry a wand of his own.” She picked up Ginny's order pad and began
writing. “There's a little shop in Kensington just off Portobello Road.” She the tore the sheet
from the pad and handed it to Hermione. “Tell them Molly sent you.”

*******

Later that night, Harry found Hermione standing out on the balcony of the Honeymoon Suite of the
Dorchester Hotel, staring up at the stars. “Can't sleep?”

“Feeling a trifle inadequate, I suppose.” She leaned back against Harry's chest as he
wrapped his arms around her waist. “It's not enough that we're being asked to rebuild
Hogwarts and the entire Wizarding World all by ourselves, we're also supposed to play
peacemaker to dozens of disparate groups who won't even talk to each other!”

“I thought witches and wizards were accustomed to doing the impossible?”
“Sure! Defy the laws of physics? No problem! Alter time and space? Piece of cake! Convince human
beings to put aside their fears and prejudices and actually communicate with one another…?” She
shook her head sadly.

Harry gently turned her around to face him. He clearly had something on his mind. “Hermione…” He
was carefully considering his words. “You know how I feel about you…”
“I think I have a pretty good idea,” she said with a cockeyed smile.

“I hope you also realize that I will always be there for you, no matter what. If the only thing
you had done had been to rescue me from the Dursleys that would still be more than enough to make
me your love slave for life. What's the Bible verse? `Whither thou goest, I will go'. Now,
I know that building this school of yours isn't going to be easy. It's going to take a lot
of hard work—but if that's what you want to do, I'll do it.”

She reached up to caress his cheek, uncertain of where he was going with this. “I know that,
Harry. I realize--”

“The point, my little sorceress, is that I would support you even if you decided *not* to
do it.”

Hermione's eyes grew as big as saucers. “What?”

“You said yourself that it's an awfully big job for two young wizards. It's possible
that it could turn out to be more than the two of us can handle. I just want you to know that I
wouldn't think any less of you, if you decided not to do it.”

Hermione was astonished. “What are you saying, Harry? That we should forget all about magic and
just live as Muggles— three kids, a dog, a cat and a home in the suburbs with a white picket fence?
Are you really suggesting that we abandon--?”

“That's not what I'm saying at all,” Harry said, attempting to calm her. “I never
believed that you would renege on your commitment to Professor Dumbledore. To be honest, I think I
would have been disappointed if you had. In any case, I'm not sure if a so-called `normal'
life is even in the cards for the two of us. I just don't want us going off half-cocked.”

“You're saying that we should lower our expectations a little.”

“Not at all. I'm simply pointing out that Hogwarts, like Rome, won't be built in a day.
This is going to be a long-term project, requiring the commitment of generations of Potters,
Weasleys and who knows how many others. There's a good chance we won't even live to see the
fruits of our labor. I was thinking of starting on a more realistic scale: we settle down, start a
family and concentrate on training our own children first; maybe teach the Weasleys and a few
others along the way; then we work our way up, say to some kind of a wizard summer camp or day care
center, then to an actual school, and so on.”

“I have to admit, it sounds reasonable, but…” Hermione sighed, shaking her head. “Children…
There's a scary concept: Hermione Granger reproducing.” She ran her fingers through her bushy
mane. “Between your mop and mine, what kind of nightmare would we be unleashing on the hairdressers
of the world, for a start?”

They both laughed, but Harry could sense that Hermione's apprehension was all too real.

“You sound like you're the one having doubts this time,” he said. “You do want children,
don't you?”

“You know, up to now I hadn't really given the subject much thought. I guess I'd always
assumed that I'd have some kind of a career first. I figured I'd become a Healer, work at
St. Mungo's, discover a cure for something, eliminate injustice in inter-magical being
relations, that sort of thing-- you know, make a name for myself. I just took it for granted that
I'd get around to motherhood sooner or later, but this way makes it seem like some sort of
obligation to wizard-kind, as if it's our civic duty to start mass producing little Harry
Juniors and mini-Hermiones as quickly as possible.”

“Only four or five, if Molly's cards are to be believed.”

Hermione rested her head against Harry's chest. “As sacred as my promise is to me, I'm
not sure if I could bring a new life into the world simply for the sake of fulfilling an
obligation, even one to Dumbledore; but then I stop and remember that they would be *our*
children—yours and mine.” She tenderly caressed Harry's face, and then lowered her head,
embarrassed. “I just don't know, Harry. More than anything, I think I'm afraid that I
wouldn't be a very good mother. Growing up, I was never like my friends: playing with dolls;
dressing and undressing them; pushing them around in their little prams. I was always too busy with
my books. What kind of a mother could I possibly be?”

“I know what kind of a person you are,” Harry told her. “You are warm and kind and gentle. You
care passionately about the things you believe in and you're willing to stand up and fight for
those beliefs when necessary. As a teacher, you've shown remarkable patience with me. Granted,
considering the upbringing I had, I'm not all that qualified to make a comparison—I probably
would have picked a mother scorpion over Aunt Petunia—but it seems to me that a kid could do a lot
worse than to have you as a mum.”

“Thank you, Harry,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Between the two of us, they might just turn
out all right at that! As far as the school is concerned, I know you're right about building a
new Hogwarts, but I'd still like to talk to some of the other magical groups out there— get
`the lay of the land' as it were, before we decide on anything definite.”

“Fair enough. Whatever you choose to do, you know I'll be there for you.”

“I've known that all along. The Harry Potter I know and love wouldn't behave in any
other way. Now if I'm not mistaken, I *did* hear you mention something about a `love
slave', did I not?” She leaned in and kissed him. “And, Harry dear, I don't want you going
off half-cocked either!”

******

The next morning Harry and Hermione found Ron waiting for them as they emerged from the elevator
into the lobby of the Dorchester. “Mum thought one of us ought to tag along with you. Old Miss
Price knows us and it might make things go a little smoother.” He seemed to be deliberately herding
them away from the concierge and the bellboys' station. “You might want to steer clear of the
front desk this morning. I don't know exactly what Fred and George are up to, but I have a
feeling that whatever it is, we don't want to be around when it goes off.”

The twins joined them as they exited through the revolving door, removing their bellhop hats and
jackets as they went.

“Feeling a bit peckish, brother Fred?”

“Now that you mention it, brother George, I could go for a little something… Chinese?”

“We had that yesterday… Cajun?”

About halfway down the block, whatever it was finally happened. It wasn't so much an
explosion as a sort of grotesque farting noise. Gradually, they all became aware of a terrible
stench drifting through the air.

The twins nodded to each other. “Indian.”

From somewhere within the lobby of the Dorchester came a voice—at once both plaintive and
terrifying.

“WEASLEY!”

Five loud belches signified everyone's satisfaction with the curry. Fred and George bid the
others good day, and returned to see whether they still had jobs at the Dorchester Hotel, or had
Snape, the concierge, finally succeeded in getting them sacked. As Harry, Ron and Hermione walked
on toward the Tube station, Hermione's curiosity got the better of her.

“Ron? I noticed that your mother and Ginny were the only ones who drew wands on us last night.
Have you and your brothers never shown any signs of magic?”

“Nothing really consistent,” he said, shrugging. “Well, you saw how I did in Piccadilly last
night. For some reason, in our family at least, it's the girls who get `The Gift'. Why? Was
the `other me' a full blown wizard?”

“Meaning no disrespect to your mum,” Hermione said, trying to be diplomatic, “it's possible
that she simply assumed that you boys had no powers and never really encouraged them to
develop.”

Ron's eyes lit up. “You think there might still be a chance, then?”

“It's certainly worth looking into. As long as I'm going to be giving lessons to Harry—”
Before she could say another word, Ron had scooped her into his arms and, with a loud yell, swung
her around in the air. Luckily there were few people on the sidewalk at that moment when he leaned
in to kiss her on the mouth, and Hermione's largely instinctive response to his outburst went
unnoticed.

“I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Potter,” said the large Irish setter as it transfigured back into
Ron Weasley. “I did get rather carried away. I most humbly apologize for my inexcusable
behavior.”

“Apology accepted,” said Hermione graciously.

