Jewel Of The Nile

Chapter Twenty-Four

Gabrielle never knew how close she'd come to dying.

It wasn't uncommon for magical households to guard their fireplaces against intrusion with the use of passwords. Some of the more well-to-do families even employed hearth-guardians: goblins, hinkypunks, occasionally one of the smaller varieties of troll. Lucius Malfoy, however, had more reason to be wary of uninvited visitors than most of his contemporaries, and his security system reflected his paranoia.

He had a dragon.

It was a Chinese Fireball - bred in captivity, purchased on the black market, and smuggled into the country under cover of darkness by way of sixteen handsomely-bribed professional handlers and seven gallons of Dreamless-Sleep Potion. Lucius kept it in a small, magically-enclosed paddock and had it fed on mutton and purified, vitamin-enriched water - enough to keep it healthy, not quite enough to sate it. A simple Diversion Spell sent all unauthorized visitors to the Manor spinning off the main Floo network and into the cul-de-sac his security advisor had constructed, at the end of which lurked the Fireball; whether fatalities had resulted, he wasn't quite sure.

Then again, Lucius had figured that that wasn't his problem.

This, then, would have been Gabrielle's fate - if it had not been for the advanced replication charm Hermione and Draco had discovered last year during the course of their research.

"Here," Draco had said just the other night, and handed Gabrielle what was, essentially speaking, the exact same Invisibility Cloak that he himself owned. Not only was the object itself identical, but its magical properties had remained intact throughout the Replication process - and so had the Malfoy family crest, a tiny dot the size of a pinhead which had been stamped into the weave of the original Cloak by the house-elf responsible for the Malfoys' laundry.

Every piece of clothing in the Malfoy household - from dress robes to Y-fronts - carried this same magical mark. And so it was under the auspices of this textile-password that Gabrielle sailed, blissfully unaware of her close call, into the Manor's grand foyer, and emerged from the green flare of the Floo with only slightly-smoke-reddened eyes to show for her perilous journey.

Nice house, she thought, largely unimpressed - after all, she'd grown up with enough money herself that the ostentatious display of other people's failed to move her. Far more pressing a thought was this: if I was a fugitive in this house, where would I be hiding?

There was certainly no shortage of possibilities. Gabrielle glanced around the big gilt-and-mirrors receiving room and took stock of her options.

Behind her, the fireplace.

In front of her, a grand staircase of MGM proportions, leading straight up to the landing, then branching off into two sinuous limbs - left or right, take your pick - which fed into the second-floor gallery and its gargoyle-encrusted rococo balconies.

To the left and the right, high arched doorways. Craning her neck, Gabrielle could see the glint of mullioned windows through one; that must be the front entrance. Which meant that she'd probably find the house's ‘guts' in the other direction: the kitchen, the laundry, the house-elves' quarters.

Something to avoid, that. House-elves might sound like Mickey Mouse and look like a cross between a goblin and a Cabbage Patch Kid, but they noticed things that human beings didn't - possibly could even see through enchantments like the Cloak; Gabrielle wasn't sure - and were fiercely territorial. She would sooner not get into a pissing contest with them, that was for damn sure.

And then, there was this: no matter where Malfoy chose to hide, no matter how many servants he had to bring him food and water, he had to sleep and he had to defecate … that meant bed, and it meant bath, and both of those items would most likely be found on the second floor.

Easy enough.

Taking a deep breath, Gabrielle gathered the folds of the Cloak more closely around herself, and began to climb.

**

Trelawney's bed was empty.

What's more, it was still made.

She hadn't gone to sleep at all, the duplicitous bitch. Hermione, too outraged to think rationally - there are no shoes in her closet! No clothes in her bureau! - backed silently out of the guest bedroom and shut the door behind her with a muted-but-decisive click. Outside the apartment, the worried Cleo scratched at the door for readmittance; Sal's rice-paper snores rose from the corner recliner, punctuated by the occasional soft snuffle.

In the very act of opening the door, Hermione froze.

Sal.

She'd lay every Knut in her bank account that he was up to his eyeballs in this.

Damn Slytherins. Stalking over to the corner, ignoring Cleo's ecstatic winding round her feet, she leaned over the recliner until the tip of her nose almost bisected his, planted one hand purposefully on either arm of the chair … and cleared her throat, as loudly as she could.

He didn't even have the decency to flinch - just opened one eye and gazed at her blearily.

"Is it morning yet?"

"Salazar Slytherin," Hermione hissed through gritted teeth, "I don't know what you're playing at, but you'd better come clean … right - this - instant."

He opened the other eye. "I'm sure I don't know what you -"

"Trelawney isn't in her bed," Hermione interrupted grimly, and watched Sal's eyes dart immediately to the clock on the opposite wall.

What was that in his eyes? It wasn't worry, was it?

Nah. Couldn't be.

