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Jewel Of The Nile Chapter Twenty-Three She was dreaming. And it was a nice dream for once - sunlight and flowers, hand at her neck where the Lady lay, smooth warm solid in the enclosure of her fist. The smell of crushed grass, sweet and green, and of honeysuckle. The insides of her eyes were black and orange, like monarch butterflies, and when she opened them lazily, free hand shielding against the sun, there really was a butterfly there, big and bright and seemingly fearless, sitting right on her nose just like in Bambi and dipping those brilliant shimmering wings to brush her cheeks. Tickles. But don't brush it away - don't crush it, oh, don't. Tickles. She tossed her head, trying to dislodge her pretty visitor, but it clung on persistently, its glittering black insect-eyes taking on a glint of what looked distinctly like annoyance. Nor did it stop its fluttering … if anything, the gentle wing-caresses were becoming increasingly violent, as if she'd offended the butterfly into retaliatory pugilism. Whap. Whap. Whap. OK, that does it, Hermione thought, and raised her hand to brush irritably at her face. A moment later, she yelped as her fingers unexpectedly met fur … startling herself into full wakefulness. "Cleo?" The caracal miaowed and patted her cheek again with a not-quite-gentle paw. About time you're up, said her faintly-reproachful blue-grey gaze. Don't you know that I'm bored? Hermione groped for the alarm clock and groaned as the red LCD numbers swam into focus. "Two a.m., Cleo?" She yawned. "Some of us have to work tomorrow, you know." But Cleo only butted insistently against Hermione's hand, making her lean dun-coloured body - sleeker and longer every day, it seemed - flow neatly beneath Hermione's palm in a practiced do-it-yourself caress. A moment later, she was off the bed and scratching at the closed door to the hallway … and it wasn't ladylike tapping, either, or even Crookshanks' irritable head-butt, but full-out, claws-bared tunneling. Out. I want out. Okay, fine, Hermione thought, and swung her feet out of bed. Sleepily groping for her dressing gown, she stumbled unsteadily to the door and scooped up the armful of squirming teenage-cat with a philosophical sigh. It was no use letting her out into the apartment - no, when Cleo got like this it was a good and proper romp she wanted, and there was nothing for it but to turn her loose in the hallway and let her run until she dropped. She slipped past the sleeping Sal in the armchair - what an old fraud; he'd complain to anyone who would listen that his mysterious-and-untimely-demise (still unexplained, by the by, despite frequent prompting and full access to her CD cabinets) had robbed him of the ability to sleep through the night, but Hermione knew for a fact that his sheep went largely unaccounted for - and slid out the door, setting the exultant, impatient Cleo down on the hallway carpet and easing the door closed behind her with a wince. Maxie was right. It did squeak. Speaking of Maxie, she could hear music drifting over from Bill's corridor. Well, that was fortuitous - she'd just go and have a chat with the combo while Cleo shook her sillies out. Hermione padded in the direction of the music - bluesy, sobbing piano and a melancholy melody that seemed to spin itself out of the very air. The words were pure blues, too: Love, look away - love, look away from me, Maxie was sitting on the piano bench next to Dave, leaning back, eyes closed, throat pulsing a throb of vibrato that caught at Hermione's very soul. Hermione felt her lower lip quiver. Wanting you so, I try too much. Oh, sad - sadsadsad - and true, so true, the way it poured out of Maxie's solid-gold throat, half-howl-half-croon, loneliness distilled. Dismal, to go back to a cold bed alone. Tragic, not to be wrapped up safe, not to be loved. Love, look away! lonely though I may be, Severus, Hermione thought, and for one wild moment was tempted to Apparate then and there - oh, to run through the night, past the gates, up the hill, down the stairs … … ohhh … Sniffling, she clapped. And was rewarded with a rich deep laugh from Maxie, as out of place with the sweet old song as Charles Bukowski at a fancy-dress party. "Sentimental, sugar?" Hermione shrugged, wiping at an errant tear, and shot Maxie a self-deprecating smile. "Just a little lonely tonight, I think." "Small wonder," Maxie said, and laughed again. Hermione frowned. "What do you mean?" "Honey, your houseguests stay put after dark about as well as a puppy on the papers," Maxie said. "I haven't seen the blonde since she came back in the other night. And who's the sister in the happening silver earrings?" "Huh?" Maxie looked amused. "The black girl," she translated. "Tall, skinny, little tits, short hair?" At Hermione's blank look, she shrugged. "You ought to know, sugar - she came out of your apartment not two hours ago." She cocked one eyebrow. "And this time, I checked my story with Diane. You've met Chuck and Diane, right?" Chuck and Diane were the waltzing couple who lived in the portrait directly across the hall from Hermione. Hermione didn't know them particularly well, apart from the occasional hello, but the wall-community in this building was intensely social - perhaps more so than its three-dimensional counterpart - and she'd long since figured out that Diane was a bit of a gossip. "Diane said she came from my apartment?" she repeated slowly. Maxie nodded. "She left around twelve-fifteen. Don't think she stole anything - you couldn't get a paper clip and a spare set of earrings into that little bag she was carrying." Her eyes narrowed. "Honey, what's the matter?" Hermione had stopped stock-still and was staring into