A Brisk Couple of Days

A Brisk Couple of Days

Part 2: Into Deadly Ground

By now, Charles, you can imagine my state of mind. A brush with death, an encounter with a wizard who was clearly insane, and the extraordinary nature of my two new acquaintances had quite shaken me.

There was, however, to be little time for me to collect myself. Commander Carver's revelations, and the events that followed, left no space for reflection until after it was all over.

Commander Carver steepled his hands in front of him as he spoke. "The Manhattan Project is a scientific one, sponsored by the American military. It is concerned with a relatively new branch of science called nuclear physics. I'm afraid that my grammar-school science isn't up to explaining the background fully, but I do know the aim of the project.

"As both of you will be aware, literally thousands of tons of high-explosive and incendiary bombs have been dropped on London alone since the beginning of the War. Yet, as you see, the city still functions - sometimes by the skin of its teeth, admittedly - but much still stands. The city of Coventry, in the Midlands, has suffered a far worse attack, one of the biggest raids ever mounted. The place has been devastated; its ancient cathedral lies in ruins, yet the factories still work. Life goes on.

"Because of the apparent failure of mass bombing to end the War, both sides are devoting intense scientific research to developing more powerful bombs. The Manhattan Project is part of this. Apparently, the outcome will be a weapon so powerful that a single strike could demolish an entire city."

Dumbledore shrugged. "It seems to me, Commander, that this hardly concerns my world."

Carver nodded. "Yes, the wizard shields over Diagon Alley and its environs are effective in keeping conventional weapons out, but our scientists are concerned about the larger effects of these so-called 'hydrogen' or 'atomic' bombs.

"Some fear that the bombs will start what they call a 'chain reaction', which will rip the entire world apart. Others say that the bombs will leave behind a poisonous residue, which will seep into the soil and water, causing all kinds of ill effects that will eventually damage every kind of life on Earth. Those consequences would certainly affect your world, Professor."

Dumbledore was silent for a moment. Could Muggles really be so foolish? He knew so little about their world. Like most wizards, he ignored Muggles except for those who were married to wizards, or whose children were born wizards and came to Hogwarts. Perhaps he should attempt to find out more? But now Logan was speaking.

"I heard rumors about this, Commander - soldiers' gossip. But where does this von Schrader character fit in?"

Carver opened yet another file. "Reinhardt von Schrader is a German wizard who attended Durmstrang Academy in the normal way. As far as we can gather, he is a pureblood, from an old wizarding family and, at school, he fell in with a crowd of similar youngsters.

"In Europe, as in Britain, it seems that some pureblood wizards are none too keen on the increasing numbers of half-blooded and Muggle-born children entering the wizarding world. Is that not the case, Professor?"

Dumbledore sighed. "It is, Commander. There have always been those who felt that we should keep the old Wizarding bloodlines pure, discourage marriage with Muggles, and ignore Muggle-born wizards - 'Mudbloods', they call them. Rather foolish, given the limited number of pureblood families; we would very soon become far too inbred."

"Quite so," Carver went on. "It appears that von Schrader and his cronies found some commonality with Herr Hitler and his obsession with the purity of the so-called 'Aryan race'.

"Given the Fuhrer's other obsession with the occult, it would have been easy for them to get his attention. After that, who knows what happened? All we can say is that von Schrader, at least, seems to have become a convinced Nazi, and wishes to draw the wizarding world into the war on the German side."

Dumbledore gave a sad shake of his head. "Poor von Schrader is entirely insane, I'm afraid."

Logan grunted. "If this is goin' where I think it's goin', Professor, the guy's crazy all right, but crazy like a fox."

He turned to Carver. "Von Schrader is after proof about this Manhattan Project so he can use it to convince wizards everywhere to join up with Hitler?"

"Right on the mark, Sergeant." Carver smiled grimly. "There are documents in this office which, if laid properly before the Wizengamot, would make a strong argument for a suspension of wizard neutrality."

"Which is why," broke in Dumbledore, "von Schrader wanted his men to kidnap you, Commander. You would naturally know where these documents were, yet it seems his cohorts were rather afraid of you."

Craver grinned, tossing another cigarette across the table to Logan. "Before the war, I was a policeman. I had a reputation for being someone you wouldn't want to mess with. It seems that reputation remains intact.

