Jewel Of The Nile

Chapter One

Disclaimer: All the Hogwarts gang belong exclusively to J.K.R, not me. And it's a sure thing I'm not making money from them.

“I don’t care what you say, Hermione,” her mother said firmly. “He’s not going. Bad enough you’ve talked us into sending you.”

They were in the midst of what was the latest in a long string of petty arguments, though the ante was certainly upped for this one. Hermione rolled her eyes, making sure her mother couldn’t see her do it, and prayed - not too hopefully - for patience.

“Mum,” she said, exasperated, “of course I’m taking him. How could I not? He’s my familiar.”

“He stays,” Kate Granger said, her jaw set. “You know how thick his fur is; he’ll hate the heat -“

“ - Mum, the flat’s air-conditioned -“

“ - and God knows what would happen if he got out,” her mother finished, her voice full of morbid triumph. “Someone would probably eat him. If he didn’t get himself run over first. And let me tell you something else …”

“Mum.” Hermione put her hands on her hips. She couldn’t seem to keep her voice from rising; if this was what happened to all adult children still In The Nest, she couldn’t imagine how some people managed to move back home after college.

One more week.

Which might as well be forever, the rate we’re going.

“Ever hear of the goddess Bastet?” she inquired, eyes narrow. “Egyptians don’t eat cats, Mum - they worship them.”

Or at least they used to. Not sure how that works now, exactly.

“Hmph,” her mother said doubtfully, with a cocked eyebrow that said Kids - think they know it all, as clearly as if it had jumped off her face complete with a soapbox and a little megaphone. “I still say he won’t like it.”

“We’ve been over this,” Hermione snapped. “He liked it fine in my dormitory room, didn’t he?”

“That’s different,” her mother rejoined. “He had the run of the castle; he was all over the grounds, you’ve said so yourself a million times. He’d be miserable, cooped up in a poky little flat all day.” She pointed to the slumbering pile of ginger fur, splayed on the shag carpeting next to the living room’s south-facing picture window. “Look at him - just look at him, Hermione, at how thrilled he is to be home. How content.”

Hermione, tasting defeat in the air, shrugged wearily and looked.

Indeed, Crookshanks seemed to have achieved Cat Nirvana. Having laid his daily mouse on the front stoop as an offering to the house-gods, he had since hunted butterflies in the garden, rolled in the bed of catnip planted especially for him, made his daily inspection rounds of the library aquarium and the big cage of chattering finches on the patio, polished off three entire cans of fancy white anchovy fillets, and slaked his thirst from the Fine Feline water fountain Hermione’s mother had bought for him one holiday. Now, after careful, measured consideration of the afternoon sunbeam on the living room rug, he had located the spot which afforded him the maximum amount of sunbathing time, and was stretched out on his side, snoring.

This battle was a foregone conclusion, Hermione realised; Kate Granger had that look on her face again, that my-only-child-is-abandoning-me-for-the-infidels Empty-Nest-Syndrome look. And there was no arguing with That Look.

On the other hand, she had one last card to play.

“Mum, he’s not an ordinary cat. He’s half-Kneazle,” she said. “He’s magical. He belongs with me.”

“Ha,” said her mother, utterly unimpressed by Hermione’s invocation of the M-Word. “He’s an English garden cat, that’s what he is, and he’s my baby.”

“Mum -“

“He stays.”

**

They had another argument three days later, about her parents’ purchase of a London-Cairo airline ticket for her - “I don’t care if it’s easier to Apparate,” her mother had shrieked finally, over the top of Hermione’s protestations; “after you walk up that ramp, you can do whatever you bloody well please. But I am still your mother, and I Will See You Onto That Plane!”

Following this outburst, she’d muttered something about “closure”, and sunk weeping into an armchair, where Hermione’s father patted her arm consolingly from a cautious distance, and mouthed ‘Menopause’ to Hermione from over the top of her head.

Even if it’s just hormones, I can’t take another four days of this, Hermione decided, and took the coward’s way out of the argument.

She escaped to Gram’s.

**

“Hermione, dear, that’s a lovely bracelet,” Gram said the second afternoon, over tea. Hermione glanced down at her wrist and shook the silver charms in the air, a bit self-consciously.

“It was a gift,” she said, then corrected herself. “Well, two gifts, actually. The bracelet and most of the charms came from one person - the little malachite scarab came from someone else.”

Gram looked amused.

“You’ve taken up juggling, then, I gather,” she remarked - “a dangerous sport, but the thrill’s more than worth it, if you have the stamina for it” - and set down her teacup so she could reach over and examine the charms a bit more closely. Hermione noticed that the cat-charm didn’t move under her touch; anti-Muggle security in everything, these days, she thought, and sent a mental shout-out to Arthur Weasley, wherever he was.

“Malachite, you say?” Gram asked, fingering the green scarab. Hermione looked surprised.

“I thought it was,” she said, reaching for another biscuit. “I haven’t had it appraised or anything, if that’s what you mean. But I rather thought - well, if you knew the whole story - “ She trailed off. “Well, it just makes sense, that’s all.”

Gram shook her head. “Now, I’m no expert,” she said, turning the scarab over to examine its back. “But I’ve seen a bit of jewellery in my day, you know -“

“A bit?” Hermione asked, and muffled a giggle with the last of her biscuit. Gram cocked a serene eyebrow and kept going.

