A Brisk Couple of Days

A Brisk Couple of Days

Part 1: Meeting in a Dark Alley

Dear Charles,

As promised, here is an account of my first meeting with Logan, the individual known as Wolverine.

In that summer of 1943, Muggle Britain was in the midst of what you call the Second World War. You almost certainly know more about the causes and course of that terrible conflict than I do. The Wizarding world knew little and, except among the higher echelons or the insatiably curious, cared rather less about these events. What is significant from my viewpoint is that England was already filling up with soldiers from the Empire and from your country.

After one of our most difficult years, Hogwarts had closed for the summer holidays. You may have heard Harry and his friends speak of the Chamber of Secrets? The year of 1942-43 had seen the opening and, thankfully, the closing of that Chamber--but not before its dreadful inhabitant killed a student. The events were blamed upon a student named Rubeus Hagrid; over my objections the lad had been expelled. My instincts led me to suspect a boy named Tom Riddle of having had a hand in the matter, but that is a different story.

That summer, then, I had a great deal on my mind. I had taken to wandering the streets of Muggle London in a suitable guise, in an attempt to find time alone to think. Had I not done so, the consequences might well have been dire for both our worlds!

London, in 1943, was a city under the shadow of war. The worst of the Blitz was over, though regular air raids still occurred, and the evidence of them was everywhere. Ruined buildings littered the landscape. Though the weather was good, people were stony-faced, worried, and uncommunicative. Even the uniformed soldiers who were beginning to crowd the streets were surprisingly restrained in their behaviour.

This suited Albus Dumbledore's mood very well. He wanted to think, not talk, so he wandered the streets, one drably clad figure among many, and no one questioned or hailed him. He did not notice that his peregrinations had taken him into one of the less salubrious areas of Whitechapel. He was walking down a deserted street when a voice came to his ears.

"This is not the Muggle I ordered brought to me!"

"No, mate, it bloody well ain't! And it won't bloody well never be!"

"My orders were specific!"

"Stuff yer bloody orders, mate! There ain't enough money in all bloody 'Itler's treasure chest to get that one for yer!"

The rough voice became almost conciliatory as it went on. "Look, me old china, you don't come from round 'ere, so yer don't know. That Carver was a busy on this manor before the War. 'E was an 'ard bastard then, and 'e's an 'arder bastard now. That bloke carries a shooter an' 'e don't mind usin' it! If yer want 'im, yer can go an' get 'im yerself. We'll give yer a nice funeral if yer do."

The conversation meant nothing to Dumbledore, but the word Muggle told him that a wizard was involved--a wizard, moreover, who had ordered a particular Muggle brought to him. This kind of interference, except in the direst of emergencies, was strictly forbidden by Wizarding law. Dumbledore should have sent for help--for Aurors, perhaps--but he felt that speed was more important than caution.

He moved as quietly as he could into the alley. Three rough-looking Muggles were restraining a fourth, a slender young man in a blue uniform, while a tall, gaunt figure in dark robes loomed over him. One of the roughs was speaking. "Look, mate, this 'un knows almost as much as Carver. 'E'll know the combination to the safe, and if 'e don't, 'Arry the 'And can crack the bugger. All 'e needs to tell us is where it is!"

"Oh, very well!" The wizard's English was fluent, but had a very slight foreign accent that became more obvious when he said in exasperation, "You! Trink this!"

"Go to Hell!" replied the young man in uniform.

One of the roughs promptly punched him in the gut, doubling him over. "Mind yer manners, sunshine! Yer Mum wouldn't like yer usin' that kind of language!"

"Leave him!" commanded the wizard. "I have a better way!" He pulled a wand from under his robe and levelled it at the uniformed Muggle. Dumbledore had seen enough; he drew his own wand and stepped forward, voicing the command, "Expelliarmus!"

The wizard's wand flew out of his hand to cross the alley, and at the same moment, a brawny arm went round Dumbledore's neck from behind. Another coarse voice spoke close to his ear, "Now, that's wasn't very nice, Grandad! Just 'old still, now, or you'll get 'urt."

"Get his wand away!" barked the foreign wizard, scrambling to retrieve his own.

"Give us the stick, old fella," said the man, holding Dumbledore with one hand while using his other to take the wand.

The foreign wizard came back to face Dumbledore. He had a pale, narrow face, blond hair and cold blue eyes that burned with a light that chilled Dumbledore to the bone.

