Jewel Of The Nile

Chapter Thirteen

“What I want to know,” Hermione said dreamily, “is this: where is everybody else?”

“Hm?” Bill blinked at her. “Say that again?”

“You heard me,” she said. “Why are we the only ones here?”

He cocked one eyebrow. “You want company?”

“Well, no. But you have to admit it’s a bit odd. A paradise like this? On a day like today?” Hermione scanned the placid surface of the lagoon. “I should have thought they’d be lining up to get in.”

They were sunning themselves on the pleasantly airy deck of the Spanish galleon. Hermione had thought it’d be underwater, but it was still merrily afloat; closer inspection proved it to be equipped with canvas deck chairs shaded by brightly striped beach umbrellas, a self-stocking minibar, and a shuffleboard game.

Not as romantic as a shipwreck, perhaps. But undeniably convenient nonetheless.

Hermione looked out at the Cairene sunset, sipped her mai tai, and sighed happily. If there was anything in the world more perfect than this, she sure couldn’t think of it.

Which begged the question: where was the rest of the building?

“Well,” Bill said slowly, “if you compare it to the other pool, it is a bit dull.”

Hermione gave him a sharp look. “The other pool?”

“Well, what kind of luxury apartments would these be if they only had one?”

His tone was deliberately disingenuous; Hermione felt her Bullshit Radar flare into Instant Overdrive. “Tell me about the other pool,” she requested sweetly. Bill shrugged.

“Take the other staircase,” he said, “on the opposite side of the building, and you end up in the other pool. You still get the merman action” - here, he indicated his own lazily twitching tail - “but it’s designed to be family-friendly, more so than this one - water slides, one of those roller-coaster things … a log ride, is it? … paddleboats, water pinball - that sort of thing. Very appealing to the kiddies - you must have noticed by now how many primary-school-age kids live in this building - and there’s a little cabana over there, poolside, where all the mums hang out and drink daiquiris.”

He flipped his tail nonchalantly. “And, of course, no sharks.”

**

At that, Hermione nearly spilled her drink.

“Sharks?” she demanded. “There are sharks in this pool?”

Bill gave her an uneasy sidelong look. “Well, there’s one.”

Nervously, Hermione scanned the horizon for the telltale shadow of a sinister triangular fin. Nothing; just cool blue ripples and the warm pinky-red pool of dying sunshine, melting down onto the water like an abandoned grapefruit sorbet.

“Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

Hermione sighed gustily. “The shark, you nimrod.”

“Fidel? Oh, he’s around.”

“Fidel?”

At her suspicious look, Bill shrugged again, a trifle sheepishly this time.

“Well, I didn’t go to all the trouble of conjuring him up, just so he’d hang around and harass me all day,” he said. “What good would that do me?”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open.

“Bill Weasley,” she said, “do you mean to tell me that you stocked this lagoon with a shark?”

“Erm, well, actually …”

“Just so you’d have the place to yourself, I suppose,” she interrupted.

He gulped. “Well, you see, the thing was …”

She tried to look disapproving, but was undercut by his look of guilty self-satisfaction. Frightening, Hermione thought, how that expression gave him such a resemblance to Ron. And funny, too, that she’d never seen it quite that strongly before.

“You did, you wretch,” she said severely, and he had the grace to flush.

“Well, he won’t actually bite anyone,” he said, seemingly in his own defense. “Truth be told, I patterned him a bit after a magical guard dog - they have spells to conjure those up custom-made, you know; I’m sure you’ve seen them around. He’ll only attack someone in whom he perceives a threat to the safety of the building or its occupants. The rest is just for show - he’ll circle around, snarl and lunge a bit maybe, but there’s no actual danger.” He slanted her a mischievous look. “Can I help it that no one ever sticks around long enough to figure that out?”

Under that naughty bad-boy regard, she was softening like ice-cream in August; it took real resolve to keep up her censorious tone. “And building security? Surely someone’s spoken to Mickey about it - you’ve probably caused him hours of trouble, poor man.”

Mickey was the building super, an American expatriate with the physique of a defense lineman, an advanced degree from Columbia in primitive sub-Saharan cultures, and a spectacular lack of ambition or desire to do anything useful with either. He had come adventuring in Africa after one too many Paul Theroux novels on one too many beers - or so he’d told Hermione, in the longest conversation she’d had with him to date - and had run out of either money or energy (or, as the evidence would suggest, both), in Tangier.

How he’d subsequently ended up in Cairo was, as yet, an unsolved mystery. He was an indifferent caretaker but almost universally beloved throughout the building nonetheless; Hermione had thought more than once that he would have done very well as a kindergarten teacher, as he was trailed adoringly by the small children of the apartment complex wherever he went. At the mention of his name, Bill laughed.