“Just one thing—how much longer will I have the urge to sniff people's arses?”

As they continued to walk, the conversation turned to the strange old man that Harry and
Hermione had met the night before.

“You met old Dumbledore, did you?” asked Ron.

“You know him?” Hermione's hand tightened around Harry's.

“We don't go to the football matches together if that's what you mean, but I know
him--definitely bonkers. Everyone says it's because of `the war', but I can never quite pin
anyone down as to which one. Could have been the War of the Roses for all I know.” Ron noted the
expectant look in Hermione's eyes and realized that he was talking too much. “Was he a friend
of yours from `back home'?”

“A very dear friend and a trusted mentor.”

“He's kind of a fixture in Piccadilly,” Ron said, choosing his words more carefully. “To be
fair, once you get past his little eccentricities, he can be very useful to know. He's helped
me to steer clear of some of the more unsavory characters out there.”

“Any idea where he lives?”

Ron shook his head. “Not a clue. He's a bit like Schroedinger's Cat. He's neither
here nor there.”

“Don't worry, darling,” said Harry. “We'll find him.”

The party eventually arrived at the Tube station and took the Underground to Notting Hill.

“There it is,” Ron announced as they emerged from the station into the giant market. As they
strolled the crowded streets Ron began singing:

*Portobello Road,*

*Portobello Road,*

*Street where the riches of ages are stowed.*

*Anything and everything a chap can unload,*

*Is sold off the barrow in Portobello Road.*

There were more antiques, bibelots, *objets d'art,* bric-a-brac and just plain junk for
sale in street after street of shops and barrows than Harry and Hermione had ever seen before in
their lives. Pushcart peddlers hawked their wares to the passersby.


*Rare alabaster*, called out one vendor.

*Genuine plaster,* translated Ron.**

*A filigreed samovar owned by the czars!

A pen used by Shelley!*

*
A new Botticelli!*

*
The snippers that clipped
old King Edward's cigars!*

Harry and Ron would have been happy to spend the day just perusing the wonders of this strange
Aladdin's Cave, but as Hermione reminded them, they were on a mission.

*
Waterford crystal!

Napoleon's pistols!

Society heirlooms
with genuine gems!

Rembrandts, El Grecos,
Toulouse "Lautrec-os"!

Painted last week,* Ron noted*, on the banks of the Thames*

Soon even Hermione entered into the spirit of things and all three sang as they strolled
along,

*Portobello Road,*

*Portobello Road,*

*Street where the riches of ages are stowed.*

*Anything and everything a chap can unload,*

*Is sold off the barrow in Portobello Road.*

Somewhere near Kensington Park, they finally found the shop that Molly had told them
about.**

*Miss Eglantine Price*

*&*

*Professor Emelius Browne*

*Magic Tricks, Novelties and*

*Rare Ephemera*

An old man stood in the doorway, dressed in a tweed jacket, baggy trousers, spats, waistcoat a
scarf and a tatty Homburg hat, which gave him a rather rumpled, Bohemian look. His hair was gray
but there was still a dash of color to his neatly trimmed mustache. “Hello, Professor!” Ron
called.

Noting Hermione's raised eyebrow, the old man introduced himself. “*Professor* Emelius
Browne, Esquire. Juggler, sword swallower and illusionist *extraordinaire*!” He produced a
bouquet of paper flowers from his sleeve and presented it to Hermione, then took her hand and
kissed it. (Interestingly, he provoked none of the revulsion she felt when Draco Malfoy tried it
the day before.) For no particular reason Hermione was reminded of *The Wizard of Oz*. The
fellow was definitely a “humbug”, but a charming one.

“How do you do, Professor?”

“I do extremely well, my dear,” the old man said with a juicy wink, “as any of my lady friends
will attest. And what is your name, my child?”

“*Mrs.* Hermione Potter. This is my husband, Harry.”

Without missing a beat, Professor Browne seized Harry's hand and shook it vigorously. “And
what a fortunate young man you are to have such a charming bride.”

“You'll get no argument there,” Harry said.

“And what can we do for your delightful new friends, young Ronald?”

“They're looking for one of Miss Price's *specialty items*,” Ron told him, “if you
take my meaning.”

The Professor raised an eyebrow. “Are they…?”

Ron nodded.

“Step this way.”

As she followed the others into the shop, Hermione spotted something out of the corner of her
eye. Sitting just across the street in front of Del Floria's Taylor Shop was a police box.
Hermione paused at the doorway and squinted. She could just make out the words “Out of Order”
scrawled in chalk across the door. A strange wheezing-groaning noise drifted through the air from
its general direction.

“Harry? I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think that police box is following us.”

“Pardon?”

“Over there—!” She pointed across the street, but where the box had been, there was now only a
patch of empty sidewalk. The wheezing-groaning noise faded. Hermione shook her head. “Never
mind.”

As she and Harry disappeared into the shop, a silver1964 Aston Martin DB5 pulled into a parking
space across the street.

The inside of the shop was Portobello Road in miniature. There were objects of every shape, size
and description from a medieval suit of armor and a “penny farthing” bicycle to a turn of the
century nickelodeon and a stuffed warthog. The Professor led them through the maze of jumbled goods
towards the main counter.

“I trust you've been keeping up with your exercises, my boy?” he said as he ducked to avoid
the light fixture of a large floor lamp made from a stuffed alligator.

“I have been practicing, Professor,” Ron moaned, “but I'm beginning to think that I'm
just not cut out to be a magician.”

“Have I taught you nothing, young Ronald?” Mr. Browne led them over to the counter where various
magic tricks and novelties were on display. He then pulled a coin from Ron's ear, and then
nimbly manipulated it back and forth between his fingers. “The mechanics of the trick itself is
only part of what makes a magician successful! The rest is all in the presentation!”

*It really doesn't matter what I do,*

*What I do,*

He placed the coin in the palm of his left hand, closed his fingers around it, waved his right
hand over his left…

*As long as I do it…*

…and when he opened his fingers, the coin had disappeared.

*...with a flair!*

*He then picked up a small metal dish and a matching cover. When he removed the cover, there
was a bright flash.*

*What effect a little smoke is,*

When the smoke cleared, a live dove was sitting on the dish.

*With a dash of Hocus Pocus,*

The bird immediately took flight and landed at the door of a large birdcage sitting in a corner
on the opposite side of the room, letting itself inside and then closing the door behind it.

*And the scent of burning sulfur in the air*

Mr. Browne then produced a deck of cards in one hand and spread them out like a fan to show that
they were all different.

*I'm a fraud, a hoke, charlatan, a joke,*

*But they love me everywhere*

He shuffled the cards and fanned them out again. Now every card in the deck was the Ace of
Spades.

*It really doesn't matter what I say,*

*What I say,*

He shuffled the deck again. This time when he fanned them out, they were all his own business
cards.

*As long as I say it with a flair.*

He handed one to Hermione and stuffed one each into Harry and Ron's shirt pockets.

*First I rattle off a ready stock of gibberish and poppycock*

*And fix you with my best hypnotic stare.*

He covered the deck with both hands and blew on them.

*With my moans and groans and soporific tones*

*They have cheered me everywhere*

When he opened his hands, the deck had turned into a scarf

*For it really doesn't matter what I do*

*What I do*

A reproduction of the Mona Lisa hung on the wall near the office door. Mr. Browne draped the
scarf over the painting until it was completely hidden from view.

*As long as I do it...*

He yanked the scarf away. The painting had transformed into a huge theatrical poster of a
magician dressed in traditional cape and tuxedo, pulling a white rabbit out of his top hat, much to
the delight of his shapely assistant. The magician was many years younger with no trace of gray in
either his hair or his mustache, but the face was easily recognizable. The headline screamed “THE
MAGNIFICENT EMILIUS!”

*…with a flair!*

“Bill Weasley!” said a woman's voice. “Bless my soul! It's been ages! How is your dear
mother?”

“She's fine, Miss Price—Only I'm not Bill, I'm Ron.”

“Not little Ronald! He's still in nappies, surely!”

“If it makes you feel any better, my boy,” Browne joked, “that would make *two* of us.”