The stranger shrugged. "This is an unfortunate incident. I did not think that British wizards ventured so far into Muggle London. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Reinhardt von Schrader, German wizard and graduate of Durmstrang Academy."

"I am Albus Dumbledore, Professor at Hogwarts School."

The German gave a short bow. "I am honoured. I have heard of you, of course. You have already achieved much. I should be disappointed to have to cut that career short; however, I cannot allow any interference with my mission. So I must ask you, how important to you is the continued existence of our world?"

Dumbledore was surprised. "Our world is under no threat. This conflict is a Muggle war; it doesn't concern wizards."

"I wish that were true. The Fuhrer, however, has shown at least some of us otherwise. We wizards are an integral part of the master race, as the ancient sagas show. Wotan himself was a wizard, the greatest of all. If Germany loses this war, the inferior Muggles will not tolerate us any longer. The only way to preserve our safety is to ensure the victory of the Reich!"

He's quite mad, thought Dumbledore, but said nothing. Von Schrader looked hard at him. "I do not ask you to join us, Professor, but if you give me your word that you will say nothing, I am prepared to release you."

Dumbledore was in a quandary. He could obtain his release by simple acquiescence, but that was not so easy a choice as it seemed. If he kept his word, he would be allowing the Wizarding world to be dragged into a war that was not its own. If he broke his word, he would degrade his upbringing and sense of personal integrity.

Fortunately, fate intervened. The man behind him gave a grunt of pain, and the grip on his throat loosened and fell away. Dumbledore snatched for his wand, catching it up and invoking "Stupefy!" before von Schrader could react. The German collapsed, but Dumbledore himself was sent flying against a wall by a heavy punch from one of the thugs.

As he leaned back, gasping for breath, he was witness to an extraordinary spectacle. Three hardened denizens of London's underworld confronted the newcomer. The man in military uniform was a short, stocky individual who seemed unperturbed by being outnumbered by men who towered over him. He stared at them all and spoke in a gravelly voice with an accent Dumbledore didn't recognise. "OK, guys. Why don't you make it easy on yourselves, and let me and the old man go our way?"

The leader of the thugs spat. "We might've done if yer 'adn't 'it Joe there from be'ind, like. And if yer wasn't a bloody Yank!"

"Bad mistake, bub. For one thing, I'm Canadian, not a Yank. For another, you just bought yourselves a world of pain!"

Albus Dumbledore was no expert on physical combat--few wizards were--but he knew at once that there was something unusual about the feisty Canadian. The smaller man was far stronger and faster than a normal Muggle. His movements became a blur; his blows were precise and devastating. Within moments, two of the men were down and the third had jumped back, crying, "All, right, mate. Yer asked for this!"

A knife appeared in his hand, and he lunged for the Canadian, who vaulted backwards away from the blade to land in a fighting crouch. Poised in that position, he clenched his fists tighter and growled, "OK, pal, you just made me mad!"

What happened next was both bizarre and frightening. From the back of each hand, three claws extended. They were the colour of ivory, long, wickedly curved and sharp. The Canadian lunged forward, blindingly fast, and the claws slashed across the chest of the knifeman, shredding his clothes and drawing three deep gashes in the flesh. The man screamed and backed up against the wall, cowering with his hands held up. "Please, mister! No more! Don't kill me!"

From the corner of his eye, Dumbledore saw von Schrader lurch to his feet and aim his wand at the Canadian. Dumbledore leapt forward, shouting the word "Protego!" His shield deflected the Death Curse into the damp brick walls. "That's enough, von Schrader!" he barked. "If you kill a Muggle, the consequences will be worse than war!"

"At this moment, Herr Dumbledore," von Schrader retorted, "I am beyond caring for consequences!"

Dumbledore was about to respond when he felt himself seized from behind again, and pushed to the ground with a weight on top of him. He heard the Canadian's voice warning, "Get down, old timer!"

It was hard to describe the sound that followed a split-second later. It was a kind of staccato roar, like a series of sharp crashes following quickly upon one another. A light accompanied the sounds in quick, yellow flashes.

Dumbledore rolled over as the Canadian's weight came off him. He was astonished to see yet another figure joining the fray. This one was tall and powerfully built, but the thing that caught Dumbledore's attention was the Muggle weapon he held levelled at them. He heard von Schrader's voice saying, "This is most regrettable, but sadly necessary. Kill them both, Karl!" There was a sharp double crack, and the new assailant called Karl stiffened suddenly, before collapsing to the ground.