"However, gentlemen, you do see my problem. I could inform the Ministry of Magic, and they could send Aurors after von Schrader, but there is very little they could hold him on. Your intervention, Professor, prevented him from using magic against a Muggle, for instance. Furthermore, von Schrader commands several bodyguards from Hitler's elite SS Leibstandarte regiment. These are crack troops, trained to a hair, and any confrontation with them would be a bloody one.

"Aurors alone would face serious losses in dealing with the SS men, and my people would be unable to cope with a wizard easily. An official joint operation, even what is called a 'black' one, would seriously compromise wizard neutrality - something neither the Ministry of Magic nor the War Office is prepared to do.

"Which brings me to you two. Both of you have reputations that indicate your willingness to bend the rules a little in a good cause. You, Sgt Logan, have abilities that make you far more dangerous than any SS trooper, and you, Professor Dumbledore, are more than a match for von Schrader, wizard to wizard. I have already arranged for your temporary secondment to this Bureau, and it's my hope that you'll both volunteer to assist me in this crisis."

"And if we don't?" asked Logan.

Carver shrugged. "Then I wish you good afternoon, and you go your ways. But I must ask you both never to mention today's events."

Logan thought for a moment, then noted, "There's a guy I've heard of--this seems more his kind of thing than mine - they call him Captain America."

Carver snorted. "Sergeant, if I had any use for a Boy Scout, I'd go to the church hall down the street from my house in Malvern - they've got a whole troop of them there. I need somebody who can fight dirty and do it quietly."

"Well, that'd be me," Logan admitted. "You're pretty smart, Commander. For a grammar school boy," he added.

"Don't!" groaned Carver. "I get enough of that from Waverley."

Dumbledore made up his mind. "As I said, Commander, von Schrader is quite mad, and so represents a great threat to my world as well as yours. I am willing to do what I can to assist you."

"Seems to me," said Logan, "somebody has to look after the old-timer here, so I guess I'm in."

Dumbledore couldn't help but smile, appearances to the contrary, his new friend was not actually so very much younger than he.

"Thank you both," said Carver gravely. "Now, I think it best that you two take some time to make each other's acquaintance more fully." He took a card from a desk drawer and passed it to Dumbledore. "My people are trying to locate von Schrader's headquarters. We know it's in the Muggle city, because he couldn't take his bodyguards into Wizarding London without drawing undue attention. Be at this location at 10:00 tonight; you'll be contacted.

Carver rose from his seat and shook both men's hands. "Chief Turner will see to your needs, gentlemen. I will see you later, I hope."

It was by now early evening, and dinner was definitely on the agenda. Since Dumbledore had neither Muggle money nor something called a Ration Card, Chief Petty Officer Turner escorted them to a rather well worn, but very clean, canteen. There a blowsy, heavily made-up woman in her fifties, who introduced herself as Doris, served them sausage, egg and chips, followed by bread-and-butter pudding, all washed down with strong, sweet tea.

After that, they went out into the city, and Logan followed his nose to a decent-enough pub within striking distance of the rendezvous point. Over pints of foaming bitter ("I can't get used to warm beer," grumbled the Canadian.), the two men began to know each other.

The only Muggles Dumbledore had had many dealings with were the sometimes over-anxious parents of Muggle-born students. Sergeant Logan, by those standards, was far from an ordinary man. Though he spoke most often in the rough idiom of the lumberjacks and farmers he knew best, he occasionally slipped into the tones of the English public-school man. He had a pleasant line in dry, caustic humour, and grew almost lyrical when he spoke of the Alberta woods he called home.

Yet there was a darker side to these tales. Husbands and fathers who brutally mistreated their families had fallen foul of Logan more than once. Children lost in the woods and in peril had been guided home. There had been hard winters when the starving wolves and bears came dangerously close to isolated settlements, and Logan took it upon himself to protect the families who scratched a living there. He told of encounters with creatures from the wizarding world--the lumbering, powerful but gentle Sasquatch, and the more dangerous, violent one called the Wendigo.

After these adventures, Logan told Dumbledore, he had gained a nickname among the people of the woods, a name taken from an animal that showed the same qualities of strength, tenacity, fearlessness and occasional savagery. They called him the Wolverine.

