Jewel Of The Nile

Chapter Twenty-Five

Hermione had barely closed her bedroom door behind her, however, when Sal came barreling determinedly through it, a scowl on his usually-good-natured face. Caught in the decidedly ungraceful act of putting a shoe on one foot while standing precariously on the other, she hopped over to the nearest chair, steadied herself on it with her free hand, and glared at him.

"I know you're physically incapable of knocking," she snapped glacially. "But could you at least announce yourself?"

Sal waved away her rebuke, as if it were a fly too distant to bother swatting, and glided over to perch on top of her dressing table.

"I've changed my mind," he said. "I don't think we should go. And I'm sticking to that."

"Oh?" Hermione navigated the other shoe onto her remaining foot and planted her hands on her hips. "If you've a better idea, I'd be delighted to hear it."

Sal shrugged. "We've got options," he said mildly. "You just aren't willing to listen to what they are."

"I don't see any I like, that's why."

"You don't like being told what to do," he corrected. "That's why. And before we go swanning off to Marrakesh, we need to make damn sure that it's the best thing to do, under the circumstances." He stared at her pointedly until she dropped her eyes. "Now," he said. "It's a matter of balance, that's all - we want the most practical solution, and the least unpalatable one. Agreed?"

Hermione nodded sulkily. "I'm listening," she said, her tone grudging. Sal snorted.

"And so graciously, too." He cleared his throat. "All right, then. Option One: we sit and wait."

"No."

"Definitely the most practical," he pointed out. She grimaced.

"But completely unpalatable. Next?"

Sal explored the inside of one cheek with his tongue. "Polar opposite, then," he said. "We perform a Location Charm, which will drop us within a city block or two of where she actually is. We Apparate - blindly, more or less - bully, bribe or cajole our way into more specific information, possibly raising interest among the general populace that we don't necessarily want or need, and burst in on Sybil unannounced. In the meantime, we almost certainly queer any deal she's managed to work with Mikhail, and simultaneously run the risk of getting you hurt, killed, or investigated by the Ministry of Magic."

He paused. "I have to say it - this one may be more poetic, granted. But it's scoring negative points in the Practicality column."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Sal, you've missed your calling," she said. "If you hadn't been underground during the Sixties, you could have been one hell of a propagandist."

Still - when he put it that way - she had to admit it; he had a point.

Well, fine.

"Okay," she said, dropping reluctantly into the chair. "So maybe that one won't work, either. I assume you've got an alternative plan of action?"

Sal studied her closely for a moment.

"Well, it's a long shot," he said at last. "But I'm thinking that we might try to establish a telepathic link."

Hermione froze.

**

Of the million and four things that he could have come out with as a possible solution - yak herding, Sufi dancing, the introduction of whole coffee beans into her nostrils - this was the one she'd least expected.

"You're joking, right?" she asked weakly. Sal shook his head.

"But …" She stared at him disbelievingly. "But that's impossible, Sal."

"Why?"

"Well, because I've read about it; it's really rare. And both of the people involved have to be …" She trailed off helplessly. "I mean, okay, I guess Sybil's really a Seer, if you say so -" I still find that very hard to believe, but okay, whatever - "but in order to establish contact with her, I'd have to have some talent for it myself, and I just don't. All my Divination skills combined don't add up to one aluminum Knut."

Sal just smiled at her. "Sure about that?"

"Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes." Hermione slammed one hand down on the dressing table near to where he was sitting, making the expensive Chanel toiletries Gram had bought for her in London last summer dance in their elegant bottles. "Don't you think I've tried? I can't read tea leaves, and I can't interpret the phases of the moon, and I can't see anything in anyone's hand but ink stains and whatever they were chopping up for Potions the period before. I gave away my crystal ball to Mum three years ago, to put in the back garden; it's in a little marble holder in the middle of her nasturtiums now, with starling droppings all over it."

She took a deep breath. "My trying to make contact with Trelawney telepathically makes about as much sense as Harry using his Firebolt to sweep out the Owlery. It's just silly."

Sal didn't look convinced.

"No odd dreams lately, then?" His eyes drifted south. "You seem awfully fond of that little green pussycat, come sundown."