“Very funny, Professor.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Potter,” Professor Browne said with a flair, “may I present my partner in crime,
my best friend and the love of my life, Miss Eglantine Price.”

The old woman's cheek's flushed with embarrassment. “Really, Mr. Browne!”

“My dear, may I present Mr. Harry Potter and his good lady, Mrs. Hermione Potter.” As they
exchanged handshakes, Hermione sized up their hostess. According to Ron, she was well into her
eighties, but she could have easily passed for much younger. There were still streaks of blonde
among the silver in her hair. Hermione suspected that she'd broken more than a few hearts in
her day. She wore a lavender blouse with a large ruffle at the neck, a darker purple vest that
matched her skirt and low-heeled purple shoes— along with her bouffant hairstyle, this suggested
that her interest in fashion faded during the heyday of Carnaby Street.

“These young people are in need of something *from the back room*, my dear.”

“Harry needs a magic wand,” Hermione declared, having grown weary of their rather ludicrous
attempts at secrecy. Ron seemed taken aback by her brusqueness, but Miss Price was unfazed.

“You are a rare bird indeed, Mr. Potter,” Miss Price observed. “For some reason, at least in my
admittedly limited experience, `The Gift' tends to favor the weaker sex. I'd always
considered it one of nature's little checks and balances, to keep your gender from getting
completely out of hand.” She opened the little swinging door to allow them behind the counter.
“Come with me.”

The first thing that caught Hermione's eye as they entered the little office in the back of
the shop, was a framed certificate hanging above Miss Price's desk.

*This is to certify that the undersigned has*

*passed all required tests and certifications and*

*is now entitled to all rights and*

*privileges due a graduate of…*

“…The Emelius Browne School of Witchcraft?”

“A private joke, my dear,” Miss Price said enigmatically. Miss Price took hold of Harry's
right hand and examined it. She then took out an old wooden school ruler and began carefully
measuring the lengths of his fingers, the width of his earlobes and the distance between the pupils
of his eyes.

“My fortunes took a bit of a downward turn during the war,” Professor Browne explained while
Miss Price worked, “forcing me to devise ever more creative ways of keeping body and soul together.
In fact, that was how Miss Price and I first became acquainted. She had enrolled in my
correspondence school of witchcraft—”

“—only to discover,” Miss Price interrupted, “that he had plagiarized the entire curriculum from
an ancient book called *The Spells of Asteroth*, which he'd bought off a barrow not three
blocks from here—and to make matters worse he'd only managed to secure half of the book.”

“If I had thought to bring it with me, Miss Price,” Hermione chuckled, “I would have gladly
given you my copy. I don't know how many times I fell asleep trying to wade through some of his
more long-winded passages.”

“Old Asteroth did have a tendency to continue beating the horse long after its demise. Why use
one word when five or six will do? Even so, I did find his spell for *Substitutiary
Locomotion* most useful on at least one occasion.” She finished measuring Harry and then began
hunting through the various packing crates, boxes and file cabinets scattered around the room. “Mr.
Browne, has the latest shipment of wands come in from Cornwall?”

“I don't recall unpacking them. They may still be in the storeroom with that load of plastic
vomit and the fake dog droppings we got in last week.”

“Better have a look.” She disappeared through the back door, while Mr. Browne continued to
search the office.

After she disappeared, Hermione started chuckling to herself. *“The Spells of Asteroth!*
She spent all that time and energy searching for *The Spells of Asteroth!*”

Ron shook his head. “I don't understand.”

“I didn't want to embarrass Miss Price, ” Hermione said, once she'd recovered, “ but
back at Hogwarts, Asteroth's spells are considered to be the most basic, and elementary of
magic. It's the wizard equivalent of *Green Eggs and Ham*!”

Mr. Browne chuckled. “I'd always regarded the whole thing as a load of rubbish to begin
with. To be honest, I looked upon it merely as a way to make a few quid in a hurry. I had no idea
that there was anyone out there who could actually make use of the information that I was
peddling!”

“You're not one of us, then, Mr. Browne?” asked Harry.

“Heavens, no! Would that I had thus been blessed!” Mr. Browne sighed wistfully. “Imagine me
reposing on the deck of my yacht as we sailed down the French Rivera! Marilyn Monroe and Brigit
Bardot lighting my most expensive Cuban cigars with hundred pound notes!”

He led them back out into the main shop. “I tried to talk Miss Price into joining my magic act,
you know.” He sighed as he regarded the old poster of himself. “It was a marvelous dream …a
magician with an assistant who could do real magic! Can you imagine the feats we could have
accomplished—the miracles we could have performed?”

Hermione folded her arms across her chest and shook her head sadly. Professor Emelius Browne had
obviously gone round the bend. Harry, however, was smiling to himself. Hermione could almost hear
the wheels turning inside her lover's head.

“I remember the night as if it were yesterday!” Mr. Browne said breathlessly. He seized
Hermione's hands and gazed earnestly into her eyes. “My dear lady, have you ever considered
entering what some of us call, `show business'? The theatre! Pantomimes! Village fairs! The
seaside! Brighton! Blackpool! Follies on the Prom! We could make a packet!” Hermione got the
distinct impression that Professor Emelius Browne was no longer simply reminiscing, but actually
*reliving* the night in question. Just like back in the old days, he was going into his
patter:

*As the words sell the tune
And the moon beams the moon
All you need to succeed in your plan
Is a champion rare
With a flourish
And a flair!
And I'm your man*

Mr. Browne then swept Hermione into his arms and began dancing her around the room and singing
with remarkable gusto.

*Eglantine, Eglantine,
Oh, how you'll shine!
Your lot and my lot have got to combine!*

*Eglantine, Eglantine,
Hark to the stars!
Destiny calls us!
The future is ours!*

Releasing Hermione, Mr. Browne scooped up the wax fruit from a bowl on one of the tables and
began deftly juggling it over his head.

*As the shine sells the boot
And the blossoms the fruit
All you need to succeed in your plan*

*Is the proper ally
Upon whom to rely
And I'm your man*

He retrieved a dusty old top hat from hat rack in the corner and held it out, catching the
artificial produce one by one. He turned the hat over to demonstrate that it was now completely
empty, then reached in and pulled out a live white rabbit.

*With my expert pantomiming
The proper taste and timing
I'll introduce you in the manner grand*

*I'll whet their appetite for you
I'll set the scene so right for you
We'll have the beggars eating out of your hand*

“Come back to the present, Mr. Browne!” Miss Price appeared in the doorway carrying an armful of
long, narrow objects wrapped in tissue paper. “Must we go through this every time one of us walks
into the shop? In any case, I doubt Mrs. Potter would want to play the stooge for you any more than
I did.”

“Stooge indeed!” Mr. Browne huffed. “You wound me, mademoiselle! As if I would treat anyone with
so rare a talent as an underling; as if I could regard such a person as a mere dupe!”

“Did he offer you thirty-five percent or did he go all the way to forty?”

“You can't blame a chap for trying,” Mr. Brown grumbled petulantly. “It's easy for you
to be Miss `High-and-Mighty' when you've got the power!”

As they continued to argue, Hermione noticed Harry looking at her with a mischievous smile on
his face. “What are you grinning about?”

“I was trying to picture you as Mr. Browne's assistant.”

“Honestly! Can you really see me parading around on stage in nothing but a handful of
rhinestones and a few feathers?”

If anything, Harry's grin got bigger. “Not on stage, perhaps…”

From his expression, Ron was forming a few mental pictures of his own, but Harry was merciful
enough to elbow his friend in the ribs and whisper, “Better watch it. Remember what happened to you
this morning.”

“Leave a chap his fantasies, Harry.” Ron sighed. “I have a feeling that's all I'm going
to get out of this.”

“Whatever you say, mate. I just hope you develop a taste for Mighty Dog.”

“I warn you,” Mr. Browne continued, “if I am forced to wait much longer, there may yet come a
day when I'll be too old to appreciate a Swedish massage from Anita Ekbert!”

“Too old, Mr. Browne? You?” Miss Price smiled indulgently, then walked over and kissed him on
the cheek. “That day shall never come.” She summoned Harry over to the counter, where she had
unwrapped several magic wands and set them out in a row.