In his turn, Logan studied the enigmatic wizard. A man who trusted the evidence of his senses but little else, Logan had never had much time for the supernatural - at least as it manifested itself in the churches and chapels that sprouted in every little village and town. But he had seen a great many odd things in his lifetime, so was not prepared to say that anything was impossible. He had seen with his own eyes evidence of power from both Dumbledore and von Schrader, and what he saw, he believed.

According to Carver, Dumbledore was over 100 years old, but he looked about sixty or so, and hale and hearty to boot. His hair was auburn, thick and vigorous, and his blue eyes were bright and curious. He talked about the school in which he taught, the students and the skills they learned, but also about the Castle itself, with its odd nooks and crannies, unexpected rooms and hidden dangers. Dumbledore told Logan about hair-raising trips into the Forbidden Forest near the school, with its magical creatures and lurking terrors. Then, in the same tone of almost child-like delight and wonder, he spoke of clandestine visits in his own student days to a place called the Astronomy Tower, to tryst with a succession of pretty, young witches.

The old guy has spirit and guts, thought Logan, but he's no fighter, at least not in the same way I am. Logan figured that, up against von Schrader, Dumbledore was more than equal to any danger. But if it came to a fist fight, then it would be up to him to look out for his new friend.

All too soon, the time for the rendezvous came round, and the two men ventured out into the near total darkness of blacked-out London. The summer sky was clear, but the ever-present smoke from the factories shrouded the moon and stars. Fortunately, Logan's heightened senses included excellent night-vision; all Dumbledore had to do was follow his companion.

Suddenly, Logan stopped and sniffed the air. "Someone's up ahead," he whispered, "a woman. She's carrying a gun. I can smell the oil."

"Commander Carver said we would be met," pointed out Dumbledore. "He didn't say by whom."

"All right," Logan allowed, "but we better be cagey. We'll go in wide apart so she has to decide which of us to aim at. Keep your wand ready, Albus, and be careful."

The woman stood at the precise spot of the rendezvous, appearing quite relaxed. She was rather tall, with a good but slim figure, wearing a light summer frock with a raincoat open over it. Blonde hair peeped out from under a patterned headscarf, and her face was strikingly pretty, with large, clear, blue eyes. She watched the two men's cautious approach with a little smile. "My, my," she said, grinning. "Two men so scared of little me? I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted."

Then her tone became brisk. "You'll be Professor Dumbledore, and you're Sgt Logan. I'm Anthea Featherstone. I work for Cmdr Carver. I was asked to meet you here and take you to von Schrader's hideout."

Logan growled, "Why should we trust you? How do we know you're who you say you are? Carver didn't give us a password or anything."

Anthea sighed. "Passwords are all very well, Sergeant, as long as everybody remembers them. There's also the fact that, if you know a password, somebody can always come along and stick matches under your fingernails until you tell them what it is.

"Look, Lt Waverley called me in while you were at the Bureau. I was waiting outside when you left, so I got a good look at you both. The fact that I know your names should tell you something. Von Schrader knows you both by sight, but he doesn't know Sgt Logan's name, so he couldn't tell it to anyone."

Featherstone pursed her lips. "But, if you insist, Professor Dumbledore here can read my mind--enough at least to know I'm telling the truth. Professor?"

Dumbledore, rather reluctantly, raised his wand, invoking "Legilimens!" A moment later, he turned to Logan. "She's telling the truth."

"Good enough for me," said Logan. "So, Miss Featherstone, where do we go from here?"

"Come with me, gentlemen. Oh, and do try and look as if you're enjoying yourselves."

The part of London into which they were headed was not one of the nicer ones. Logan was reminded of some of Dickens' grimmer passages as they penetrated the maze of grimy alleys full of close-leaning, decaying houses. These were the streets Jack the Ripper had prowled, and perhaps worse killers.

Finally, they came into a gloomy, little square lined with houses that had once been elegant, well-proportioned Georgian homes, but had long since been divided into cheap flats accommodating the rootless and impecunious for a few months or a year. In the middle of the square was a little flowerbed with a small tree in the centre. The iron railings had been taken away at the beginning of the war, the flowers were untended, and the tree looked ragged and bereft.

