Jewel Of The Nile

Chapter Twenty-Two

Okay, Sybil thought. Time to explore all the possible options.

Option One: Forget about Snape, and find Mikhail, banking on the probability that he’d want to fuck her at least once before he killed her … thus giving her the time and – hopefully – the opportunity to slip the mickey into his drink and pump him for information on All Things Malfoy.

It had distinct merit, that one.

Option Two: Forget about Mikhail, and fall in with Snape, who – come to think of it – was probably here following Malfoy’s trail, on Dumbledore’s orders … and who, depending on what and/or how much Dumbledore had told him, might possibly be looking for Mikhail as well.

Or, for that matter, for Sybil herself.

Nice poetic feel to that one as well. Of course, now that Mikhail’s loyalties had been called into question – granted, she was taking the old herbalist’s word for a lot here, but on the other hand, after nearly a decade in that stuffy tower room listening to late-homework excuses, Sybil figured she could tell the truth from a lie as well as the next clairvoyant – it was all too possible that Snape was presently as much Hunted as the Hunter. She’d caught a brief glimpse of Malfoy last spring, in between the Ministry’s verdict and his departure for Azkaban, and that had been One Seriously Troubled Aura; she wouldn’t put it past him at all to lump Snape into the contract with Hermione, along with Dumbledore, his trial jurors, and quite possibly even his own son.

But that begged the question – Mikhail’s services not being exactly cheap, after all – how was he bankrolling all this, with no wand, no access to his own money, and the Ministry (however halfheartedly) on his tail?

Things to ponder. Even so, if that was indeed the scenario, she should probably just grab Snape and hustle him out of town. Standing there in that black cloak, looking like an extra from a Dungeons and Dragons munch, he might as well have been wearing a "Curse Me" sign Spellotaped to his back.

Yes. And don’t you find that the least bit odd, Sybil?

There. Finally – there was her Seer-sense kicking in at last. Nice of you to show up, Sybil thought irritably. And what’s odd about it?

Watch him. He’s not quite right.

Not quite right, eh?

Sybil swung her gaze back to Snape – well, he was still Snape, all black poplin and pallor. Except –

Watch his eyes, the Seer whispered in her brain, and obediently Sybil traced his line of vision to the end of the square, where a troupe of cane dancers were leaping to the beat of the doumbek and the rhythmic chanting of the surrounding crowd.

Was he swaying slightly to the music?

Or was there a stone in his shoe?

He was swaying, Sybil decided after a moment of reflection. And it was most un-Snapely.

And then there was the way he was leaning against the corrugated aluminum wall of that kabob stall, the heel of one booted foot propped against the toe of the other. Almost indolent, that posture.

And when had she ever known Severus Snape to be casual?

Small things, niggling things. Heart in her mouth, Sybil watched a ragged little girl sidle up to him, palm extended; watched him dig in the pockets of his robe for a coin and smile at her as he dropped it into her hand. The smile made him look almost … well, charming.

Okay, that’s just plain out of character. And would Snape be carrying Muggle money?

Of course not, muttered the Seer in her ear. Took you long enough, but you’re catching on now. Whoever that is, it’s not Snape.

Well, Mikhail, then – who else could it be?

But then, how was he doing it? Polyjuice? Sybil watched the figure in black intently, the tip of her tongue clenched firmly between her teeth to distract her from her rising panic. I don’t dare do a Revelatory Spell, she thought; if it’s Polyjuice it won’t work anyway, and if it’s Transfiguration, he’ll know immediately that I’m on to him.

It was probably the latter anyway, she decided – Mikhail had always been good at Transfiguration and less so at Potions, which required time, patience, and any number of messy arcane ingredients, none of which were readily available to a wizard so much on the move as he. Far easier to carry a wand and be done with it … that much she knew from experience.

The next question, though, was this: if Mikhail was impersonating Snape, never mind how, then where was the real Snape? Safe at Hogwarts? Vacationing in Cornwall? Still wandering some other part of Marrakesh in search of Mikhail?

Or had Mikhail already found him?

Well, she’d cleared at least one thing up, Sybil thought, shuddering a little at the thought of that last possibility. She was pretty sure she’d figured out how – and on whom – she was going to use that handy little pinch of powder.

Patting her bag to make sure it was still there, she stood up – pasted on a brilliant smile – and headed, eyes open, into the riskiest con she’d attempted in nearly fifteen years, never mind ever.

Unsettling and dangerous as this was – mad, some might even say – it still beat teaching Divination.

There wasn’t even really a contest.

**

Gabrielle wasn’t stupid.

She knew a lost cause when she saw one … and it didn’t look like Draco Malfoy. Even if he was still in love with Hermione Granger, he’d still be salvageable … once he got over her.

And eventually he would, or her name wasn’t Gabrielle Evangeline Delacour.

Heh. That was a mouthful, wasn’t it?

Evangeline for her much-celebrated, much-fêted grandmère. And Gabrielle because that had been Maman’s name – Maman, who Gabrielle couldn’t remember at all; everything she knew about her mother had come first from Fleur.