“May I?” asked Hermione. She picked one up and examined it closely.

“Lovingly crafted by hand, each and every one!” Miss Price boasted.

Though it appeared to be a good, serviceable design and did indeed show a high degree of
craftsmanship, to Hermione's eye, it lacked some of the polish of an Ollivanders® wand. *Even
so*, she thought, *beggars can't be choosers.*

At Miss Price's urging, Harry picked up each wand in turn and waved it with varying results.
The first wand did absolutely nothing. The second wand yielded a couple of gold sparks. The fifth
caused the doves in the cage across the room to become unsettled and flutter their wings nervously.
The seventh gave Harry's hand a slight electrical shock.

“Definitely not!” Miss Price handed the rejected candidates to Hermione and Ron, who re-wrapped
them in tissue paper.

“Hang on!” cried Ron as he picked up the last one. “My arm's tingling!”

“Indeed!” Miss Price took the wand and examined it closely. “Maple and dragon heart string… Ten
inches…strong but flexible… Like mother, like son?” She handed it back to Ron. “Give it a wave, my
boy.”

Ron pointed it at an old rugby ball sitting across the room. “*Wingardium Leviosa*!” The
ball leapt into the air, hovered for a moment, then sailed straight into an elaborately decorated
Chinese vase.

“Bless my soul!” gasped Miss Price.

“You were right, Hermione!” Ron squealed with joy. “Wait until Mum finds out!”

“Wait until she gets the bill for that vase,” Mr. Browne muttered.

“Allow me.” Hermione took out her own wand. “*Reparo!*” The vase reassembled itself.

“A pity you weren't around when I was four years old and I broke Mum's best teapot.” Ron
grinned.

“You have extraordinary power, Mrs. Potter.” Miss Price seemed genuinely impressed. “Do you give
lessons?”

“Why don't we talk about that *after* we've found Harry a wand?”

Miss Price disappeared into the back of the shop once more and emerged a few minutes later
carrying another load of wands. The results were much the same as before. Either nothing happened,
or the reaction was insignificant.

“What is that?” There was a tapping sound coming from somewhere nearby. In one of the display
cases sat a large velvet pillow displaying several old, worn magic wands. One of them appeared to
be moving on its own, slowly inching its way off of the pillow toward Harry.

“How very interesting.” Miss Price unlocked the display case. “I picked these up as part of a
collection of magical artifacts.” Wary of the reaction she might provoke, she carefully scooted the
agitated wand back onto the cushion, touching it as little as possible. She then carried the whole
thing over to Harry. “Generally, I don't deal in `previously owned' wands,” she explained.
“As a rule, after a lifetime of service to a single owner, a wand won't even consider another,
but there are exceptions. They do say that the wand chooses the wizard. Hmm…”

Harry summoned his courage, reached out and picked up the wand. The handle grew warm in his
hand. His arm tingled. Red and gold sparks flew from the tip. A huge grin spread across his face as
Harry stood up. “*Wingardium Leviosa*!”

A stuffed Noddy doll got to its feet and began to hop around the table. A marionette of Mike
Mercury from *Supercar* stood up and invited the marionette of Lady Penelope from the
*Thunderbirds* to dance, their controls floating in the air above them, manipulated by
invisible puppeteers.

“You are a remarkable bird indeed, Harry Potter.”

“I wonder…” Harry said to himself. He took the top hat from Mr. Browne and waved the wand over
it. He pulled out a white rabbit, then a second and a third. He waved his wand over them and they
disappeared. He conjured up a deck of cards, fanned them out to show that they were all different,
and then passed his hand over them. This time when he fanned them out, they were all the same—the
Ace of Hearts, then the King of Clubs, then the Queen of Spades, etc. “What do you think,
Professor? Could I make it as a stage magician?”

“Why of course, my dear boy! Who needs an assistant when one can do the magic for himself?” Mr.
Browne began singing:

*Let us strike a bargain.*

*You possess a gift*

*but I can speak the jargon*

*that can give your gift the needed lift!*

*You possess the `know-how'*

*but I command the `show-how'*

*Oh, how successful you could be…*

*…with me!*

“You do the magic and I'll teach you how to dress it up and present it to an audience” Mr.
Browne could barely contain his enthusiasm. He wrapped the old magician's cape around
Harry's shoulders and popped the old top hat onto his head. “—for a small percentage, of
course.”

“You've got a deal, Mr. Brown.” They shook hands. “I may not be able to promise you that
Swedish massage from Anita Ekbert,” Harry said, “but if this works, I'll guarantee that you and
Miss Price will never have to worry about money again.”

Hermione was not amused, particularly as she pictured herself being sawn in half. “You can't
be serious, Harry! Using your genuine talent for magic to prance about on stage producing scarves
from your sleeves and pulling rabbits out of hats? It just seems so …I don't know
…*childish!* ”

“So are the Muppets,” Ron pointed out, “but Jim Henson could have bought his own
*planet*.”

“There are more important things than money, Ron—!”

“True enough,” Harry conceded, “but even with all our Hocus Pocus, building that school of yours
isn't going to come cheap. Besides, what better way to disguise what we're doing?
Didn't you ever hear of `hiding in plain sight'? As a magician, I can use my magic right
out in the open and no one will give it a second thought!”

“I don't know…”

“Consider this, then—we have to locate our fellow wizards and witches, right? What better excuse
to travel the world? Fame is about more than ego gratification. It can also open doors. As a
world-famous magician, I could go places that they'd never allow me if I was some little nobody
from Surrey!”

“Harry!”

“Well, if she's not interested, then how about you, Miss Price?” Just as Mr. Browne had with
Hermione, Harry swept Miss Price into his arms and danced her around the shop.

*Eglantine, Eglantine!
Oh, how you'll shine!
Your lot and my lot have got to combine!*

*
Eglantine, Eglantine!
Hark to the stars!
Destiny calls us!
The future is ours!*

Once she had caught her breath, she threw back her head and laughed, then grabbed Harry by the
cheeks and kissed him right on the mouth. “When do we start?”

“Not so fast there, `Houdini'!” Hermione pried the two apart and forcefully inserted herself
between them. “If you're bound and determined to make a complete ass of yourself, I suppose
I'd better come along to keep an eye on you—if only for the sake of those four or five children
Molly predicted for us.”

“For the children, then!” Harry drew her into a passionate embrace.

As soon as Harry and Hermione came up for air, Mr. Browne took Harry by the arm and mimed
escorting him over to the main counter as if he were leading him out onto the stage of the London
Palladium. “Your Royal Highness, my lords, ladies and gentlemen! It is my great pleasure to
introduce to you, a young man who has dazzled the crowned heads of Europe with his incomparable
feats of legerdemain! Direct from his sold out tour of the five continents, may I present, the one,
the only, the amazing … HARRY POTTER!”

(to be continued)

END OF CHAPTER FOUR

-->



5. untitled
-----------



HAVE WE MET

(Chapter Five)

“The Age Of Aquarius”

*“They say to the seers, `Don't see any more visions!' They say to the prophets,
`Don't give us any more visions of what is right! Tell us pleasant things. Prophesy things we
want to hear even if they aren't true.'”*

*Isaiah 30:10*

******

Their taxi drove up to the big wrought iron gate set into the three hundred year-old stone wall
that surrounded the vast estate. Except for the intercom mounted on a metal post next to the
cobblestone driveway, Moonlight Court looked much as it did when it was built in the eighteenth
century. Hermione half expected a see a horse-drawn carriage coming down the drive to meet
them.

The cab driver eased forward until the intercom box was even with the taxi's rear window.
Harry rolled down the window and pressed the call button. “My name is Potter. Harry Potter.”

A young woman's voice said, in an odd singsong manner, “Ah, Harry Potter. Are you the
gentleman with the aliens' photographs from Roswell—or have you come to fix the toilet?”