Anthea Featherstone indicated a house. "Von Schrader and six bodyguards live in the basement flat over there. One man's always in the area, in front of the door. From time to time, two of them take a stroll round this square."

"You mean like those two?" hissed Logan as two tall men came up the area steps. The stocky Canadian melted into the shadows without a sound. Dumbledore was on the verge of casting a Disillusionment Charm when Anthea seized him and pushed him back against the tree. "Hold me," she hissed, then pressed her mouth to his.

It occurred to Dumbledore, as his arms instinctively went around her slim body, that his companion was a stickler for verisimilitude. She was kissing him with every indication of genuine passion and, though it had been some time since Albus had had occasion to indulge in osculation, he found that his memory on the subject was very clear. He tried to keep his eyes and ears open for the patrol, but Anthea's determination to maintain their cover made concentration a little difficult. He was vaguely aware of two figures passing nearby, one making a short, wry comment in what he took to be German, and the other responding with a laugh.

Dumbledore was not sure how long he and Anthea remained locked in this necessary but interesting subterfuge. He finally became aware of Logan clearing his throat rather loudly. Dumbledore firmly but gently disengaged himself from Anthea, cleared his own throat and asked, "Are they gone?"

"Went some time ago," was Logan's laconic reply.

"You might have let us know," said Dumbledore.

Logan grinned. "Could have, but you two seemed so wrapped up in what you were doing, I didn't want to interrupt."

"Really, Logan!" Dumbledore protested.

Anthea laughed, a silvery tinkle. "Why, Albus, weren't you enjoying yourself? I was," she said mischievously. "I know I was being a bit naughty, but none of my other gentleman friends have been wizards, so I might never have got another chance."

"Well, now you have," said Dumbledore, "what's the next move?"

Anthea became brisk again. "Right. We know von Schrader brought six SS men to England with him using one of those magical oojahs--"

"Portkeys," Dumbledore supplied helpfully.

"Yes, one of those. Commander Carver shot one of the bodyguards this afternoon, which leaves five. One of them will be down in the area, so there'll be four in the house. Their CO, Obersturmfuhrer Maybach, will be with von Schrader. He rarely leaves his side unless he has a special task, as he did today.

"Sgt Logan, our job is to get the Professor past the guards so he can deal with von Schrader. Our brief is to capture him and Maybach alive, if possible. The rest are expendable."

Dumbledore shuddered; this pretty, obviously warm-hearted young woman spoke so calmly about killing. She noticed his reaction, and looked at him with shadowed eyes. "I don't like it, but we're in a war, here! These men aren't Wehrmacht, they're SS - Nazi fanatics. They won't hesitate to kill us, or themselves, to avoid capture. I'll do what I have to do, and so will the Sergeant."

Dumbledore said firmly, "I will not take a life, even to save my own."

"You won't have to," said Logan, eyeing his friend with grave respect. "Miss Featherstone and I will do what's necessary. You just keep yourself safe, and concentrate on von Schrader."

Logan squinted into the darkness. "Our first job is to deal with that guard down in the area. I might be able to sneak up on him, but I can't guarantee to put him down without making a noise."

"Ah. Now that I can, and will, do something about," said Dumbledore. "Wait here a moment."

He forced himself to walk casually towards the house. As he passed, he glanced down into the area and saw the figure leaning against the wall next to the door. Dumbledore walked on a few more steps, then spun, whipping out his wand, and Petrified the guard. He signalled the others over, and they slipped quickly down the steps.

Logan quietly tried the door, "Locked."

Dumbledore smiled, saying, "Alohomora!" The door swung silently open, revealing a narrow hallway with cracked linoleum flooring, illuminated by a single, dim light bulb.

"We'd better get in quick," whispered Anthea, "before the ARP Warden spots the light. They're always right where you don't need 'em."

She and Logan went in first, and Dumbledore followed, closing the door silently behind them. Anthea reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a revolver - not the small, nickel-plated, low-calibre weapon Logan expected, but a businesslike Webley that looked almost too heavy for her to aim. Keeping in front of Dumbledore, the young woman and the Canadian advanced silently towards the first of the doors.