“Mickey? Two things,” he said. “First off, you don’t break into tombs as often as I have, for as long as I have, without coming up with some pretty spectacular wards of your own. Fidel -“ and here he slapped the water affectionately with the flat side of his fin - “is harder to find than an invisible Snitch, if you actually come looking for him. And wands don’t work very well underwater, anyway.”

Hermione raised one eyebrow. “And the second thing?”

“Well.” Bill crunched some ice. “This is the thing - Mickey and I have a deal.”

“A deal, huh?” Hermione found her gaze wandering to that sleek bare expanse of chest and gave herself a mental head-slap.

How were you supposed to stay annoyed with Sex On Fins?

“What kind of deal?” she asked warily. He looked amused.

“American wizards have simple tastes by their own standards,” he said, “but it’s pretty damn expensive to indulge them overseas. I keep Mickey in Marlboros and Michelob, and in return he doesn’t look too hard for Fidel, whenever he gets a complaint.”

“Which is how often, exactly?”

He folded his arms behind his head and smirked. “Not since I figured out how to get the bumper cars to work underwater, over on the other side.”

“Bribery,” Hermione sniffed - darkly, but not without a certain amount of grudging admiration. Ron, it seemed, had come by his scheming honestly. “That’s positively … Slytherin of you.”

Bill, if possible, looked even more pleased with himself. “Yes - it is, rather, isn’t it?”

**

He was, Hermione decided, a most exasperating man.

He walked her down the stairs - took her all the way to her door - kissed her goodnight, even … but would he tell her where they were going tomorrow?

Not a chance.

And damn it, it wasn’t exactly as if she needed another mystery to solve.

Still, it was a nice mystery. For a change. And that reminded her: for the last two hours that she’d just spent playing Go Fish, she hadn’t thought about the Sekhmet amulet, or the Jade Priestess, even once.

She had an escape. A retreat.

Retreat.

What a lovely, lovely word.

Humming, she kicked off her shoes, snatched up a sleepy, half-heartedly protesting Cleo for a quick cuddle, and was about to waltz off to the bathroom for a long, hot soak, when out of the darkness came -

“Hermione.”

Startled, she yelped and swung round, digging in her skirt pocket for her wand with her free hand, even as she realised it was still in her robes, and that she’d draped them over the back of the sofa, half the room’s length away.

“Who is it?” she said sharply, then sighed in audible relief as Minerva McGonagall stood up from the shadows of the corner armchair and glided regally forward into the light of the lamps.

Phew, was her first thought. And then, catching sight of the look on McGonagall’s face, relief gave way to the sudden cold grip of fear.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

“Hermione,” Professor McGonagall said again. “I’m sorry to burst in on you like this, but I’m afraid it’s unavoidable.” She hesitated. “There’s - news.”

“What is it? What’s happened?”

McGonagall gestured helplessly to the closest chair. “Sit down first.”

“No.” Hermione, clutching Cleo more closely, shook her head. “No, just tell me. Please.”

“Ah. Well, then.” McGonagall rubbed one hand wearily over her forehead. “How to say it,” she mused, only half-aloud, then drew herself up to her full height, clasped her hands behind her, and faced Hermione full-on.

“There’s no easy way to tell you,” she said, “so I’ll just come out and say that we’ve had news from Azkaban.”

Hermione felt the cold hand in her guts clench a little tighter. “And?”

“Well. Rita Skeeter is …” Professor McGonagall hesitated. “Well, she’s dead, Hermione.”

Fear immediately gave way to guilt. Hermione swayed on her feet.

Dead.

I sent her there. Dead because of me.

“Oh, God,” she said, and sat down hard on the nearest dining-room chair, letting Cleo slip through her loosened arms like a small brown river overflowing its banks. “How - how did it … how did she die? Was it the dementors?”

McGonagall shook her head.

“Stabbed,” she said. “She was found this morning, on the floor of her cell, with a knife in her heart.”

Hermione bit her lip hard.

“But - but then - but how -“

“That’s not all.”

“Not all?”

“Not even half.” McGonagall reached over and covered Hermione’s cold hand with one of her own. “The rest of it’s this: it was Lucius Malfoy’s knife, down to the moonstone in the handle and the initials on the blade. And when they checked Malfoy’s cell, he wasn’t there.”

“Not there?” Hermione half-sprang up from her chair, then slumped back into it with a premonition of dread so strong that it felt like a shudder. “But - but that’s not possible. Fudge said four years - he can’t be -“

“Hermione.”

“Tell me it’s not true,” Hermione said faintly, and closed her eyes as her former Head of House pulled her into a surprisingly firm embrace.

“I wish I could. I’m sorry.”

No bad dream this time, Hermione thought bitterly, and for the first time wished for the sweaty awakening, the nightmare tremors, that would return her to a happier reality.

No such luck. She was still in her dining room, shaking in McGonagall’s motherly arms, with still-damp hair and the remnants of her happy, carefree afternoon withering on the doorstep.

And somewhere, Lucius Malfoy was walking free.

This changed everything.

**