“We have an appointment,” Harry told her. “Miss Price from Portobello Road sent us.” Harry could
just make out the sounds of voices arguing with each other about “extra-terrestrials in New Mexico”
and “the long line for the loo” before the speaker cut off. “I just hope this doesn't take too
long.” Harry pulled a deck of cards from his pocket and deftly shuffled them with one hand. “Mr.
Browne is supposed to show me how to saw a woman in half.”

“Forgive me if I don't rush to volunteer,” Hermione said dryly.

“You could always get Penelope.” Ron grinned. “I wouldn't mind seeing her cut down to size.”
Ron had removed his wand from his pocket and was tapping it on the back of the front seat like a
drumstick. A glare from Hermione and a nod toward the Muggle cab driver convinced him to put it
away. “You reckon they'll let us in? Miss Price did say that they're supposed to be one of
the friendlier groups?”

“I believe her exact words,” Hermione corrected, “were that they were `a bit less
*unfriendly*' than the others—Ron!” Ron was leaning over, trying to peer through the gate
to get a look inside, and as a result was crushing Hermione into Harry.

“Sorry.” He retreated to his portion of the rear seat. “I've always wanted to see this place
in person. I mean they've all stayed here, haven't they? Michael Jackson, Elvis, the
Beatles, David Bowie—The Captain and Tennille!”

“Enter, friends,” the same singsong voice finally said. The wrought iron gate swung open by
itself, the muffled droning of motors revealing that, in this case at least, no magic was
involved.

The driveway wound around an ancient grove of oaks and past a small lake. Here and there,
figures in long white robes walked, reclined or meditated on white beach towels.

“Reminds me of the lake at Hogwarts,” Hermione said wistfully to Harry. “Do you suppose they
have a giant squid?”

“Memories of the old *alma mater*,” Ron sighed, pretending to wipe away a nostalgic tear.
“Hey! Isn't that Bob Denver over there talking to Joyce DeWitt?”

“I don't think so, Ron.” Hermione said. “In any case, we're not here looking for
autographs.”

Moonlight Court, the great ivy-covered stone manor house, could easily have been the setting for
a gothic romance by Daphne de Maurier or the Bronte sisters. As they climbed out of the taxi and
approached the great carved oak double doors, each with a large brass lion's head set into its
center, Hermione could almost see Mrs. Danvers from *Rebecca* peering down at them from one of
the upstairs windows.

“Nice knockers,” Hermione said as Harry paid the fare.

“Not bad*.* I'm more of a leg man, myself.” Ron's eyes fixed on two attractive
young women in calf-length robes walking a matched pair of elegant Arabian mares toward the
stables. Luckily, the girls were too far away to hear. They simply looked at Ron, whispered back
and forth to each other and giggled. “You're wondering just how good I am in the saddle. Am I
right, ladies?”

Hermione blinked her eyes a few times and shook her head. Were those really her old schoolmates
Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, or had she grown so accustomed to running into familiar faces
that she was seeing them even when they weren't there?

“There'll be plenty of time for horsing around later, Ron.” Just as Harry was about to grab
one of the leonine brass doorknockers, the front door swung open.

“Welcome to The Circle.” The odd sleepy voice they had heard over the intercom belonged to a
young girl about Ginny's age. She had long, dirty-blonde hair that hung down to her waist, and
large blue eyes that seemed to bulge outward slightly, giving her a look of perpetual surprise.
“Come freely, go safely, and leave behind something of the happiness you bring with you.” She
bowed. “I am Luna.”

“Thank you.” Hermione had to keep reminding herself that she and this Luna Lovegood had never
met before. “I'm Hermione Potter. This is my husband Harry and this is our friend, Ron
Weasley.”

“Follow me. The Enlightened One will receive you in the Tower of Tranquility, where at present
she is communing with the Other Side.”

Hermione paused on their way across the foyer to peer through a half-opened door. Several
white-robed acolytes sat meditating in the lotus position on the floor of one of the large salons.
Its Louis Quatorze furnishings had been replaced by large crystals and stones of unusual shapes,
some polished, others left in their natural states. It was then she realized that, technically
speaking, many of them weren't on the floor—they were levitating several inches above it.

“Uplifting, wouldn't you agree?” said Luna.

She led them up the great marble staircase past portraits of English nobility, all the while
absently humming a tune to herself, which Hermione could have sworn was “Weasley is Our King.”

“It's a very beautiful home,” Hermione said when she could stand it no longer.

“A house is no home unless it contains food and fire for the mind as well as the body,” the girl
said enigmatically.

“Do you always have so many people staying here?”

“It's our annual festival of the harmonic convergence, one of our most solemn and sacred
rituals; most of them are only here for the weekend.”

They arrived at the third floor a bit winded, then proceeded down a long hallway, past signed
photographs of Elizabeth Montgomery, Paul Lynde, Agnes Moorhead, Marion Lorne and a blonde man with
a most engaging smile dressed in lilac robes, whom Ron didn't recognize. Unfortunately, they
were hustled past too quickly, and Ron couldn't make out the signature. Occasionally more
white-robed acolytes would emerge from one of the many rooms they passed. Luna would greet them as
they met, pressing her hands together, bowing at the waist and saying, “Peace and long life.” The
other person would then return the greeting.

At one point Ron held up his hand, spread his fingers and solemnly intoned, “Live long and
prosper,” earning him a nudge in the ribs from Hermione and a dirty look from a tall, curly-headed
acolyte with piercing blue eyes and a prominent proboscis. His face looked very familiar. “Oy! Hang
on a minute! Aren't you the bloke from the *Griffin's Door*? Where's your pet
savage?” The acolyte ignored him and kept walking. “Hey, Harry, Hermione!” When he turned around,
he saw that his friends were already at the far end of the corridor.

“Harry! Hermione!” he said as soon as he caught up with the others. “You'll never guess
who—!”

Hermione shushed him before he could finish. Evidently Luna was in the midst of relating some
historical tidbit about the house.

At the end of the corridor a large gallery looked out onto the back garden of the estate. Out
beyond the swimming pool and the formal gardens stood a large stone circle. A group of acolytes
were sitting in its center, while more surrounded the ring holding hands and chanting. Hermione
couldn't quite make out what they were singing, but it reminded her of Gregorian chant.

“Some scholars believe our Circle to be even older than Stonehenge,” Luna informed them. “It is
our namesake, our symbol and the source of our strength.”

Luna led them up a circular stone staircase to the top of the highest tower and up through a
small trap door.

The large circular room was strewn with cushions and the air was thick with the sickly sweet
smell of burning incense. The huge arched windows gave a commanding view of the estate and the
surrounding countryside. “Definitely nicer than Divination,” Hermione said under her breath.

“Enter, O seekers of knowledge,” said an odd, ethereal voice. Sybill Trelawney looked much the
same as her counterpart at Hogwarts. She was just as thin; the same chains and beads dangled from
her spindly neck. She wore the same exaggerated spectacles and the same rings on all her fingers.
The principal differences were the flowing white gown and matching turban that she wore. At the
moment, she was chatting on her mobile phone. “Yes, Shirley, I'll have your usual suite ready
for you when you arrive. What's that? You've discovered *another* past life? How
interesting. I can't wait to hear about it.”

Hermione turned to Luna. “I thought you said she was `communing with the Other Side'?”

“The other side of the Atlantic.”

“Of course, Shirley my dear, I understand.” Trelawney beckoned her guests to join her for tea,
then motioned to Luna to pick up the Georgian tea service from the sideboard. “No, I don't
think Madonna can make it this week. I believe it's Lourdes's birthday. Give my love to
Warren and Annette and the little one.” She turned off her mobile phone and shoved it into a pocket
of her robes. “I fear you have acted very foolishly in coming here, my dears.”

“We *were* expected, you know,” Hermione said. Harry noticed a barely restrained animosity
in her voice.

“Your coming was prophesied ages ago, my dears.” A large crystal ball sat on a stand before her,
which she absently caressed with her fingertips.

“And confirmed yesterday by telephone,” Harry muttered.

“It is fortunate that you were seen by my Inner Eye, Mr. Potter,” Trelawney said sharply. “We
pride ourselves on our prudence and our discretion. Now you come in here, practically wearing neon
signs—! I shall have a few things to say to Miss Price and to Mrs. Lupin about this. My people and
I have gone to a great deal of effort to disguise the true nature of our group. Reckless
indiscretion such as yours could have easily destroyed everything that we have worked so hard to
build.”