"Oh … well, um." He hoisted himself up to a full sitting position. "Always one for a midnight stroll, our Sybil. Probably right out on the steps, getting some air …"

"Really," Hermione said, her voice heavy with irony. "So if I did a Location Spell right now -" here, she fumbled in her dressing-gown pocket for her wand and held it up in triumph, like a torch - "that's what it would tell me?" She wagged the wand at him. "That she's out on the front steps, lighting up a cigarette?"

Sal didn't answer her for a moment - his eyes were on the clock again. It was nearly two-forty-five now, a fact which seemed to trouble him.

"Sal," Hermione prompted, and reluctantly he turned to face her.

"No," he said heavily. "No, of course not."

Hah. I knew it.

"Well, where is she, then? Did she go back to Hogwarts?"

He looked disgusted with himself. "She's in Marrakesh."

"Marrakesh? Morocco?" Hermione frowned. "What's she doing there?"

Sal pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and ghostly forefinger and sighed heavily. Finally - apparently realizing she wasn't to be put off - he shrugged in acquiescence. "She's on a mission," he said resignedly, and grimaced. "Trying to find someone."

Hermione sank onto the sofa and leaned forward, curious. "Who?"

"A Ukrainian serial killer named Mikhail," Sal said, his tone neutral. "She's planning to hire him to take out a contract on Malfoy."

Hermione laughed. "A serial killer? That's ridiculous." She shook her head wonderingly. "Trelawney couldn't find tea in a bag. What would possess her to try to do something like that?"

Sal's eyebrows shot up.

"You know her so well, do you?" he inquired. "Tell me, then - how old would you say Sybil is?"

Hermione shrugged. "Forty-five?" she ventured. "Fifty?"

"Thirty-three," Sal corrected her, and only smiled when she gaped at him in disbelief. "Come on, Hermione," he said gently. "Do you honestly think Albus Dumbledore would hire a professor who was truly a fool?"

Hermione shook her head again, unconvinced. "But Dumbledore said …" she protested. "He told Harry she'd only made two correct predictions, her whole time at Hogwarts!"

Sal laughed.

"Albus Dumbledore is the most devious soul to come out of Gryffindor house in six centuries," he said, his reedy spirit's-voice backlit with what could only be admiration. "He's a credit to his house. And he's not above spreading misinformation when it suits him - even if it's to the gifted, miraculous Mr. Potter."

Hermione digested this in silence.

"So," she said finally. "Trelawney's really a Seer, then?"

"And a genius at Transfiguration," Sal said firmly. "And a self-made multimillionaire." He glanced yet again at the clock. "And … an hour late and counting. I confess that I'm becoming a bit concerned."

"Oh?"

"Call it a gut feeling." Sal pushed himself to his feet and began to float in small circles in the centre of the living room. "What she was going to do tonight should only have taken a quarter of an hour, once she found him - she told me to expect her back around one-thirty."

Hermione swallowed hard. "What do you think happened?"

"It's possible that the Location Spell failed her," Sal said thoughtfully. "That she was unable to locate him. But if that were the case, I imagine she'd have returned already." He sucked his teeth moodily. "It's far more likely, given the circumstances and the individual involved, that she has found him … and that she's run into complications. There's a certain element of delicate negotiation to this deal that involves subterfuge on her part, and this man's a Seer as well. If he suspects, even for a moment, that she's not being completely honest with him …" He trailed off darkly.

Hermione felt suddenly cold. "He'll kill her? He'd do that?"

Silence.

"Well -" She pushed herself off the sofa, began to pace. "What are we going to do?"

Sal gave her a narrow glance. "We do nothing," he said flatly. "Sybil's a professional; she's been using her Sight this way for years, and she knows what she's getting into. You're the commodity she's protecting - her risk means nothing, if you go running into the middle of it and put yourself deliberately in danger."

"But …"

"No." He shook his head. "Go back to bed, Hermione. This battle's not yours to fight."

Hermione stared at him, disbelieving. "You expect me to accept that? I'm not a schoolgirl anymore, Sal - I'm a full-grown witch." She fingered her wand again. "How am I supposed to trundle off to my room and dream about sugarplums, when I know that someone else is out there in danger because of me?"

"It's the best thing to do, under the circumstances."

"It's stupid." Hermione pushed Cleo off her lap, stalked over to stand nose-to-nose with him. "And I can't believe you think me capable of it."

She glared at him. "I may not like Sybil Trelawney, Sal, but I'm not just going to go back to sleep and hope she sorts the mess out herself by breakfast. I just can't. Not now that I know."

"What are you going to do?" he asked, his voice edgier than she'd ever heard it before. "Apparate to Marrakesh? Charge into the room, wand blazing? Give him a crack not only at her, but at you?"

"It's better than doing nothing," Hermione said defiantly, and raised her wand. "Are you with me, Sal? Or not?"

A moment of tense silence, broken only by the sound of Cleo's purring. Sal, looking half-worried, half-angry, opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again and only nodded.

"Gryffindors," he muttered under his breath. "Let's hope we all live to regret this."

"Just let me get my shoes on," Hermione said, "and I'll be ready."

Danger Granger was back in the saddle.

**