From behind him, another man emerged, a burly figure in a dark blue uniform like that of von Schrader's erstwhile prisoner. The man spoke in a low-toned, educated voice. "I think you two gentlemen can get up, now." He looked past them and went on. "Herr von Schrader, I presume? It would be best if you surrendered now, sir. I assure you, I can get off an accurate shot with this pistol far more quickly than you can cast a curse. Even if that weren't the case, I very much doubt that your capabilities are a match for Professor Dumbledore's, now that he is prepared for you."

Dumbledore stood and aimed his wand at von Schrader, at the same time wondering how this Muggle knew who he was. Von Schrader stared at them both for a moment, then turned to Dumbledore. "You fool! Ask him about the Manhattan Project! Ask him!" The German Disapparated with an echoing boom.

The Muggle swore softly. "Damn! I hoped he'd be too shaken up for that. It seems our von Schrader has more steel in him than I'd given him credit for."

Dumbledore was barely listening; he was more concerned with his original rescuer, who had not yet risen. He leaned down, asking, "Are you all right? Here, let me assist you."

When he extended a hand to help the man to his feet, the Canadian proved to be surprisingly heavy. As he got up, Dumbledore saw blood on the front of the uniform jacket. "You're wounded!" Dumbledore said, alarmed.

The other man looked down at his chest. "Yeah. Sonuva bitch with the Schmeisser nailed me a couple good ones. Just through-and-throughs, though, and they're only nine-mil. Missed the heart and lungs."

"We need to get you some help!" Dumbledore cried.

The Canadian shook his head. "Nah. I'll be OK in a minute. Look!" He pulled the uniform open to reveal an ugly-looking wound which, as Dumbledore watched with mouth agape, sealed itself, leaving only a small scar.

"Bullets loused up the uniform, though. They'll probably take that out of my pay!"

"Oh, I think they'll consider it damaged in the line of duty, Sgt Logan," said the other Muggle. "But I'm forgetting my manners! I'm Commander Andrew Carver, of His Britannic Majesty's Royal Navy, at your service, gentlemen. As I suspect neither of you has had a chance to introduce yourselves, allow me to do that, as well. Professor Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry meet Sgt Logan, Canadian Army.

"Now, if you will excuse me, I need to make a few arrangements. Please remain here. I will need to talk to you both, but we can do that somewhere more comfortable in a few minutes."

Carver turned and left the alley, calling out as he did so, "Lt Waverley? Over here, please!"

Dumbledore turned to Logan. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine...Professor. So, you're a wizard? I've seen some weird things in my time, but never a genuine wizard with a magic wand!"

"Well, Sergeant," Dumbledore admitted, "I've never seen a wound heal like that before. It seems we've both encountered something new today."

Logan grinned. "Oh, brave new world, that has such creatures in it!"

Dumbledore was surprised; he knew the line came from that greatest of Muggle playwrights, William Shakespeare, but he was surprised to find this rough-spoken Colonial quoting it in a quiet, cultured voice completely at variance with his earlier speech. There was clearly more to Dumbledore's new acquaintance than met the eye!

Just then, Carver returned, accompanied by a slender young man in Army uniform and several men dressed as labourers. "Waverley, can you see to it that this mess is cleared up? No need to involve the police at this stage, I think."

He came over to Dumbledore and Logan, pulling out a packet of Senior Service cigarettes as he did so. He offered them to both men, Dumbledore refused, but Logan accepted one gratefully. Carver drew reflectively on his, and then seemed to reach a decision. "You two had best come with me. I'm in the somewhat unusual position of needing outside help, but at the same time I'm reluctant to involve other agencies at this stage. Follow me, please!"

He set off; Dumbledore made to follow him, but Logan caught his arm. "Wait a minute," he hissed. "We gotta be careful, here. Navy or not, that guy's no sailor. I know a G-man when I smell one. Just listen, and don't say too much. Heaven knows what we're likely to find ourselves mixed up in."

Carver led them to a small motorcar. A pretty, redheaded young woman in uniform was waiting behind the steering wheel. Carver opened the rear door and gestured his guests to enter, then went round to sit in the front passenger seat and instructed the driver to take them "To the office, please, Jenny."