“It was certainly never our intention,” Harry said diplomatically. “Now that we're here, you
could at least do us the courtesy of hearing us out.”

Although telling and retelling the story of how Hermione came to this dimension and of her
mission to build a new Hogwarts had become a bit monotonous, she was rather proud of how they had
boiled everything down to the essentials and no longer wasted time with needless embellishments.
Nonetheless, in spite of Luna's apparent fascination with their tale, the story didn't seem
to impress Trelawney one bit. Her only interest seemed to be in how Hermione was able to traverse
the dimensional barrier.

“I really don't know how Professor Dumbledore managed it,” Hermione admitted. “Until I found
myself here, I had no idea such things were even possible.” Trelawney was visibly disappointed.
“Now, let us get back to the school. We're hoping to—”

“I'm very sorry, my dears,” Trelawney said, getting to her feet, “but I'm afraid that
that we cannot help you.”

“Surely you must see the benefits—a standardized curriculum, as opposed to the haphazard,
patchwork of magical learning today?”

“The plan has merit, to be sure,” Trelawney conceded. “We've been exploring the idea of
opening a school ourselves.”

“Why waste time and money duplicating efforts?” Hermione argued. “If we were to combine our
resources—”

“It would never work, my dears. I'm afraid that our philosophies are entirely
incompatible.”

“Obviously, if you help us, it would only be fair that you have a say in developing the
curriculum—” Hermione's patience was clearly beginning to wear thin.

“What would you consider fair,” Trelawney shot back, “a few lines in a textbook, debated,
compromised, and watered down until they are acceptable to the `democratic majority'? A
perfunctory elective course, a token offered merely in appeasement?” As she shook her head, her
emerald earrings tinkled like miniature wind chimes. “Quite frankly, I see no incentive for us
to--”

Fed up, Hermione pulled her wand from her purse and aimed it at the tea service, just as Luna
was about to set the tray down on the table. The Wedgewood cups, saucers, spoons and napkins neatly
arranged themselves; the sterling silver teapot dutifully filled each of the cups, followed by the
sugar bowl and creamer, which paused before each guest and waited for them to indicate their
desires.

“Most impressive I'm sure, my dear.” Trelawney was clearly intimidated, but was doing her
best not to let on. “But I'm afraid it only serves to illustrate my point. What would your
students learn at this new school of yours: new spells for turning lead into gold or for enchanting
common objects to perform menial labor? Magical materialism,” she declared disdainfully. “Unlike
our fellow witches and wizards, talented though they are in the area of loud bangs, bad smells and
sudden disappearances, here our energies are focused inward to penetrate the veiled mysteries of
the soul. You offer only knowledge.” She spread her spindly arms wide. “We seek
*enlightenment**.”*

“Given your history,” Hermione was doing her best to remain calm, “I'm sure we can all
understand your reluctance to deal with outsiders—but can you really presume to speak for everyone
in your group?”

“*Our* history? Has Percy Weasley been prattling on about Merlin being responsible for `The
Purge'?” For some reason, the subject seemed to hit a nerve, causing Trelawney to pace
nervously around the room. “Believe me, my dears, young Mr. Weasley has no idea what really
happened back then. You mark my words, I shall obtain the proof I've been seeking, and when I
do—”

Hermione was not going to allow her to change the subject. “Forgive me, Madam Trelawney, but
considering what we're offering and what's at stake, don't you think it's only fair
that your people should be able to decide for themselves?”

There was an awkward silence as Trelawney walked over to the window and looked out over the
grounds. Hermione could have sworn that she saw an eyebrow go up as if she were startled by
something she saw, but the mask of detachment went back up just as quickly as it dropped. “I shall
give the matter my full consideration.” She motioned to Luna. “A lorry carrying petrol will
overturn on the M1 just after four o'clock this afternoon, backing up traffic all the way to
Hampstead. The subsequent fuel spill will take several hours to clean up. Under the circumstances,
it is only proper that we should accommodate you for the night.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said. “I think.”

“Luna will show you to the guest rooms.”

Luna bowed respectfully and led her charges out through the trap door. “Nothing escapes the gaze
of the All-Seeing Eye.”

Ron whispered to Harry and Hermione, “Nothing that wouldn't escape the gaze of a traffic
helicopter, in any event.”

Trelawney picked up a pair of opera glasses sitting on the windowsill and peered out over the
estate. Just outside the front gate, a silver Aston Martin was parked alongside the road.

“That went well,” ventured Ron, as Luna led them down the spiral staircase.

“Indeed,” Luna chimed in. “The Enlightened One almost never receives visitors without an
appointment.”

Luna led them to a luxurious bedroom suite filled with expensive Regency furniture and various
types of crystals. A huge curtained four-poster bed took up most of one corner. “These are your
rooms, Mr. and Mrs. Potter. Mr. Weasley's rooms are next door. The chambers in this area of the
house have been found to contain the most favorable *chi* for visitors.” She moved
conspiratorially close to Ron and looked him right in the eye. “Your chambers have an especially
strong *chi*, Mr. Weasley. Many of our guests report that this energy enhances the physical
act of love. If you'll come with me—”

Embarrassed, Ron looked over at Harry and Hermione, who were pursing their lips in an attempt to
hold back mile-wide grins.

“I'll see it in a minute,” Ron interrupted. “I have a few things to discuss with Mr. and
Mrs. Potter, first—*alone*.”

Without missing a beat—or taking the hint—Luna turned to Hermione. “If your rooms are not to
your liking, we have a *Feng Shui* specialist on call twenty-four hours a day.”

“Thank you,” said Hermione. “I'm sure we'll—they'll—the rooms will be just
fine.”

Luna rested her hand on a large purple crystal resting on an occasional table.

“Amethyst opens intuitive and psychic abilities. It is helpful for addictions and nightmares,
calms the mind, and helps one accept the passage of death.” She then moved to a dark blue stone
sitting on a chest of drawers. “Azurite brings
our subconscious thoughts into conscious awareness so that we can examine and, if necessary, change
these thought patterns—”

“Yes. Thank you.” Harry didn't want to seem rude, but he was in no mood to listen to a
recitation of the entire geological catalogue.

“I'm curious, Luna,” Hermione quickly jumped in. “How did you come to join The Circle?”

“My story is not all that unusual. I was a lost soul: adrift, aimless—”

“Mad as a hatter,” Ron muttered just loud enough to earn a glare from Hermione.

“—without purpose in my life.” If Luna had heard Ron, she ignored him. “I found that, apart from
my encounters with the saucer people, there was an emptiness that nothing—career, money, even
religion—seemed able to fill.” From somewhere outside, a large gong sounded. Luna's eyes went
even wider than normal. “Forgive me! It is nearly time for the daily purification ritual and I
mustn't be late. Dinner will be served promptly at six o'clock in the main dining room.” As
she headed for the door, Luna paused to speak to Ron. “If you're interested, The Enlightened
One is giving a lecture on Tantric Sex this evening at nine o'clock.”

“Wouldn't miss it.” Ron forced a smile. Once she had left, Ron made a face as if he had a
horrible taste in his mouth. “I don't ever again want to have Trelawney and sex occupy the same
thought for as long as I live!”

Hermione dropped heavily onto the bed. “I don't understand! Luna was there the whole time we
were talking, but then she acts as if she didn't hear a word we said about magic. I'll
grant you, she and Trelawney were pretty flaky even back at Hogwarts, but they were still loyal
allies and trusted friends—particularly Luna. In spite of her eccentricities, I got to be rather
fond of her in the end.”

“At Hogwarts, you had a common enemy in `Lord What's-His-Face',” Harry pointed out. “As
far as *this* Trelawney is concerned, you have nothing that she needs. Her group has the money
and the resources to do whatever they want. What do they need you for?”

Hermione flopped backwards onto the bed. “You may be right.”

