Jewel Of The Nile

Chapter Eleven

Well, for sheer awkwardness, Hermione thought, that little vignette had ranked right up there with the infamous dream about being stuck at school in your underwear. The only way it could possibly have been worse would have involved Bill not only kissing her, but also discovering Snape in the corner recliner … perhaps she should just be glad that she’d been spared that particular plot twist, if not the situation itself.

It was hard to be glad about anything, though, when the first emotions on the Freud-O-Meter were popping up with labels like confusion, embarrassment, and massive, killer, double-whammy, take-home-the-grand-prize-today Grade-A guilt. Somewhere on the spectrum between the wild leap of elation she’d felt back at the museum, as Snape materialised seemingly from thin air, and the dry-mouthed self-accusation that was even now gnawing away at her guts with its taunting, ceaseless whisper (you’re-a-slut-you’re-a-slut-you’re-a-slut), lurked a more pedestrian, if no less worrisome, sense of déja vù. This wasn’t the first time, after all, that she’d found herself caught between diametrically opposed suitors: the slightly shady Light and the strangely comforting Dark.

Damn it, she’d thought her juggling days were behind her. Hermione flopped down on her bed belly-first, rubbing her temples as a Great Life Truth pounded its way into her head on the wings of a tension headache: Leaving town doesn’t make you automatically heart-whole, you know.

Well, no shit.

She and Snape, it seemed, still had unfinished business.

**

She undressed, hanging up the robes and tossing everything else into the laundry hamper by the bathroom door. For a moment, her hand strayed to the amulet still hanging around her neck; then she let it drop.

After what Snape had told her tonight, she was convinced of two truths: firstly, that Gran’s Jordanian prince had given her not a pale imitation of the Priestess, but the genuine article - and secondly, that it was nothing but trouble.

She’d heard Arthur Weasley’s advice to his daughter a million times now, in some variation or another, if she’d heard it once: Never trust anything that can think for itself, if you can’t see where it keeps its brain.

Well, duh. The problem with that, true and excellent an aphorism though it undoubtedly was, was that like all advice, it was easier given than taken.

Did she trust the Sekhmet statue? Not on her life.

Knowing what she did about it, would she like to heave it into the Nile right this instant? You betcha.

Was she about to wear it to bed?

Yes.

Not the most sensible of options, maybe, but that didn’t change this fact: when she went to sleep without the amulet, she woke up screaming.

Every.

Single.

Time.

And not only had the nightmares gotten more frequent, they were more intense as well. It had been going on for over a week now - she’d drift off in satin and wake up in blood, sweating and shaking and half-expecting to see Death, sweet and fetid, in the same room with her.

And always, always - no matter where she’d left it, no matter how securely she’d locked it away - the Sekhmet pendant would be around her neck. Hermione wasn’t sure if the amulet was causing the dreams, or trying to protect her from them, but she did know this: when she wore it to bed, she slept through the night. Peacefully.

It did occur to her, as she lay in her pretty white-eyelet-draped double bed, that she was being conditioned - that by wearing the necklace, she was in some strange way giving it what it wanted.

And that was disturbing, to put it mildly.

Be careful, Hermione, Snape had said just before Disapparating, his dark eyes alive with carefully-banked worry and something else that she couldn’t read. I’m going to research this further; until then, watch your step. That thing is loaded with something powerful, and it’s not entirely good. If I thought it safe to do so, I would take it back to Hogwarts with me and destroy it myself.

Not exactly what you wanted to hear from Mr. Inflappable, was it?

Hermione shivered. Lying in this bed, wearing a sinister talisman she couldn’t bring herself to remove, she was suddenly flooded with nostalgia for Hogwarts - its friendly faces, its cozy rooms, its protective, encircling layers of enchantments. Merely seeing Snape tonight had brought that feeling back to her, that warm, secure sensation of being … well, looked after. And now that he was gone again, she felt a little cold, and very much alone.

A questioning chirrup from the bedroom doorway heralded Cleo’s arrival; a moment later, the caracal landed heavily next to Hermione’s pillow, curled herself into a gangly ball of exponentially-growing hind legs and baby fluff, and began to purr. Hermione reached up to stroke the kitten’s fur, and heard the purr escalate to a contented rumble.

It sounded almost like a distant automobile motor.

Yawning, Hermione thought of long car trips, of falling asleep in the back seat of the Granger family car, as the BBC’s velvet-voiced announcers murmured into her ears and her father spirited them through the black-and-gold night; when she woke up, Hermione-the-child had known, she’d be home.

Home.

Oddly comforted by the memory, she closed her eyes and let herself go under.

