Jewel Of The Nile

Chapter Fourteen

"Hermione, it’s not your fault," Harry said. "Stop saying that, or you’ll start to believe it yourself."

They – Harry, Ron, and Hermione – were sprawled side-by-side on the expand-o-chaise in Elysium, staring at the ceiling; they’d been there for an hour or more, ever since Hermione walked into the Gryffindor common room, accompanied by Professor McGonagall. Discussion of their current situation had been attempted, but had pretty much run down by now into self-recriminations and random bitching (mostly Hermione’s) and halfhearted reassurance (mostly Harry’s and Ron’s).

Hermione squeezed his hand affectionately. Trust these two, she thought, to take the most impossible of situations in stride.

The soothing, though, she couldn’t accept.

"Harry, it is my fault," she said. "Draco and I were the only ones who knew Malfoy was an Animagus, and Draco only knew because I told him; I saw him Transform myself, down by the lake. If I’d had the presence of mind to tell Dumbledore, instead of being all secretive about it because of Inlaqueo – stupid, stupid, stupid; he knew about that anyway, I should just have come clean – then they would have known all about it, and he wouldn’t have been able to pull a Sirius. He’d still be behind bars – or in a cage – instead of out roaming the countryside plotting God knows what. And I’d still be in Cairo."

She scowled. "This blows. And just when I was starting to make friends, too."

At this, Ron snorted. "Yeah, I’ll bet. I can just imagine how friendly my brother wants to get with you."

"For your information," Hermione said frostily, "I was referring to my girl friends. And how do you know what Bill wants or doesn’t want, anyway?"

"Oh, I have a pretty fair idea, I think," Ron muttered darkly, but was quelled into changing the subject by a warning look from Harry. "And speaking of Draco, where is he, anyway? Stands to reason that if they pull you back to Hogwarts, someone’s gone after him, too. Don’t you think?"

"Well, Beauxbatons is probably pretty safe," Harry said thoughtfully – "safer than Cairo, anyway. Maybe they’ll just let him stay where he is."

Hermione sniffed. "You really think so?"

"Don’t you?"

"From what I know about that place, and the woman who runs it," Hermione said acerbically, "the minute she finds out Lucius is on the loose, she’ll be packing his bags herself."

"Ah, now there’s the voice of sweet reason."

They looked up, startled, to see Draco materialising in the far corner, his pale face fixed and wooden. He looked about as happy as Hermione felt – which was to say, not very. "Unfortunately," he said, dropping his valise on the rug and beginning to unfasten his cloak, "you’re as drearily accurate as ever, my darling; Professor Snape arrived to collect me not half an hour ago. From the sound of things, I’m assuming we stay until he’s back behind bars." He jerked one shoulder in a parody of a shrug. "Or dead."

"But –" Hermione pulled herself off the chaise and stalked over to perch on the arm of the nearest chair. "That can’t be right; you must be mistaken. Professor McGonagall said that I could go back, as soon as they tighten up security in my building a bit."

She nodded to emphasize her point. "As soon as it’s safe."

Draco curled his lip.

"Safe," he said mockingly. "You think it’s safe anywhere but here, as long as he’s still breathing? Join us in the real world, why don’t you, sweetheart?"

Hermione opened her mouth, then shut it again. Behind her, Ron bristled; Harry laid a restraining hand on his arm. It’s an Ex Thing, his sideways glance said. Don’t interfere.

"I heard Snape speak to Madame Maxime," Draco said, "and he told her that neither one of us – not you, and not me – is leaving this castle, until Lucius Malfoy is popping up daisies." He looked maliciously pleased to be the bearer of bad news. "Guess you shouldn’t have booked that Nile cruise, after all, huh?"

Baffled and stung by his casual hostility, Hermione glared at him. "You needn’t be so flippant," she said hotly. "It’s well enough for you – you can just keep on with your studies here. But if I don’t go back to Cairo on Monday, I’ll miss my chemistry midterm. And I can’t pass the course without it; I’ll have to retake it in January. It’ll put me behind a whole semester!"

Draco rolled his eyes.

"Oh, boo-fucking-hoo," he said flatly. "So sorry the Forces of Evil aren’t taking your class schedule into advisement. At this rate, your next patent won’t be ready until past Christmas."

Hermione gasped in indignation. "Oh, I hardly think that’s fair –"

Draco ignored her. "You think I’m happy to be here?" He flung down his cloak, scowling. "That I wanted to leave Beauxbatons?"

"As I recall," Hermione said sharply, "I wrote to you and you never wrote me back. How should I know what’s going on with you – whether you’re happy or not?"

At this, he looked momentarily nonplussed. "Well, I am. And this is shitty timing for me, too; my Quidditch team has a match tomorrow. Which we would have won. Which I’m going to miss." His eyes narrowed spitefully. "And a date."

Hermione, at this point mindless of Ron’s presence on the chaise behind her, opened her mouth to say something she knew, even then, that she’d regret later. She was saved from Foot-In-Mouth Disease, however, from yet another voice from the shadows.

"Well, that, at least, you can keep."

**

Merlin’s gonads, Hermione thought in exasperation. What is this, anyway? Passions? Masterpiece Theatre? If this Disney-movie melodrama of an evening kept up, she was going to start expecting the furniture itself to burst into song and start a tap-dance.