“I'd like to know just what kind of funny herbs they've been putting in their incense
burners.” Ron picked up the big hunk of amethyst and pretended to gaze into it like a crystal ball.
“Eenie meanie chili beanie!” he intoned in is best Bullwinkle voice. “The spirits are about to
speak!” He shook his head. “I don't know if I get a vote in this school thing, Hermione, but if
you ask me, we're wasting our time with these nutters.”

Harry sat down beside Hermione, took her hand and kissed it. “Darling, you know that I am yours
to command in all things, but if truth be told, I have to agree with Ron. We're wasting our
time. These people are living in their own little world. They've been rubbing their crystals
for so long, I think they're actually starting to believe this nonsense.”

“I'm beginning to agree with you, but I'd like to take one more run at Trelawney before
we leave.”

*****

Luna returned at five-thirty and brought them all white robes to wear to dinner.

“White robes, stone circles…” Ron looked a bit nervous as they made their way to the dining
room. “Do you think these characters are into virgin sacrifice?”

Hermione and Harry blushed slightly and grinned at each other. Both then turned to stare at Ron.
They remained motionless, as the silence grew longer.

“Very funny. I wonder what's for dinner?”

It was several minutes after everyone was seated before anyone found out. First they had to sit
through an interminably long sermon on enlightenment from Trelawney and a musical number led by a
familiar face.

“It appears that little Luna stands pretty high in the pecking order here,” Hermione
observed.

*When the moon is in the seventh house*

*And Jupiter aligns with Mars*

*Then peace will guide the planets*

*And love will steer the stars*

*This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius*

*The Age of Aquarius*

*Aquarius! Aquarius!*

*Harmony and understanding*

*Sympathy and trust abounding*

*No more falsehoods or derisions*

*Golden living dreams of visions*

*Mystic crystal revelation*

*And the mind's true liberation*

*Aquarius! Aquarius!*

When dinner finally was served, Ron still wasn't happy. “Vegetarians! I might have known,”
he grumbled a little too loudly for Hermione's liking.

“Ron!” she hissed.

“I can't help how was raised, Hermione,” he protested. “I was brought up on steak and kidney
puddings. I live on sausages and meat pasties. I'm a carnivore and proud of it!”

From across the table came what sounded like a stifled snort of agreement from one of the
acolytes. Evidently there was another wolf among the sheep. Ron looked across the table and right
into a familiar pair of eyes—the feral eyes of the strange leather-clad savage girl who had caused
such a ruckus at the *Griffin's Door* the other day—only now she was dressed in the white
robe of an acolyte.

“Leela…?”

The tall, curly-haired man sitting next to her put a finger to his lips then flashed an enormous
toothy grin.

“The Enlightened One says that to devour the flesh of our fellow creatures holds us back in our
quest to evolve beyond our baser animal nature.” Though the words were clearly meant as reproach,
there was something about the way Luna said “animal” that suggested she was excited more than a
little by the idea.

*****

After dinner, Harry and Hermione tried once again to talk to Trelawney. It was clear to Ron
fairly quickly that they weren't going to have any better luck than before, so he chose to
remain on the sidelines. Much to his disappointment, the most famous faces he'd seen so far
were Corey Feldman and Scott Baio. The Doctor and Leela had disappeared once more, so after a few
minutes he decided to try and find them to see what they were up to. He peered into the salon where
Hermione had seen the acolytes levitating.

“Do you find meditation to be helpful in your everyday life, Mr. Weasley?” inquired a familiar
singsong voice. “I find it most invigorating.”

“Yes, well,” Ron sputtered. “It's better than sitting around doing nothing.”

“Forgive my being so forward,” Luna moved in close, taking his arm, “but I feel very comfortable
talking to you, Mr. Weasley—May I call you `Ronald', by the way?”

“Of course,” he said, his voice rising an octave. Her body pressed against him, making him
uncomfortably, even *painfully* aware of her gender—and of his own.

“I know how strange this must sound to you, Ronald, but I am convinced that there is a spiritual
bond between us. Perhaps we knew each other in a previous life, or even—” Her eyes lit up at the
possibility. “Tell me, have you ever had a close encounter with someone from `out there'?”

“Not unless you count *this* one,” Ron muttered under his breath, but even as he said it,
his resolve was beginning to weaken.

Luna took him on a tour of Moonlight Court, pointing out antiques of historical interest, all
the while prattling on about UFOs and New Age philosophy. Feigning interest, Ron nodded politely
and said, “Really?” “You don't say?” and “Isn't that fascinating?” when it seemed
appropriate.

Their wanderings had led them to the Solarium, where they watched through the great glass
windows as the last rays of the sun faded beyond the horizon. Miles away from the lights of the
nearest city, their view of the heavens was nothing short of spectacular. “This would be a perfect
night for the saucer people to appear.” Luna's hands wandered over Ron's chest. “Shall we
go up to the tower and see if we can make contact?”

The way to the Astronomy Tower took them through a winding series of stairways and corridors.
This respite from pressed bodies and questions of gender allowed Ron's brain to resume
functioning, and he realized just how much trouble a quick roll in the hay with Luna might entail.
Somewhere along the way he had learned that Luna's father was the publisher of some Fleet
Street tabloid, just the sort of person who could make Ron's life miserable if Father Lovegood
discovered that he had taken advantage of Daddy's precious little girl—as if marrying her and
being forced to listen to her ramblings for the rest of his life wouldn't be punishment enough.
Ron carefully weighed his options and came to a decision. It was here that he managed to slip away
from his tour guide.

“*Ronweasley*!” whispered a woman's voice from behind him. There was something familiar
about it. As Ron looked around, a female arm clad in white appeared through a partially opened door
and beckoned him closer. As he approached, the hand grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him
inside.

The only light in the room was the tiny sliver of light coming from under the door. The air had
the distinct odor of camphor. Ron tried to pull his wand from his pocket but his elbow bumped
against something. It slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. “Son of a—!” Ron bent
down to retrieve it, but his nose became wedged between two soft, round, fleshy objects. Exploring
by touch, Ron discovered that there was another person standing in front of him. Based on his newly
acquired expertise on gender, and on this all-too-brief examination, he concluded that the person
was definitely female and that she was clad in one of the acolyte's sheer low-cut diaphanous
robes. Two hands grabbed his and removed them from where they were resting, then took hold of
either side of Ron's head and yanked him upright. A finger pressed against his lips.

“Shhhh!” a woman's voice said softly. “Do you want her to hear us?”

“Definitely not.”

“Ronald?” came Luna's voice from outside. “Ronald, have you been abducted by the saucer
people?” Her voice trailed off down the corridor and disappeared.

Once she was sure that the coast was clear, the woman bent down. It quickly became clear that
the room was small and that there was very little space to maneuver—not that Ron minded. After a
moment, the woman stood up again and Ron felt his wand being pressed into his hand. “Is this what
you dropped?”

“*Lumos*!” As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Ron noted that they were in a small linen
cupboard. The shelves were stacked with freshly folded sheets and blankets. He also noted that he
was staring into a familiar pair of feral eyes. “Leela? What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question, *Ronweasley*.”

Ron smiled. He was beginning to like the way she said his name as if it were a single word.
“I'm not really supposed to say.”

“Neither am I.”

“That's going to put a bit of a crimp in the conversation,” Ron said with a naughty grin.
“Then again, why waste time talking?” He leaned in and gently pressed his lips against hers.

“I should kill you for your impudence.” Strangely, there was no anger in her voice.

“I get that a lot,” Ron lied. “So, where's your friend with the long scarf?”

“The Doctor? At dinner he said he wanted to investigate the stone circle behind the house. He
seems to think it has something to do with `crossing the *demented* barrier' or some such
thing.”

“The *dimension* barrier*?*”

Leela cringed. “I shouldn't have said that. I'm really not supposed to talk about our
mission for the Time Lords—”

“For the *who*?”

Leela shook her head. “It would take too long to explain,” She leaned in and kissed him. “In any
case, I'm not sure I could explain it, even if I wanted to. The Doctor is a great man and I am
indebted to him for everything I have seen and done since we met, but to be honest, I don't
always understand what he's talking about. Very few people do.” Her eyes twinkled mischievously
as she ran her fingers through Ron's hair. “Would you like to help me look for him?”