"Yes, Commander." The words were formal, but the tone and the sparkling glance she gave him spoke to a less professional relationship. Dumbledore saw Logan's nostrils flare slightly, and the Canadian soldier grinned and winked at him. Dumbledore was becoming quite fascinated by his new ...friend? He owed the man his life, he supposed, so why not call him friend?

A short drive brought them to a drab-looking office building, well outside the bustle of the City itself. As they ascended the short flight of steps to the door, Dumbledore noticed the small, rather tattered notice that hung there: Combined Forces Bureau for Special Logistics.

Carver led them through some dingy corridors and up a few flights of stairs before ushering them into a small office. He gestured them to two chairs in front of a desk, then seated himself behind it. "Bear with me a moment," he said. He picked up a telephone and dialled a single number. "Chief Turner? Could you bring the files I asked for, please? Thank you. Yes, tea would be nice, for three if you would."

He put the phone down, pulled a pad towards him, and scribbled furiously on it for a few moments. In a remarkably short time, there was a knock at the door, and a formidable-looking woman, also in Naval uniform, entered carrying two manila folders. Tall and raw-boned, she had a face that had quite clearly seen everything and had not been impressed by it. Nevertheless, as she approached Carver, her expression softened into a kind of motherly affection. "Here are the files, Commander," she said. "Tea will be along in a minute."

He smiled up at her and his cold grey eyes suddenly twinkled, as they had at the driver. "Thanks, Chief. Gentlemen, this is my right hand, Chief Petty Officer Turner. Chief, these are Sgt Logan and Professor Dumbledore. I hope they'll be working with us for a while, and I expect you to look after them as well as you do me!"

Chief Turner looked the visitors up and down appraisingly. "As you say, Commander. Will there be anything else?"

Carver handed her a page torn from the pad. "Two signals. One to the C-in-C Canadian forces in Britain, the other to the Minister of Magic, please."

"Aye, aye sir!" Turner said briskly before she left.

Dumbledore could no longer restrain himself. "Excuse me, Commander, but how does a...a..."

"Muggle? I'm not insulted by the name, Professor. You were about to ask me how I know about you, Hogwarts, the Ministry and the Wizarding world in general. Quite simply, it's my business to know what other people don't. Sgt Logan has probably deduced that I'm not an ordinary Naval officer. I should be disappointed, however, if you were even slightly aware that the Secret Service has been keeping an eye on your world since the days of Sir Francis Walsingham."

The Commander flipped open one of the files that lay in front of him. "Ah, here you are: Albus Dumbledore, born around 1850, educated Hogwarts School." Carver went onto give a quick and disturbingly accurate account of Dumbledore's life. He summarised by saying, "A man of principle and courage, unafraid to go against the majority and the obvious, as recent events at Hogwarts show. By the way, I think you're right about the Hagrid boy; he's not the type."

Carver opened the other file. "Sgt Logan, no apparent Christian name, no fixed abode, but hails from Alberta, Canada. Joined the Army as a volunteer, excellent service record bar a few brawls, promoted to Sergeant when your unit was sent out here. Again, noted for courage and principled behaviour - even in a punch-up - but known to be hot-tempered." Slapping the file shut, the Commander concluded, "So much for the official record; however, as with the Professor, there is more.

"In early 1915, a man calling himself James Logan turned up in an Army recruiting office in Liverpool, asking to volunteer for service. Such papers as he had showed that he had worked his passage aboard a merchant ship from Canada. We were desperate for people in those days, and the Ministry of War wasn't asking too many questions if a loyal son of the empire offered his services!

"Private Logan had a distinguished service record, and was recommended for decoration twice, once by a British officer - Major Hugh Drummond - and once by an American - Col. Clark Savage, Jr. At the end of the Great War, the man called Logan disappeared without collecting any of the honours due him."

"That would be my Pop," said Logan firmly.

"Quite," murmured Carver. "What do you think, Professor?" He passed a photograph across the table. It showed a very large man in uniform, standing next to a stocky figure who bore an uncanny resemblance to Sgt Logan.

"The man on the right is Major Drummond," Carver noted. "As for the fellow on the left...."

Dumbledore observed, "The likeness is remarkable. Without Sgt Logan's explanation, I would have said it was the same man."

"Just so," replied Carver. "Now look at this, if you please."