Unfortunately, it was the further door that opened first, and two men stepped out into the hallway. One was von Schrader; the other was an equally tall, slender, blond man in a drab blue suit. They spotted the intruders almost immediately. Von Schrader darted back into the room they had come from, while the other man bellowed something in German that brought three more out from another room, all armed.

Dumbledore acted faster than he had since he gave up Quidditch. Almost without thought, he Apparated past the guards to the doorway von Schrader had gone into, Stunned the man who could only be Maybach, and went after the German wizard. As he went, he heard a single shot, and the sounds of a fight broke out behind him.

The room was surprisingly large, or seemed so, perhaps because the only furnishings were two pallets on the floor. Apart from the faded wallpaper, the sole decoration was a large portrait of a pasty-faced, grim-looking Muggle with thin dark hair and a tiny, silly moustache.

Von Schrader stood in the centre of the room, wand in hand. He sneered at Dumbledore, saying, "So. It seems you did not ask the question I advised, Herr Professor."

Dumbledore shrugged, "I asked; the Commander answered. I was satisfied with his answers."

"Then you are a fool." Without another word, von Schrader attacked.

It had been quite some time since Albus Dumbledore had duelled, but to his surprise, he found that he had lost none of his proficiency. His skills clearly shocked von Schrader as well. Neither man moved, standing about six feet apart, but their wands flickered back and forth while the air sizzled with magic. Deflected curses knocked chunks of plaster out of the walls and gouged long, blackened scars in the wooden floor. Somewhere outside, Dumbledore heard more shots, and one full-throated male scream.

The sounds drove him to more intense efforts. Fear growing in his eyes, von Schrader began to give ground. Dumbledore redoubled his attacks, wanting to end this quickly. He was concentrating so intently on his opponent that he noticed nothing else until a heavy blow on the back of his head sent him to the floor.

In the narrow space of the hallway, Logan and Anthea had lost track of Dumbledore. The boom of his Disapparation had had several effects: One was to temporarily paralyse the three Germans with shock; the other was to cause Anthea's shot to go wild, slamming into the doorframe. Logan recovered first, and piled into the three SS men with a feral snarl.

It was impossible for Anthea to shoot without a risk of hitting her ally. She began to slip along the wall, trying to make her way past the melee in the hope of finding Dumbledore. One of the Germans caught sight of her and turned, knocking her to the floor with a brutal slap.

Logan, despite his words to Dumbledore, was not willing to kill even these men unless it was absolutely necessary, so he kept his claws sheathed. The space was too cramped for his speed and agility to be of any use; it was stand your ground and give and take. Against three fit, highly-trained opponents, Logan was taking more than he was giving, but his healing ability, strength and sheer stubbornness prevented him from going down under the pounding, and his enemies were beginning to flag.

Then, following what must have been a practised manoeuvre, one man stepped back while the other two hurled themselves at the Canadian's arms, pinning them to his sides. The third man drew a pistol and aimed it directly between Logan's eyes.

Whatever twist of fate, God or Devil had made Logan what he was had imposed some limits. The Canadian knew that not even he could survive a bullet to the brain. But it wasn't in his nature to give up, and he had one trick left. Swivelling his head sharply to the left so he was nearly peering over his own shoulder, Logan's temple now lay alongside the barrel. If the gun went off, he'd be deafened and probably stunned, but alive. He'd bought himself precious seconds.

Anthea had kept a grip on her revolver. She struggled to her knees and put two rounds into the spine of one of the men holding Logan, killing him instantly. Logan was pulled down as the dead man slumped to the floor, so the shots from the German's Walther hit Logan's other captor.

The gunman brought his P-38 to bear on Anthea, who managed to roll to one side as his bullet buried itself in the floor where she had been. Then Logan was on him. A red mist blurred the Canadian's vision as the blood pounded in his ears; for a moment, he was in the grip of his ever-present fear - the Berserker rage that had shaped the entire tragedy of James Howlett's life. Claws springing from his hands, Logan slashed at the German's gun-arm, almost severing the limb. The man's face contorted in shock and agony when the claws opened his throat.

As his enemy collapsed, Logan looked around, hunting for more foes. A small figure crouched behind him, and he tensed. The scent was female. Logan saw her mouth moving.