**

She Flooed into the Consortium common room on Monday morning to find Areli at the sunny little work table, poring over a stack of diagrammes and blueprints with a distinctly pinched look about her generous mouth. Hermione took in the pallor, the blue smudges under her mentor’s eyes, and frowned. “Hard night?”

“Migraine,” Areli said tersely, and closed her eyes for a moment. “Since yesterday. Can’t shake it.”

Hermione tutted sympathetically. “Do you get them a lot?”

Areli nodded.

“I have a potion that takes the edge off,” she said, “but it puts me to sleep - what’s more, I’m out of it, and my mediwizard is in the Caymans this week.” She attempted a wry smile that ended up reading as a grimace. “I almost stayed home today, but the artificial heart project has a trial run coming up in conjunction with Cairo Medical, and you know what a major coup that will be, if it’s successful. I can’t afford to take time off.”

She looked so physically miserable that Hermione winced in sympathy.

“Migraines run in my family,” she offered; “my mom gets them all the time.”

“Oh?”

“Well, I came up with a remedy of sorts,” Hermione said tentatively. “I’m no mediwitch, of course, but I talked Mum into trying it this summer and it seemed to work pretty well for her. I was just going to owl her some more; would you like to try it? It’s just upstairs.”

It was odd, she thought as she Flooed upstairs to her office, how some things were so different between wizards and Muggles, and other things so much alike … especially when it came to the field of medicine. Pain relief was one of these parallel universes; like the Muggles, magical medicine had topical remedies to numb and relieve superficial pain - lotions, rubs, that sort of thing. In a pinch, you could even use your wand to cast an anaesthetic spell on a particular ache or abrasion - but that was a clumsy, primitive method, for battleground surgery and emergency first-aid, and it had the unpleasant side effect of not only anesthesising the area in question, but temporarily paralysing it as well.

So - for heavy-duty pain relief, the magical community turned to potions. Hermione knew about that migraine remedy of Areli’s - effective, yes, but like its Muggle-medicine counterpart, it did tend to put you under for a while. For her part, Hermione had decided to approach the problem from a combination of magical and herbal standpoints, and had come up with a fragrant little concoction that Kate Granger swore by: peppermint oil and powdered feverfew, added to a base of undiluted Illuminata. She’d left her mom with several months’ supply at summer’s-end, but suspected that the soft-hearted Dr. Granger had taken to dispensing it to her colleagues at the office; dentists seemed to have more tension headaches, per capita, than the population at large.

All that drilling, probably.

She took a beakerful down to Areli, but didn’t hang around to get her boss’s reaction. Class started in twenty minutes, after all - she wanted a good seat.

Sighing, she pulled her black robes on over her head and started out into another one of Cairo’s bright-blue mornings - by noon, she’d wager, the temperature would be off the charts again.

And a Cooling Charm could only do so much.

**

The lecture ran long.

Hermione had long since discovered that the Egyptians’ concept of time was essentially fluid by Western standards, and had adjusted accordingly. Even so, she was yawning and headachy as she emerged from the dim lecture hall into the hammer-blow of Cairo’s midday sun.

Lunch first, she thought - something quick and cool, from one of the street vendors - then she’d beat it back to the Consortium. The thought of air-conditioning alone was enough to make her swoon; in the four hours she’d been there, the medical building had gone from warm-but-bearable, to brutally hot. She could think of nothing better than a tall lemonade and a handful of ice to the back of her neck - but then Itmana had her by the arm, was pulling her into a small cluster of female students.

“We’re going to the baths,” she explained. “After a morning like that, it’s the only thing to do. Will you come?”

Startled, Hermione glanced around at the expectant circle of faces - dark-eyed beauties all - girls she knew only by name: Neila, Samiya, Ivonne.

Wasn’t it just the other day that she’d been wishing for some friendly overture from them?

But it’s so hot …

“The baths?” she repeated politely. Itmana, clearly the chosen liaison, nodded.

“It’s a great Muslim tradition,” she said mischievously, tightening her grip on Hermione’s arm. “You mustn’t miss it.”

“Well …” Hermione wavered. “Are you sure it’s not an intrusion?”

All four girls shook their heads.

“We’re going to the hammam in my neighbourhood,” Samiya offered. “I would be honoured if you would be my guest.”

Well. In that case … Hermione, unable to resist that shy-but-heartfelt olive branch, shrugged and capitulated.

“All right,” she said, and linked her arm with Itmana’s. “Lead the way.”

**

“We didn’t think you’d last,” Neila confided haltingly as they crossed the Abdel Salam-Arif highway, narrowly avoiding a homicidal taxi and a couple of donkey carts, and turned northwest into the suburb of Giza. “The Westerners hardly ever do. Their Arabic isn’t good enough.”

“Yes, well …” Hermione, thinking guiltily of the Comprehension Charm, blushed. “I’m just studying, still. I’m not yet fluent.”