“I don't know,” Ron teased. “Assuming that I find him, what's in it for me?”

“The undying gratitude of a warrior of the Sevateem?”

“A what?”

She kissed him again. “Never mind.” She opened the door a crack and peered out into the
corridor. Taking a chance, she poked her head out for a better look. “The coast is clear.”

******

Sybill Trelawney put her opera glasses back on the windowsill and shook her head ruefully.
“I'm very sorry, Mrs. Potter. Our aims are simply too unsuited for your scheme to have even a
chance of succeeding.”

“All we ask is that you put it to a vote,” Harry implored her.

“What would you suggest?” she asked calmly. “That we call everyone together for a meeting? The
simple fact is that there are far too many—what is the word you use? —`Muggles' among our
membership to risk such a thing. How could we present your proposal to those among us with the
power of magic without arousing the suspicions of the others? It's all we can do to maintain
our security as it is. Please understand this is for your safety as well as ours.”

Harry wasn't buying it. “Are you so worried about losing control over these people that
you're afraid to even let us present our case?”

“How dare you even suggest such a thing, young man?”

“We've seen the Infomercials, Madam Trelawney.” Hermione could no longer conceal her
contempt. “And let's not forget the books, the videos, the incense, the prayer mats, the sacred
oils—!”

“And that's not even counting the millions you soak out of your celebrity clients,” Harry
added.

“For all your supposed piety, you're as much of a huckster as—as Emelius Browne!”

“What gives you the right to sit in judgment over me? However noble your ambitions, my little
dears, you'll soon discover that Enlightenment has a price, and that good works do not come
cheap.”

“You can't do good works without money,” Harry agreed. “You can't raise money unless
people know who you are. They won't know who you are unless you're on television, and you
can't get on television unless you have money. That's the same trap that those American
televangelists fell into.”

“The serpent devours its own tail.” Trelawney shrugged. “It has ever been thus. I have no
difficulty looking at myself in the mirror each morning.”

Harry could see Hermione's shoulders droop as she realized that they were truly wasting
their time. “Come on, darling,” he whispered. “Let's go up to our rooms. I managed to pick up
some of their literature on Tantric Sex.”

******

Holding Leela's hand and creeping silently through the corridors of the old manor, Ron was a
boy again, playing hide-and-seek with his brothers back at the Burrow. Every so often an acolyte
would appear around a corner and the pair would scramble for cover in an alcove or behind some
drapes or in yet another linen cupboard. Somehow, Ron always managed to steal a kiss before they
moved on.

When Leela and Ron arrived at the stone circle, they discovered the Doctor lying on his stomach,
carefully examining a blade of grass with a jeweler's loupe. “This lawn has been subjected to
tremendous psychic stress recently.” He had shed his acolyte's robes and had returned to his
strange bohemian garb, complete with extra-long scarf.

“*Psychic* stress?” Ron repeated, incredulously. Leela could only shrug as if to say
*Don't look at me!*

“You disagree?” The Doctor sprang to his feet, pocketing the loupe and flicking away the blade
of grass.

“Well, I wouldn't—”

“Of course you wouldn't,” the Doctor interrupted. “It would be entirely pointless to
disagree. The truth is as plain as the nose on my face.” He reached into one of the pockets of his
velvet jacket and produced a small wooden yo-yo, which he bounced up and down a few times.
“Interesting.” He moved several feet away from the circle and tried it again. “A slight but
significant increase in gravitational attraction, but it appears to be localized within the
boundaries of circle itself.”

“Doctor!” Leela hissed.

Two burly young men were approaching the circle. Instead of acolyte's robes, they wore white
golf shirts embroidered with a discreet golden circlet, dark blue slacks and matching caps emblazed
with the word “Security” in gilt. The Doctor hustled Ron and Leela to the shadow of one of the
great stones that made up the ring. The two security men paused at the edge of the circle to look
around. One of them activated the headset radio he was wearing. “Patrol one to dispatch. We're
starting our patrol of the grounds. So far, all's quiet.” The guard shut off his radio and the
two men began walking towards the stables.

Once they were out of earshot, Ron held up his hand. “Can I ask a possibly daft question? Why
are we hiding now?”

“We're not exactly invited guests here,” Leela informed him. “We're working `under the
covers'.” Ron had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. “We're here to investigate certain
scientific *anemones*.”

“*Anomalies*,” the Doctor corrected. “Fortunately for us, this is a big enough organization
that no one notices two more people running around in white robes, but if they caught us sniffing
around out here, they're bound to ask all sorts of awkward questions.”

“What exactly are you looking for?” Given what had gone before, Ron wondered if he really wanted
to know the answer.

The Doctor knelt down to examine the runes carved into one of the ancient stones. “I seek
evidence of a trans-dimensional cross-rip, or failing that, signs of extraterrestrial
intervention.”

“I'll introduce you to Luna,” Ron muttered.

The Doctor shook his head, sadly. “That poor deluded girl with the Roswell fixation?”

*At last!* Ron thought. *A voice of reason!*

“I could never understand the obsession with that particular event. This planet has been visited
by aliens many times over the centuries—but does anyone remember the Yeti in the London
underground, or the Zygon gambit with the Loch Ness monster? The Autons, the Sontarans, the Daleks?
The real irony is that the Roswell crash really was a weather balloon, but the United States
government has been lying for so long that their credibility on the subject of aliens is
practically nil.” He went back to examining the runes.

Ron shook his head. He was beginning to wonder if everyone in the house with the possible
exception of himself, Harry and Hermione, were *non compos mentis*.

“Can you translate the inscription, Doctor?” Leela asked.

“Is the Pope a direct descendant of *Homo habilis?* Of course, I can, you silly girl!”

“Does it tell of how to penetrate the demented barriers?”

“Unfortunately, no. It appears to be nothing more than a bit of ancient graffiti.” His eyes
narrowed. “`People called Romanes they go the house'?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I think he's trying to say `Romans Go Home'”, the Doctor shrugged, “but his Latin is
terrible.” He moved to the next inscription. “Let's see…`Boudicca loves Caractacus', `For a
good time, meet Septimus Severus behind the XVII Legion latrine at the end of the second watch'
… Hmmmm. This one seems to be challenging the Emperor Hadrian to a game of handball… I'm afraid
that these aren't going to be of much help.” The Doctor then pointed a hand-held electronic
device at the stones, the ground and into the air, frowning ever more deeply at each new
reading.

“He could go on like this for hours,” Leela said, shaking her head. “Why don't you go on up
to your room?” She leaned in to whisper in his ear. “If I can get away, perhaps I could join you
later.” She kissed Ron on the cheek and watched as, grinning like an idiot, he ran back toward the
house.

“I'm afraid the Time Lords were right,” the Doctor muttered to himself. “I don't know
precisely what it is,” he said, scratching his chin, “but *something* from the outside has
definitely entered this universe.”

*****

“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 through 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 out there, 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.

Dudley's absent cousin would have been the perfect scapegoat for this situation, 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—'” It suddenly occurred to him what he was saying. “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.

******

When Ron Weasley emerged from the lavatory, the room was dark. He was sure he had heard someone
come in while he was taking his bath. His involuntary broad grin reappeared when he saw the bed
covers turned down and a slender female form lying under the covers. He shed the towel around his
waist and quietly slipped between the sheets. He began gently kissing the soft forearm and shoulder
he found lying in the shadows. “You don't know how I've longed for this moment, my
darling!”

“Ronald!” squealed a familiar sing-song voice. “I knew the saucer people would bring you back to
me!”

END OF CHAPTER FIVE

Margaret Fuller

“The Age of Aquarius” from the musical “Hair” Book and Lyrics by Gerome Ragni and James
Rado
Music by Galt Mac Dermot

-->



6. untitled
-----------



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

-->



7. Author's Notes
-----------------



AUTHOR'S NOTE

CHAPTER FIVE is now on line. Please go back.

One of these days, I'll figure this thing out and I won't have to do this anymore.

Quickdraw

-->