space, tongue thoughtfully circling her teeth. "Wait a minute," she said, her fists balling at her sides. "Wait just one minute." "Baby, I've got all the time in the world," Maxie said. "I'm not going anywhere." But Hermione was already dashing back down the hall in the direction from which she'd come. If Sybil Trelawney wasn't in her bed, there was going to be Hell To Pay. ** To con the best, you had to be better. Sybil figured she had about a fifty-fifty shot. This was the thing - to get Mikhail to sleep with her while he was in Snape's body, she was going to have to convince him that he'd done it before. She knew Mikhail, and he was a Method Actor with a single objective; unflappable, unswayable. He might enjoy the fuck, but he lived for the kill … and therein lay her problem, her Unknown: how much had Malfoy told him? For that matter, how much did Malfoy know? Well, Snape didn't get out much - that was in her favour, as was this: as far as she knew, he wasn't screwing anyone else at the moment. Publicly, at least. After all, who would want him? You used to, Sybil. Don't you remember? Don't remind me. If I'd had any sense I would have Obliviated myself and him too, after that night. You don't fool me, missy. If he showed up at your door in the middle of the night, you'd still take him in. Well - hello? Haven't been laid in almost ten years? Where's the jury that'd convict me for that? I'm just saying. Well, shut up - I've got to concentrate. And there you had it - the probability, the believability … after all, they were the only two professors at the school under the age of forty-five. Perfectly understandable, if they were carrying on a discreet affair. And if they were … and if Snape, the real Snape, was indeed in Marrakesh - then, wouldn't she know about it already? Sounds like a premise to me. Let's roll. You know, of course, that if you say one thing wrong, you're dead where you stand. Of course. She brightened her smile and stalked purposefully toward him. ** "Darling," she said, and his eyes widened marginally. Apart from that, he didn't look surprised in the slightest. "Yes?" He didn't know her - she could tell that much, and that was a super-value-sized boost to her long-submerged ego; as good as his Transfiguration was, hers had always been better. It was a point of pride with her, and - possibly - also the reason Minerva disliked her so; after all, Sybil had skated through her class with low-to-average marks, and even then McGonagall had known her to be capable of better. Lazy, that set jaw had proclaimed every time she set eyes on Sybil in class - being in the Slytherin camp hadn't helped matters much, either - and then, when Sybil had returned to join the faculty, the older woman's silent verdict had been even more damning: Coward. You ran and hid while the rest of us risked our lives to fight. True enough - Sybil couldn't argue with her there. Her only defense - I'd already lived through one war; what did I want with another? - wouldn't alter Minerva's opinion of her … nor did it change this squirm-worthy fact: she'd been at the high-stakes tables in a private casino in Vegas, wearing Bob Mackie and winning at blackjack, the night Lord Voldemort had broken down James and Lily Potter's front door. Severus, I feel your pain - sins of omission don't wash off so easily, either. We're both stained, you and I. But enough. She had a job to do. She lowered her eyelashes in a slow, sultry salute, let one corner of her mouth curl into a lazy arabesque. "Hello there, stranger. Long time no see," she purred … and leaned in to plant a familiar smooch square on his lips. His hands came up automatically to her shoulders, and she felt them tighten - he was going for a reading. Happy thoughts, Sybbie, she reminded herself, and deepened the kiss a fraction for inspiration. God, I've missed you. Let's forget business for a couple of hours and find a room. His reaction: an indrawn breath, a calculated caress down her upper arms. Had he bought it? Well, if he hadn't, she'd be dead in thirty seconds. And while he'd been trying to brain-suck her, she'd been doing some elementary research of her own, with the following conclusion drawn: whoever this was, it was definitely NOT Severus Snape. The smell was all wrong. Snape would have smelled of herbs and that industrial-power soap he tortured his hands with … this man smelled of nothing at all, an anonymity far too complete to be unstudied. Either Mikhail hadn't been playing with pros for awhile, or he was in a hurry on this job and not taking time to bother with the details. The devil's in the details. How many times had she heard her mother say that, growing up? "Sev, I've missed you," she murmured, and shifted her mouth so it was directly over his left ear - Mikhail had, she recalled, uncommonly sensitive ears. "But we're going to get burned at the stake if we keep kissing in public. Let's get a drink; I'll treat. Albus has me on an expense account." He hesitated; Sybil could see his internal monologue whirring - would the real Severus Snape go along with this, or not? Decidedly not, my darling. But aren't we both glad that we're not him? "And the Russian?" Always the egotist, Mikhail - you've missed me, haven't you? Sybil kept her voice light. "He can come, too. But he has to buy his own drinks." At that, he laughed uneasily. "And afterwards?" She gave his earlobe a meaningful nip. "Well, if he wants to, he can watch. Come on." Blood astir with cautious relief, she took him by the arm and pulled him off toward the nearest café. Give her twenty minutes and one scotch, and he'd be hers for the taking … assuming, of course, that nothing went wrong. Hermione Granger, whatever you do … stay the hell asleep, will you? ** |