“But your accent is so good!” That was Ivonne, taller and paler than the others; Hermione already knew, from Itmana’s cafeteria gossip, that Ivonne’s mother was French.

“Well, it doesn’t matter - we should have invited you long before now,” Samiya said, and squeezed Hermione’s hand. “I can’t imagine being so far away from my family and friends; I’d die of loneliness.” She smiled. “We go to the hammam after nearly every lecture, the four of us. To relax.”

“And to bitch,” added Itmana slyly, sending the others into slightly horrified giggles. Clearly, Hermione thought, Itmana was the token liberal in this crowd; the other three seemed to be exactly as they presented themselves: nice Muslim girls, upwardly mobile virgins of respectable families, for whom inviting a fille anglaise to bathe with them was unspeakably exciting, and perhaps just a bit outré.

Still. After last night’s testosterone overload, pedicures with the girls was shaping up to be a nice contrast. “Is there a swimming pool there?” she asked - it really was unbearably hot; a swim would be just the thing - and was met with another round of muffled titters.

“You’ll see,” Ivonne said mysteriously, and brought them up short at a kiosk just outside an unassuming square building that proclaimed itself to be the Wadi el Maleka’at Hammam.

Wadi el Malaka’at - the Valley of the Queens.

Hmm.

“Five,” Ivonne said curtly to the kiosk’s owner, and handed over a few piasters in exchange for a handful of small paper packets, containing a fine yellowish-gold powder. Hermione leaned over to study them curiously.

“What are those?”

“Wait and see,” Neila said - and propelled her toward the door of the hammam.

They were in a cool, dim stone vestibule with a bubbling fountain in the centre, intricately laid mosaics in bright colours on the floor and walls, and a gracefully arched ceiling that Hermione would never have guessed existed, from the building’s plain exterior. A white-robed attendant rose, then sat down again when she saw who her customers were, and waved them through.

“Don’t we have to pay?” Hermione whispered to Itmana. Itmana shook her head.

“Samiya’s mother is half-owner,” Itmana whispered back. “Don’t worry about it.”

Down a short hallway they went, through a heavy wooden door painted bright kelly green, and into a warm, humid dressing room lined with low benches. Hermione, who didn’t have a bathing suit with her, hesitated; Ivonne - already shed of her bulky chador and stepping out of the dress underneath it - nudged her playfully.

“You aren’t shy, are you?” she teased, drawing giggles from the others. “It’s all right, ma petite - we won’t fall over blinded if you show off that pale skin of yours.”

Casually, she unhooked her brassiere - a surprisingly scant creation of peacock-blue lace - and kicked the matching panties languidly down her long slim legs. Gulping, Hermione looked around.

Yup, all the others were stripping down to the nuddy-pants, too.

When in Rome, Granger. Don’t be a hick.

Gamely, she began to remove her own clothes, fighting back a telltale blush and pretending not to notice the Egyptian girls’ delighted amusement at her expense. We’ll leave this bit out of the next letter home, shall we?

On the other hand, Harry and Ron might appreciate it. Especially if I managed to score pictures.

Striving for nonchalance, she tucked her clothes into the dark folds of her robe to form one neat parcel, as she’d seen the others do, and stood up.

“Okay. What now?”

**

As Samiya explained, there were five stages to the traditional hammam. By the time they finally reached the fifth - the period of relaxation - Hermione was too limp to hold on to her embarrassment, and feeling rather like a used bath towel: damp, shapeless, and wrung out.

Also deeply contented, however. And clean - deep, squeaky clean - all the way to her bones.

She supposed that it was a fair trade.

She had stretched her naked body on a heated marble slab that turned her bones to rubber. Lain complaisant while a ruthless team of attendants pummeled and kneaded and twisted her to pretzels in a frighteningly vigorous massage - at one point, she could have sworn that her toes touched the back of her neck. Wobbly and loose-jointed, she’d followed the others into the next room, hotter and steamier yet, and allowed them to spread a powdery golden paste over her legs and arms and … well, just about everywhere; if their hands strayed into rather intimate places in the process, their touch was too matter-of-fact to be taken personally.

The paste smelt of honey and spices, and dried in moments; as it pulled and tightened her skin to a vaguely pleasurable itch, Hermione recognised the scent as one and the same with the mysterious yellow powder from the kiosk outside. “What is this for, anyway?” she asked sleepily, just as Neila smoothed a strip of unbleached linen over her calf, patting it expertly down to adhere it to the tacky substance.

“Depilatory,” Neila said calmly. “Relax.”

And in the next breath, yanked.

“Ow!” Hermione exclaimed, and felt a jolt of real annoyance at the fresh tide of laughter. Itmana patted her soothingly on the shoulder.