The gunshots so close to his head had rendered him stone deaf. But, in the midst of the heat and the pounding and the redness, a small, cool area opened in Logan's Berserk mind. This was how Rose had died. No! Logan vowed, as he had vowed then, Not again. Never again. He took a deep breath, and sheathed his claws.

His hearing and his normal personality returned. He said roughly, "It's OK, Miss Featherstone. I've got it under control, now."

"WHAT? CAN'T HEAR A THING," she shouted, rubbing her ears and eyeing him warily as she scrambled to her feet. "ALBUS?"

Logan's head shot up, spotting Obersturmfuhrer Maybach through the doorway at the end of the hall. Strange lights, odd sounds and a peculiar metallic smell were emanating from the room beyond. Anthea followed his gaze, and squeezed off a shot toward Maybach too late, for he'd moved away from the door.

Logan heard a blow and the thud of a falling body. He dashed into the room with Anthea on his heels to see Maybach standing over a fallen Dumbledore.

"DON'T MOVE!" commanded Anthea. Von Schrader pointed his wand at the portrait of Hitler and muttered something. The picture, and the section of wall it hung on, vanished to reveal a doorway.

"Come, Heinrich," urged von Schrader.

"I'LL FIRE," Anthea yelled. But just as she squeezed the trigger, von Schrader leapt to his bodyguard's side, yelling "Protego!"

The bullet spanged off the silvery shield. Logan threw himself at Anthea, knocking her down before the ricochet could take her head off. The two Germans seized the opportunity to dart through the doorway.

Logan and Anthea got to their feet and went over to Dumbledore, who was sitting up and rubbing his head. "Oof!" he groaned. "I'm getting too old for this sort of thing. And my ears are ringing." He tapped his head with his wand, then relaxed, obviously feeling better.

Anthea knelt in front of him, patting his hand. "Nonsense, Albus. You're only as old as you feel," she soothed loudly.

Logan's nostrils flared; clearly this striking young woman didn't consider age a barrier to some feelings. The Canadian found himself rather amused, especially as he suspected that his wizard friend had no idea of the effect he was having on Anthea, who was inspecting him carefully for injuries.

"My head's still attached," Dumbledore assured her, "but that's about all I'm certain of. Er, why are you shouting?"

"Gunshots deafened her temporarily," Logan told him.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Anthea asked Dumbledore.

"Three very elegant ones," Dumbledore replied, realising only after he'd spoken that she hadn't heard his gentle jest. He held up three fingers. She nodded happily. He stroked her head gently with his wand to restore her hearing and was rewarded by a brilliant smile and an impulsive kiss on the cheek.

Clearing his throat, Dumbledore asked Logan, "Now, where is von Schrader? I almost had him before that whack on the head."

"He went through here with Maybach - or I'd guess it was Maybach," said Logan. "There's steps leading down. This whole city is probably honeycombed with old tunnels and passages; they'll hope to lose us in there. Of course, with me along, that's not gonna be so easy."

"Lead on, Logan," said Dumbledore. "Let's finish this quickly, if we can."

Logan nodded and led the way down the steps. Anthea produced a small, dim, blackout torch that provided more than enough light for Logan's eyes. The air within the underground passage was stale but not rank, and the scents of the two men they were pursuing hung clearly in the air. Logan tracked them as quickly as was safe for his companions.

Following the shadowy form of their guide, Dumbledore felt Anthea slip her cool, slender hand into his.

"Miss Featherstone--" Dumbledore began, acutely aware that her attitude towards him was one he hadn't aroused in a woman for some years.

"Mrs Featherstone, actually," she interrupted. "I'm a widow, and no, my husband didn't die in the War. He was stabbed by a burglar - just a wretched, hungry boy trying to steal enough to eat, but they hanged him anyway."

"Ah...." Dumbledore searched for words, but she stopped him by squeezing his hand.

"Not now, Albus. There's really nothing to say about it. Just...don't let go of my hand, please? We need to stay together."

Logan suddenly hissed, "They're close!"

Unfortunately, they were closer than he had thought. A brilliant light transfixed them, and Dumbledore heard again the sound of the Muggle weapon that had nearly killed them that afternoon.