“—and this looks like jade to me. Which is a lot more valuable, of course - and this little bauble’s very finely carved. Just beautiful.” She let go of Hermione’s wrist, dabbed at the corners of her mouth with a creamy linen napkin, then rose gracefully. “It’s very like a piece I was given once - in Jordan, I believe, after a command performance. You may not have seen it before; I thought it so unusual that I kept it apart from the rest of the Proposal Scrapbook.”

Intrigued, Hermione followed her.

It had been a long time since she saw the Proposal Scrapbook and its accompanying tangle of glittering gems, a long time since she’d watched Gram’s hands - old and knotted with arthritis now, but still amazingly steady - turn the dial and swing open the door to reveal the treasures inside. Now, she took the carved, lacquered box - surprisingly heavy - and cleared one of the side tables by Gram’s armchair to make room for it.

“Ah,” Gram said, removing the boxed items to a careful stack on the table and sweeping the loose gems to one side. “Here we are - you never knew this had a false bottom, did you?”

Hermione shook her head.

“Ha. Just goes to show you - if you lead an interesting enough life, you can have secrets from your grandchildren when you’re seventy-eight, too.” She slanted a sly, mischievous look at Hermione from under her eyelashes, and Hermione laughed; in the muted multicoloured light from the Tiffany lamps, with that conspiratorial, young look on her face, Gram was still Every Inch A Diva.

Now, she felt carefully under the false bottom of the jewellery box and drew out a small black-velvet bag. “There’s a note, too,” she said, looking a little wistful as she handed it over. “You read it, darling - my eyes aren’t what they used to be.”

Hermione opened the little envelope gingerly, and sighed as the long-encased scent of flowers reached her nostrils. “Jasmine,” she said. “And lily-of-the-valley. That’s so sweet.”

The note was short, the ink still black and fresh-looking, scrawled in a strong slanting hand:

For Martina, who is all the goddess I shall ever want or need - a token of my regard.

“Oh,” Hermione said, and read it over to herself again before refolding it and putting it back into its envelope reverently. “Oh, that’s romantic.” Gram laughed.

“Wait until you see her,” she said. “She really is a goddess - he told me she was taken from a tomb in the Valley of the Kings and sold to one of his ancestors, so it’s quite appropriate that we should take her out before you leave for Cairo. Jade wasn’t so common in Egypt back then either, according to the jeweller who appraised her for me, especially Burmese jade like this. She must have been valuable, even then.”

Holding her breath, Hermione unloosed the silk cord drawstring that held the bag closed and tipped the little statue out onto her palm.

It was small enough for her to close her hand around, an exquisitely carved slender woman with the head of a lioness, holding a scepter in one hand and clasping an ankh to her breast with the other. Her expression was stern, her stance challenging - feet slightly apart, high small breasts in careful, almost defiant, relief. Obviously she had been worn as a necklace; her creator had given her an intricate choker of hammered silver, to which was attached a silver chain, crafted in a similar style but newer-looking. Hermione, examining the clasp, saw the modern sterling mark on it - apparently Gram’s admirer had gone to a bit of trouble.

“She’s beautiful,” she said, feeling the cool stone turn warm in her hand. “But shouldn’t she be in a museum?”

Gram shrugged.

“Possibly,” she said. “Like I said, the jeweller who appraised her - an Egyptology expert - said that the use of jade in ancient tombs wasn’t common. He seemed to think that she might have been a derivative piece, made in an early style and passed off as an artifact. I don’t know, though.” She smiled faintly. “My admirer was quite adamant about her origins. And she feels old, to me.”

Hermione nodded; she knew exactly what her grandmother meant. Despite its small size, the little lion-goddess felt weighty and solid, like a bit of the earth’s core drawn out and chiselled into temporary obedience.

“Who is she?” she asked. “Did you find out anything about which goddess she is?” Gram shook her head.

“That’s your job,” she said, and laughed at Hermione’s look of patent disbelief. “Well, really - do you know anyone else in this family who’s likely to appreciate her?” She looked pensive. “You might as well know that the scrapbook and the jewellery are yours, eventually; your cousins might appreciate the glitter, but they’ve never been remotely interested in the stories behind it. Consider the little Lion Goddess a bequest in advance.”

“Besides,” she said, settling back into her chair and motioning for Hermione to re-fill the box, “if I know you - and I think I do - you’re not going to be happy in Cairo, unless you’ve got a mystery to solve.”

**

The girl was running.

Just an hour ago, she’d been dancing, in high heels that hurt her unaccustomed feet even then.

Now, she’d kicked them off, and she was running for her life.

Past the bright lights. Down the littered streets. Pushing through the crowds, until she took a wrong turn and there was no longer a crowd to hide in.

Stupid, she berated herself. Stupid, to think you could do it - to get away with it. Stupid to think they wouldn’t find out.

Her feet were cut, her legs aching, her chest one bright hot burn of labouring lungs.

Twist, turn, double back. Keep running.

If you stop, you’re dead.

They were gaining on her. She was lost.

If they caught her. If she went home. If she ever showed her face again.

The night of dancing hadn’t been worth it.

Down a blind alley - slowing, hugging her burning side, blinking back tears. Mud bricks on either side. No lights, and less hope.

It was almost a relief when she hit the wall, and knew there was nowhere else to go.

Dishonour. Shame.

Death.

She saw them raise their clubs, and closed her eyes.

And in a cool English bedroom three thousand kilometres away, Hermione Granger woke with a scream on her lips, the tiny lioness burning in her clasped hand.

**