“Local custom - Muslim girls have been doing this for centuries. Just lie back - Neila’s very good, very gentle.”

Gentle, Hermione thought mutinously, is obviously a relative term. Still, she submitted with as good a grace as possible to the depilation process - legs, arms, armpits, oh, ouch! - that is, until Neila gestured toward her honey-crusted pubic hair and snapped another strip of linen from the pile with an air of surgical determination.

Oh, but no. Uh-uh. Local custom only takes you so far, and then you have to put your unadventurous, sensibly shod British foot down and say, “Enough’s enough.”

“Baby,” Ivonne sniffed. Hermione set her jaw.

“I’m not,” she protested. “I just like it the way it is, that’s all.”

“It’s so you won’t smell down there, you know. Men don’t like that.”

“No one’s complained yet,” Hermione retorted, and immediately realised her mistake, just as four pairs of wide brown eyes swiveled toward her in a classic double take.

“You’ve had lovers?” breathed Samiya. Hermione bit her lip.

Oh, crap. Can I get thrown out of here for talking about sex?

“Um,” she said uncertainly, and jumped as Neila seized her arm.

“What is it like?” she asked in a whisper, and that broke the ice: Hermione found herself suddenly besieged with avid questions from all sides - Was it big? Does it hurt? Was he handsome? Did he touch you? Where? - as well as Did your father find out? Did he beat you? Is that why he sent you away?

“Promise you’ll tell us everything,” Itmana said, “and we’ll let you escape with that curly little bush intact. Otherwise -“

She brandished the strip of linen threateningly. Hermione surrendered, laughing.

“Okay, you win,” she said. “But should we be talking about this - here, out in public like this?”

“We’re not in public,” Neila said, “we’re at the hammam. There aren’t any men here; no one’s going to bother us. Besides -“ this a trifle wistfully - “you’re not Egyptian; you’re allowed.”

Put that way, Hermione thought, how could she refuse?

**

The tale of Granger’s Thousand and One Nights commenced during Stage Four, which was the steam bath itself; a hot spring, whether natural or man-made Hermione didn’t know, burbled up from the centre of the floor, mixing with the incense burners in the corners of the room to create hot, opaque clouds of steam so thick and fragrant that Hermione could practically have cut it into wedges and taken it home with her. They sank down on more heated marble ledges, donning abrasive loofah-like mitts made of camel’s hair, and began to scrub at each other’s skin; Hermione winced as Itmana scraped the mitt down her back from neck to hip, then winced again as she saw the long curls of dead gray skin that the camel’s hair had stripped away.

Wow. Talk about your exfoliation.

“So, tell us,” Samiya prompted, and Hermione began at the beginning, a peeled-pink Scheherezade taking the story all the way back to that first week in Rome, and spiraling it steadily out from that first encounter with Snape in San Pietro. It wasn’t easy to leave out all references to magic, to make Hogwarts over into just an ordinary boarding school, to somehow compensate for an inability to tell them about Sal, about Voldemort, about the Protection Potion and the Trapping Spell and the Jade Priestess… but her enthralled audience didn’t seem to mind; after all, they were after the story not for the plot, but for the romance.

“You say he was blond like that all over?”

“Your professor … Hermione, you’re terrible. And he wasn’t sacked? No one ever found out?”

“Oooh - daffodils; how romantic.”

“Which one are you going to marry?”

“Lucky girl, to have so many choices - to try out the merchandise ahead of time.” That was Itmana, as always more plainly spoken than the other three. Hermione frowned.

“So you don’t … date? Ever?”

Snorts of laughter.

“Date?” Ivonne, fully-scrubbed, leaned back to recline, Roman-style, on her marble ledge and began to leisurely soap down her breasts with a handful of fragrant soft-soap from a stone jar. “You don’t understand - we can’t even smile at a man, without it being taken as a gesture of intent! To look directly into a single man’s eyes from across a crowded room is to invite a marriage proposal.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “You’re joking.”

Neila shook her head. “Once you’re engaged to a man, you can go to the cinema with him, or to a restaurant. Chaperoned, of course.”

“What if you don’t like him?”

One by one, they gave her rueful little smiles and dropped their eyes. “Oh,” Hermione said, and felt suddenly cold despite the hot water Samiya was pouring over her head.

Into the sudden silence, Itmana spoke, and her voice, though a bare whisper, was threaded with bitterness.

“There’s a reason, you see,” she said, “why Islamic law makes it impossible for women to leave the country without the consent of their closest male relative.” Her eyes, through the steam, were hard and stony. “Given the choice, any girl with a brain in her head and money for a ticket would be on a plane. Tomorrow.”

Hermione, for once, had nothing to say to that.

**