The photograph was a very early one, sepia-toned. It showed a young couple in what Dumbledore recognised as late Victorian dress. The girl was lovely, but the man, though clearly younger-looking, was again virtually identical to his new Canadian friend.

Carver explained, "The young man is named James Howlett. Born 1885 in Canada, educated at home until the age of twelve, then sent to England, to a minor public school - the Camberwick College for Young Gentlemen. The Howletts were a wealthy family, but in trade, and had no tradition before James of sending boys away to school.

"James' school reports show him as a better than average student, but hot-tempered when challenged on a point of principle. He returned to Canada to work with his father and began to court a young lady named Rose - the lady in the picture.

"Unfortunately, shortly after that picture was taken, the older Howlett was murdered, and his killer subsequently mauled to death by an unidentified large animal. James and Rose disappeared. Some months after that, Rose's body was found in the Alberta woods by the Mounted Police. James Howlett has never reappeared."

At that moment, the tea arrived, served by a pretty, young WRN who had a bright smile for Carver. After she left, Logan took a swallow of tea, then said,

"This is all fascinating, Commander, but I don't see the relevance."

Dumbledore noticed that the Canadian now spoke in the same cultured tones he had used earlier.

Carver smiled. "The Howlett file was sent to Scotland Yard, in case James turned up in England. I saw it there, when I was a young detective constable given the task of looking through old cases. The War Office held the files on Pte Logan, hoping one day to give him his medals. An eagle-eyed young clerk at the Office spotted the resemblance between today's Logan and yesterday's. As with anything out of the ordinary, the matter was reported to this Bureau.

"I have an eidetic memory, so I remembered the Howlett file when I saw the Logan ones. I was curious but had no reason to pursue the matter until today.

"I was having Professor Dumbledore followed-wizards wandering around London in wartime need to be looked after--and I was watching our friend von Schrader for different reasons.

"You can imagine my concern when I was notified that the Professor had wandered into a confrontation with von Schrader. I came out at once, only to find that the mysterious Canadian had decided to join the party! Odd coincidence, wouldn't you say?"

"Could it be anything else, Commander?" asked Dumbledore.

Carver shrugged. "There are forces acting on both our worlds, Professor, that are beyond our current understanding. Herr Hitler places great faith in the supernatural; I keep an open mind."

"There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy," murmured Logan.

"Precisely, Sergeant," replied Carver, "yourself among them. I am sorry, but normal family resemblance does not account for your uncanny similarity to both James Logan and James Howlett. I am forced to the conclusion that all three are the same man!"

Logan exhaled heavily. "No one's called me James Howlett in a long time. I left that name behind when Rose died." He paused reflectively, then added, "I have no idea what I am or why I heal faster than anyone I've ever heard of. I'm strong and fast; I have claws and senses like an animal's. Above all, I never seem to age. When I hit thirty, I just stopped growing older.

"Knowing this about me, people would call me a monster. Scientists would want to prod and poke me - cut me up to see how I work! So I stick to the woods. I hunt, trap, and make a little money that way, working in the logging camps in season, doing some prize-fighting sometimes. It's a good life, even if it's not what I was brought up to be.

"But this war, and the last one, they're too important for me to ignore. So I came over to do what I could. Only this time, I got caught." He smiled wryly. "What happens now?"

Carver pushed the files away from him and sat back. He pulled out the Senior Service packet again, but Logan forestalled him, offering a Marlboro, which Carver accepted gratefully.

"As far as I am concerned," he said, "James Howlett died at the same time as his lady friend, but his remains were never found. Pte James Logan might have been your father, Sergeant, so we will leave it at that.

"You are correct in assuming that our medical boffins would love to get their hands on you. Your heightened senses, physical abilities and accelerated healing are talents they would like to be able to duplicate for military use. To my mind, however, experimentation on someone who, despite his differences, is ultimately human would bring us down to the level of the Nazis." Carver grimaced but went on. "But we are at war, so however reluctantly, I must ask a quid pro quo for my silence."

Logan nodded. "That's fair, I guess."

Carver looked relieved. He said, "Professor Dumbledore, Herr von Schrader mentioned the Manhattan Project. I take it this meant nothing to you?"

"Nothing whatever," Dumbledore admitted.

The Commander rubbed his face. "Very well," he said at last. "What I am about to tell you must not leave this room, gentlemen! Do I have your words?"

Logan looked to Dumbledore who looked to Carver. They nodded.

And so it began.