Oh, damn it.

Swallowing hard, Hermione uncurled her fingers from the comforting lump under her dressing gown that was the Sekhmet amulet, and let her hand drop to her side. "You're an awful snoop, Sal," she accused shakily. "How would you know, unless you've been in my room while I'm sleeping?"

He shrugged, not seeming particularly apologetic. "Bad dreams, then?" he inquired. "Maybe Catwoman keeps them away?" His gaze sharpened. "Or causes them?"

"Sal, this isn't the time or place to talk about this."

"Maybe not. But maybe so." He met her gaze squarely with a glitter in his pale-grey eyes. "Maybe there's more Divination in you than you think … otherwise, one would think you'd have dropped your little goddess in the Nile long ago, instead of snuggling up to her under the covers."

"Butt out," Hermione said sharply, surprising herself. Sal chuckled.

"Not a chance." His expression was challenging. "How about it? Will you try?"

She lifted one shoulder sulkily. "It hasn't a prayer of working. But I'll try."

He grinned. "Attagirl."

**

Three-fifteen a.m.

The La Moumania Hotel.

They were dining en suite in the Winston Churchill rooms, so named for their famous habitué who'd liked them for their palatial joined terraces and their sunlight - superior, he'd said, for the watercolour painting that had been his frequent leisure pastime.

Or so the story went.

Sybil, for her part, thought the old statesman would be rolling in his grave, were he somehow to gain entrance to his old holiday rooms. Mikhail, seemingly, didn't need to bolster his sex drive with the old herbalist's powdered jumper-cables; he was doing just fine on his own.

He was eating filet au poivre, so rare that it swam in its own blood, that it cut with the side of his fork.

And Sybil was crouched in front of his chair, eating him.

**

She wasn't complaining.

Eight years was a long time to make do with Maman LaMain and the Fingers Sisters, after all. And she'd long wanted to get Severus Snape out of his long-johns. The fact that someone else's brain was inside his body at the moment didn't dim her pleasure in the slightest; in fact, it probably made things a bit less complicated.

In that sense, anyway.

No, presently the only fly in her ointment was this: she'd just gone to great lengths to distract him long enough to drug his single-malt - possibly causing, in the process, irreparable long-term damage to a couple of vertebrae that didn't want to perform, at 33, the way they had at 25.

And now that she'd pulled it off, the stupid prat wasn't drinking it.

It figured.

"Syb, that's good," he murmured, eyes closed, one long-fingered hand clutching convulsively at the back of her smooth-shorn head. "Oh … oh, yeah - oh, you know how to do it right, don't you? - ohhhhh …"

Pure Mikhail-speak, that - he wasn't even trying to be Snape anymore. He had to be close to losing it.

Oh, no, you don't, boy-o, Sybil thought, and slid her mouth abruptly off his cock with a pop like a champagne cork. Jesus, but it was a beauty - not so awfully long, not out of the ordinary, anyway - but broad and muscle-y and thick, sticking straight up to his belly as if he was a horny teenager and not a man on the brink of middle age.

She could practically feel him inside her already.

Damn you, drink the fucking Scotch before I go mad, will you?

On the other hand …

We could fuck first and toast later. I could go for a second round, definitely - and he looks like he could, too. What's the hurry?

She flicked off the black sweater, the Brussels-lace brassiere. Shoved the snug black slacks hurriedly down to her ankles.

"Christ, Syb." His mouth was half-open, his eyes almost rolled back in his head. "You're going to kill me, you know that? I'm too old for this shit."

Oh, yeah, he was close. She clambered onto his lap, fished around between their bodies with one trembling hand until Tab A nudged satisfactorily - oh, Holy Mother - at the expectant entrance to Slot B, and sank down on him with the long-denied, satiated-at-last self-satisfaction of an Eskimo discovering a hot spring.

Oh, yes.

Oh, perfect.

Oh, heaven.

"Make it last," she muttered dreamily.

And immediately went tense, as somewhere in the middle of her head, a tiny portal chinked open and Hermione Granger's voice came floating through: Professor Trelawney? Are you all right?

Oh, bloody hell.

**