I love the Underground. It’s a fact I generally keep to myself for fear that people will think me mad, but there are so many things about it I enjoy. I love the speed with which my ticket is eaten and spat out, the gentle chug of the barrier as it permits me entrance to the platform. I love the undulating escalators and the gleaming tiles that line the walls. I love the station names; not merely a list, an intoxicating incantation.
The carriage doors that bid you enter, the comforting beep that warns you of their closure, the satisfaction at getting a seat or the pleasure of swaying along with the beast if you must stand. And then her voice, the electronic goddess telling you where you are going.
“This is a District Line Service to Upminster calling at Putney Bridge, Parsons Green, Fulham Broadway, West Brompton, Earls Court…”
And I am distracted by the headline sported by a fellow passenger’s newspaper. Fog isolates continent. How can a continent be isolated? But I understand the significance, for we have once again been smothered by a thick haze of gloom that we all know will not lift for days. That’s another reason for enjoying the Underground; no matter what is happening above, all remains cushioned from the outside world below. Oh, they talk of attacks and security is high, but he has not yet ventured into the bowels of London.
A young woman is reading, oblivious to her surroundings, while the man next to her examines her cleavage at length. Down the carriage two children are driving their mother to distraction. The train slides below ground, resurfaces and then dives once more for the cover of the earth. I prefer it when we leave the sky behind. I like to see the warp of the tunnel match the warp of the train, perfect partners in this subterranean adventure. If I cock my head just so I can feel part of this conspiracy of curvature.
I wonder what my fellow commuters see in me. Do they see a young woman travelling to another day at the office, their offices? Do they see a Muggle or a witch? If they see a witch then I am in trouble, for my efforts to blend in have failed. My office is much like theirs “ no, not much. Perhaps there are similarities in the outdated mismanagement, the jobs for the boys, the stupidity of those at the head of the organisation. Perhaps, like our Minister, their Minister is a woolly-minded fool with only his own prospects at heart. But their Minister is new, fresh, while ours is desperate, jaded. There are rumours at work, the heart of the organisation feels intimidated. We do not know who spies and who does not, but there are always rumours, always threats.
Earls Court, and I dive suddenly from the hive of the train into the metropolis of the underworld, where patience and impatience mingle, collide like unruly atoms. I go down, deeper, seeking a connecting train. I feel the swift wind as I stand on the platform, the gentle press of the crowd as we jostle for the doors. It is of no matter, for we will all cram our bodies into the metal tube and sway together, our odours and dreams intermingling.
“This is a Piccadilly Line Service to Cockfosters calling at Gloucester Road, South Kensington, Knightsbridge, Hyde Park Corner, Green Park, Piccadilly Circus, Leicester Square…”
I will alight at Leicester Square and walk the remainder of the way to the Ministry. This journey enables me to stop off and have breakfast at one of the many street cafes, so open, so honest. There are no spies here, no devils to be avoided. I’ll walk up Charing Cross Road and find myself on Frith Street. There is a café there that asks no questions and delivers strong coffee.
The man clinging to the pole by the door is looking at me with a distant smile and I avert my eyes. The darkness dazzles as we run headlong against it. All human life is here, crammed up against itself, fighting for recognition. I never feel more alive than when I am confronted by the Muggles and their simple preoccupations; flirting, living, innocence of the world beyond theirs. It is inappropriate for me to seek their company, but they are intoxicating in their beauty.
At Hyde Park Corner a whole flock of tourists flood the train with their bewilderment. They check maps, listen carefully to the voice of the goddess as she intones the familiar litany, and confer in a strange language that I do not understand. Their eyes are filled with travel’s twin companions; trepidation and delight. I allow my own knowing eyes to range over them, and my heart constricts. There is one there that does not belong. In dark clothes and even darker thoughts, his face turns towards me and I am undone.
I cannot be here. It is not the Muggles I should fear but this man, this servant.My heart backs away, its constriction loosened enough to allow escape.
The running train slows and pauses at Hyde Park Corner and in that instant I leap from the carriage, but he has seen. He knows. For a fleeting moment I look at the track and see deliverance. If I stand here, if I wait, another train will pass through this tunnel and would obliterate me in seconds. I can see, if a try hard enough, the shocked face of the driver, the excitement of the tourists, the frustration of my fellow commuters. Death on the Underground is a rare and divisive thing.
It is too late, in any event, for my black-clad inquisitor has also left the train, anticipating my escape. I am undone, and in my undoing I must guard my secrets. The Order lives and must not be betrayed, especially not by one who professes loyalty to the Dark Lord and to them. He is walking towards me, jaw set in judgement. He draws close, his face a mask that cloaks the devilment within. I feel his words before they are spoken.
“You forget yourself, Eleanor.”
The accusation is a whisper, a caress that does not delight. He has a face born to malicious intent for it is cold and unforgiving, accusatory without words. I am his sister and I loathe him, but cannot disown him.
“You forget yourself, Lucius.”
His hand grips my wrist and I feel his fingers tighten around my sinew.
“Do you know what it would do to me if you were discovered here, with these people? Do you understand your responsibilities?”
“And what are you doing here?”
“I seek.”
And he had found. I did not care to ask if it was me he sought.