The owner of the voice, however, was neither chair nor candlestick, but a small blonde girl with becomingly disheveled hair and a stubborn chin, who was even now emerging from the folds of what looked suspiciously like Draco’s Invisibility Cloak. She couldn’t have been a day over twelve; this was Draco’s victory-party date? Hermione thought, and couldn’t quite bite back a smirk.

As Rebound Dates went, she couldn’t help but think that she’d come out with the better end of the bargain.

Draco, for his part, was looking horrified and resigned in equal parts – and perhaps just a bit secretly pleased.

"Gabrielle," he said reprovingly, "what do you think you’re doing here?"

The blonde girl tossed her head and began to smooth down her blue silk robes. "Well, I was on my way to return your Cloak," she said, "when I saw your professeur come in … and I couldn’t help but overhear his conversation with Madame Maxime." She shrugged expressively, as if further explanation were superfluous; Draco sighed.

"So you followed us into the fireplace?"

"But of course." She lifted one pale eyebrow. "Why would I stay and rot in that boring old manor house, when I could see Hogwarts and help you solve la mystère, instead?"

Ron, who had been watching the proceedings broodingly from the chaise, now brightened, pointed at her, then slapped his forehead. "I know you," he said; "you’re Fleur’s little sister, aren’t you?"

"I am Gabrielle Delacour," the small girl corrected him firmly, with a flash of something that might have been annoyance in her wide blue eyes. Clearly, Hermione thought, Draco’s little stowaway wanted to be judged on her own merits, and not those of her beautiful older sister. "And I know the two of you, too. You –" she pointed at Ron – "you were under the lake with me. I remember. You look a bit like your older brother, the one with the ponytail and the earring. Fleur has a picture of him; he’s very flirty." She turned to Harry. "And you – you pulled me out of the lake. Merci."

Ignoring Hermione completely, she turned back to Draco. "Are the kitchens open?"

He looked helpless, but amused. "They never close."

"Magnifique." She lifted her chin. "Then I should eat; my father will be here soon to take me back to Beauxbatons, and it will take all my strength to convince him to let me stay."

This last was accompanied by a look so haughty and determined that she looked at least five years older. Yup, she’s quarter-veela, all right, Hermione thought, as Gabrielle took Draco’s proffered arm and swept off regally toward the kitchens – and found herself suddenly revisited by the list of reasons she hadn’t particularly cared for Fleur Delacour.

"Cute kid," she said dryly, and rolled her eyes when Harry and Ron only nodded blankly, their collective gaze still fixed on the exit. "Oh, come on – you two aren’t going to go all starry-eyed over that baby, are you?"

"Hm?" Ron frowned. "What did you say?"

Veela. The bane of my existence.

"Oh, never mind," Hermione said tightly, and grabbed her cloak. "You can stay here and howl at the moon all night if you like. I’m going out for a walk."

**

She wasn’t sure what had her more upset: Malfoy’s sudden interference in what had been shaping up to be a quite satisfactory life; her own failure to foresee the problem or stop it; the news that she might be stuck at Hogwarts for more than this grudgingly-agreed-to weekend visit; or the fact that Draco had transferred his solicitousness to la petite française, while seeming to possess only hostility and sarcasm for Hermione herself.

… hostility and sarcasm that she didn’t deserve, thank you very much.

Add in Harry’s and Ron’s customary thickheadedness – and over that bossy blonde infant, no less – and she was beginning to think the Fates were set against her.

Damn it, she didn’t want to be here! She had a Mystery Date scheduled for tomorrow night. A major test to study for. An invitation to the hammam for a post-midterm soak-and-scrub with her new friends.

She’d found out on Friday afternoon that the Consortium’s contact at Eli Lilly wanted to put her migraine remedy into blind test studies, pending a multimillion-dollar order.

Neila had promised to teach her to belly-dance.

And not six hours ago, she’d been naked in a tropical lagoon, floating closed-eyed in silken sun-dappled water, while a merman trailed his expert, eager mouth over her bare breasts – igniting a persistent throb of an itch that she had yet to satisfactorily scratch.

All of which coalesced, as she walked, into a red-eyed, fog-brained morass of sheer seething pent-up frustration … she was spoiling for a fight; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so purely, deeply angry. And she wasn’t in the mood to be selective about her sparring partner.

Just let that snotty French brat cross her path again, she thought furiously; she’d be sorry that she did. That went for Draco too – the ingrate, would it kill him to at least be polite?

And those two slavering Gryffindor idiots who called themselves her friends.

And Dumbledore, that irritating old meddler. Why was he still running her life, anyway? Hadn’t she handled Malfoy and his goons well enough, once before?

And why the hell was she letting him do it? Why was she even here? Why had she allowed McGonagall to push her into the Floostream this afternoon, for all the world like a Border collie with a wayward lamb?

Do the right thing, Hermione. Don’t argue, Hermione. Be a good girl, Hermione.

Well, fuck that.

Still fuming, she didn’t see the door until she’d nearly bumped into it. Hah – she’d made it all the way to the dungeons without even realising it.

And that plain walnut door with its subtly serpentine cornices – why, it belonged to …

Snape.

Perfect.

Not that he’d particularly done anything to provoke her – today, at least.

But on the other hand, she couldn’t think of a single person on the planet Earth that she’d rather fight with, just now.

Anticipation curled into her gut, a nest of thorns encircling the red bird of her rage. Throat half-blocked with anger – nipples diamond-hard, thighs swampy and slick with it – she lifted one taut, trembling hand, folded it into a fist.

And pounded.

**