Fleur. Gabrielle knew quite well that it was she who had talked Papa into letting her stay at Hogwarts – Fleur had been banking, no doubt, on the fact that her little sister was the sensible one, the practical cerebral hardheaded one, whose idea of an adventure was figuring Papa’s taxes for him or researching hot stock tips. If Fleur had thought for even one second that Gabrielle was more interested in Draco Malfoy than in her inherited seaside cottage and her holdings on the London Stock Exchange, she would have yanked Gabrielle back to Beauxbatons before the smoke from the Floo had cleared.

Well, that was adolescence for you, Gabrielle thought, if you believed what was written about it – first you discovered your hormones, then you became immediately moody, irritable and secretive.

Nice to know she was right on track, developmentally speaking – even if it didn’t feel quite right keeping secrets from Fleur, more maman to her than sister, Fleur who’d never resented, never complained, Fleur who’d never missed a birthday, a Christmas, a weekend home, up until the year she’d gone abroad.

Maybe she’d liked that year, secretly, Gabrielle thought now – maybe it had been nice to stay on campus for the weekend, to see Saturday morning Quidditch games and go out strolling on Sunday afternoon … to be free. Maybe that was why Fleur had been so frightened, so guilty almost, when she hadn’t made it all the way to the bottom of the lake on the second task.

Hm.

On the other hand, this was one thing that she wasn’t sure Fleur would understand.

Fleur, after all, was the very image of Grandmère Evangeline – and, Gabrielle had often thought, was like her in other ways as well … when it came to men, at least. Her conquests were so easy, so effortless, that one was much like another to her.

And why not, with a face like hers? Not a month out of Beauxbatons, she’d had her arms full of packages, on a shopping visit to Paris, and had accidentally bumped into a fashion photographer coming out of a tobacconist’s on the Rue des Italiennes. A week later, she’d had a spokesmodel’s contract with Guerlain Paris. Gabrielle had seen some of the photographs: Fleur in chiffon, Fleur in diamonds, Fleur rising from a moonlit pool clad in nothing but a sleek fall of wet pale hair and her luminous veela skin, her face turned demurely toward the camera over one flawless shoulder.

Travel. Money. Fame. And, of course, boyfriends – actors, directors, musicians, tycoons, one after another – though when asked about any of them, Fleur would only shrug.

"When they’re kissing your feet, they all look the same" – that was Grandmère’s motto, and now, it seemed to be Fleur’s as well. So how was Gabrielle supposed to find words to describe the connection she’d felt instantly with Draco Malfoy?

So tall, so pale, so sad – looking into those grey eyes for the first time had been like drowning in rainwater. And though her roommates at Beauxbatons – Bettina, Madeleine, Patrice – had been giggling for days over his fashionable clothes, his mystery-man good looks, his painstakingly accurate but oh-so-British-sounding French, what Gabrielle had felt that first night in the library hadn’t had anything to do with any of that.

He’s so sad. He’s so alone.

He needs me.

Irresistible, that. So much so, in fact, that she could wait for the rest of it – wait until they’d both grown up enough that six years’ difference wouldn’t be the eternity that it seemed now, but just a number.

And until he’d finished pining over Hermione.

Problem was, as long as Lucius Malfoy was on the loose, Hermione was never going to drop off the front page of Draco’s head, into the happy oblivion of "yesterday’s news". And while Gabrielle was prepared to be patient, she wasn’t a masochist, after all.

No, the sooner Malfoy was captured, the sooner things could get back to normal. Anyone’s guess how long that could take, of course – the Ministry, in Gabrielle’s opinion at least, wasn’t trying half as hard to find him as they might.

She could probably do better herself.

Well … actually, she probably could.

Gabrielle ran an idle forefinger over the folds of her Replicated Invisibility Cloak.

Think, Gabrielle, think – fire up that statistician’s brain of yours and put it to good use, for once. Where’s Malfoy more likely to hide from the Ministry?

He doesn’t seem the fugitive sort, really, does he?

Cower in a cave like Sirius Black?

Or live like an exiled king in his own – empty – house?

She looked around her room. Empty – her roommates were in the common room, playing chess. Just four beds, some scarred writing-desks … and a hearth, laid for fire but not yet kindled.

And on her night-table, a little lacquered box with the lid ajar. From where she sat, Gabrielle could just see the muted gleam of green.

She wasn’t supposed to have it, of course. Draco had given it to her, so she could visit him in Elysium … no one else knew.

Hah.

Her heart was beating fast, but her hands were steady. Gathering up a pinch of the green dust, she secured the top on the box and slid it gently beneath her pillow.

Invisibility Cloak? Check.

Sensible shoes? Check.

Sanity? Better wait a minute on that one.

She tossed the dust into the hearth and watched flames blossom from the ashes like some quick-growing plant.

Now or never.

"Malfoy Manor," she said clearly. And stepped into the fire.

**