Logan jerked, staggered and fell. Dumbledore shouted "Expelliarmus!" The machine pistol flew from Maybach's hands. Anthea stepped forward and fired at the German, who gave a cry of pain as the bullet entered his shoulder, but nevertheless turned and began to run. Anthea pulled the trigger again, to be thwarted by nothing but a click.

"Damn! Oh, damn!" she swore. "I should have reloaded."

The light vanished, and von Schrader's voice came out of the dark. "Herr Professor, your foolishness has cost you the life of your friend - take varning from that. Where I go now, Carver's agents vill not find me. Return to your school, and prepare for the victory of the Reich!"

The sound of footsteps faded. Dumbledore said, "Lumos!". In the light of his wand, he and Anthea stooped to examine their fallen friend. Logan was bleeding from a dozen wounds, but he was still breathing, still conscious.

"I'll...live," he gasped weakly. "Just...need...rest...time to...heal."

Anthea stretched a tremulous hand toward Logan. She looked toward Albus with a worried expression.

Dumbledore applied Mobilicorpus. Anthea's eyes grew wider as she watched Logan's prone body levitate, then float along the passageway in the direction from which they'd come while Albus maintained the spell. As they approached the room, they heard voices. Dumbledore lowered Logan to the floor, and touched Anthea's arm in warning. She listened, then went back to help Albus hoist Logan to his feet and support him.

Above, they found several men in rough clothing there, being directed by the same young Army officer Dumbledore had seen that afternoon.

"Ah. There you are," the officer said, as if greeting some guests arriving late for supper. "Bit of a bust-up, what? Goin' to have to pay off the landlord chappie in short order. I say, looks like the Colonial fella's taken quite a bashin', what?"

"Waverley," said Anthea, "we need somewhere safe and quiet for the rest of the night."

"Righto," responded the young man. "Got just the place. Nice little flat two squares over. Bureau owns it, so no questions asked, what? Come along. Got the motor outside, don'cher know?"

He turned to an older man who seemed to be supervising the other workers. "Dalton, can you and your chaps take care of things here?" The man grunted affirmatively. "Splendid fella. I'll get a gel to bring in some tea for you.

"Ready, Mrs Featherstone? Professor, I'll help you with the Sergeant."

Anthea leaned close to Dumbledore and whispered, "Waverley may look and sound like a chinless wonder, but he's as tough as the Commander, and almost as clever."

Certainly the young officer's slender build was deceptive, as he effortlessly relieved Dumbledore of more than half of Logan's considerable weight. They left the flat, climbing into a small motor-car, which Waverley drove expertly through the quiet streets to a square almost identical to the one they had just left.

The flat he brought them to was larger and, thankfully, cleaner than the other. Waverley and Dumbledore deposited Logan in a bedroom while Anthea found some First Aid supplies. Clearly, the place was well prepared for a special kind of tenant. Waverley said, "Have to use the telephone," and vanished, leaving Anthea and Dumbledore to see to Logan's wounds.

These were all in the upper torso and, as had happened that afternoon, most of the shots had gone completely through his body. The wounds were already closing and, as Logan's friends watched, a small piece of grey metal was pushed out of one to fall to the floor. Dumbledore picked it up and showed it to Anthea.

"It's a bullet," she whispered, awestruck. "His body's pushing them out like...like baby teeth."

Dumbledore shook his head, "He's lost a lot of blood, and he'll be in shock. I don't know what else we can do, now. Wish I had a Blood-Replenishing Potion." Albus considered Disapparating to St Mungo's to secure magical remedies, then dismissed the thought; Logan's unusual body might react badly.

In the end, they cleaned and lightly bandaged the wounds, more out of a need to help than any necessity. By now, Logan was deeply asleep, which Anthea judged the best thing for him. They left him and went back into the lounge, where Waverley was waiting for them.

"Just spoke to the Commander," he told them. "He says you're to stay here until he comes tomorrow. He'll be over about ten-hundred, so you can have a lie-in. Food in the kitchen, everythin' you need, so no need to go out. Canadian chappie should be right as rain by the mornin', he says.

"Just like to say meself, bang-up job over there! Flushed the cove out good and proper. Blighter'll probably go to ground again, but he's five men short, so gettin' at him'll be easier.

"Leave you to it, now, got things to do, don'cher know? Toodle-pip."

With that, he was gone.

Anthea sighed. "Albus, I have to go and powder my nose. Can you make some tea?"

Dumbledore went into the small kitchen, looked at the gas stove, the kettle and the array of packets in the cupboard, frowned, and pulled out his wand. By the time Anthea came back, he had a pot of piping hot tea and two cups ready.

They sat at the kitchen table, and Anthea lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. "I swiped some of Logan's Marlboros - all Andrew ever leaves in safe houses are those dreadful Senior Service."

After a moment of quiet, Anthea, for no real reason, began to talk. She told Dumbledore how her father was disowned by his family for marrying beneath him, but her grandfather settled his money on Anthea. She was to get the interest as an income once she turned twenty-one, but her father or husband was to have control of it unless she reached the age of twenty-five if still unmarried.

Then her parents fell into debt to a man called Silas Featherstone. Somehow, he'd heard of Anthea's money, and offered to write off the debt if she married him. So, at the age of seventeen, she was married to a fifty-five year-old man.

Silas was already rich; his father had made a fortune in South African gold and diamonds. But he was a penny-pinching skinflint, constantly pleading poverty. They lived in four rooms of a big, gloomy old house in Berkshire.

Anthea fulfilled her wifely duties, and the inevitable happened; she fell pregnant.

One day, a few months later, while standing with Silas on the landing of a staircase, Anthea fell. She rolled all the way down, and lay there bleeding, while Silas hovered over her, behaving solicitously. Her child, and her chances of ever having another, died that night.

Afterward, something Silas remarked chilled her to the bone and led her to suspect her fall had not been an accident. He said in a quiet, reasonable voice, "Anthea, my dear, it's time you stopped grieving. That event was a blessing in disguise. Surely you must understand that in our straitened circumstances, we simply could not afford the expense of a child."

Silas worried a lot about expenses and money, so much so that he didn't believe in banks. The Depression made no difference to the way they lived, except that they now slept separately.

Then a poor boy came down from London, looking for work on the farms. He couldn't find any, but he heard tales about the rich, old miser who lived with just his young wife in a big house. One night, he broke in, and Silas caught him. There was a fight, and Silas was stabbed, dying instantly. The scared, young man ran straight out of the house into the local constable. He had brought the knife - a German bayonet, a souvenir from the Great War - into the house with him. In the eyes of the jury, that made the crime murder, and the lad was hanged.

Anthea's father came down to help her go through the house. They found thousands, all in notes and gold sovereigns, and a box full of rough-cut diamonds almost beyond valuation. Silas had no living relatives; Anthea was his widow, over twenty-one by then, so it was all hers.

"So," she concluded, "I came to London, bought a little house, and I live the life of a comfortably-off young widow. As a widow, I have more freedom than a spinster, I suppose. At any rate, I go where I please, I don't need a chaperone, and I can have all the gentleman friends I want - or not, if I prefer, as long as I'm reasonably discreet, of course.

"Andrew Carver was one of my gentleman friends for a while, and when the War started, he asked me to come and work for him. He said I was too clever to serve tea or pack parachutes.

"So, here I am, talking your poor, patient ears off, Albus. I'm sorry, but I just wanted to tell somebody all of it. I've never done that before, but I somehow feel I can trust you."

Dumbledore reached over and squeezed her hand. "I'm honoured by your confidence, Mrs Featherstone."

"Anthea," she insisted. "Call me Anthea."

"Anthea, then," Dumbledore acquiesced. "It's growing late, Anthea, and we have both had a trying day. I suggest we retire for the night."

They checked on Logan, who was now in what seemed to be a deep, natural sleep. His bandages were clean and he was no longer bleeding.

As they headed for the bedrooms, Anthea turned at the door of hers and looked at him speculatively, "Albus...?"

"Goodnight, Anthea," he said quietly but firmly.

In the room, he found nightwear, some of which fitted well enough. He changed, and climbed into bed, switching out the light. Dumbledore lay awake for a moment or two, thinking about Anthea. Seventy, maybe as few as fifty, years ago, he wouldn't have hesitated to accept her subtle invitation. Age doesn't make us wiser, he thought, just more timid. With that sobering thought in his head, he settled himself to sleep.