Jewel Of The Nile

Chapter Twenty-Six

Gabrielle glanced at her wristwatch - four a.m. and counting - and sighed.

Danger she could have handled. But fatigue was proving to be a worthy adversary.

No sign of Malfoy le vieux, either, naturally. And it was her own fault; she had allowed the stillness of the old house - half-eerie, half-tranquil - to seduce her into a brand of investigation that was rather more leisurely than goal-oriented.

She'd managed to explore the long corridor of guest suites more-or-less summarily. Not only were they not particularly interesting - fussy and over-decorated, everything matching and bandbox-pristine, decorative throw pillows arranged just so, sheets in elf-folded hospital corners you could bounce a Sickle on - but they were pretty much all the same. There might as well have been a sign on each door: Make yourself at home. But don't sit down.

Not to mention that the furniture - while undoubtedly expensive - was, after all, mostly reproduction. Picturing Fleur's sniff of distaste, Gabrielle snickered to herself under the Invisibility Cloak, and moved on.

She knew Draco's room immediately when she saw it - charcoal-grey walls and matte-black furnishings, the comforter on the bed a silvery, muted water-colour that might have been grey, might have been green. It was free of decoration, except for an overloaded bookshelf on one side of the room and an austere first-edition print of the Great Wronski on the other in Brassaï black-and-white, staring moodily out of his starkly elegant Art Deco frame with his broomstick slung casually over one shoulder and a look of irritated ennui on his swarthy, aquiline face.

Yup. Definitely Draco's. Surrounded as it was by the evidence of Narcissa Malfoy's dubious decorating acumen - an abattoir of chintz and gold leaf - this room stood out like Marilyn Manson at the Last Supper.

Well, this was as good a place as any to take a breather.

"Hullo," Gabrielle said, closing the door behind her and shrugging the Cloak off her shoulders. Wronski swiveled his head sharply toward the sound of her voice - she'd apparently caught him daydreaming - frowned, cracked his neck in either direction, then shifted his broomstick to the other shoulder and regarded her with only slightly-suspicious interest.

"Hullo," he said. "Who are you? Friend of the family?"

Good question. "Parts of it," Gabrielle said cautiously, and hitched herself up onto the foot of the bed. "Yourself?"

Wronski shook his head. "Spoils of war," he said. "I belonged to an amateur Quidditch-player-turned-Auror. Frank Longbottom. Good guy, Frank. Knew his stuff, he did."

Gabrielle frowned. "What happened to him?"

And then - "Oh."

She drew up her knees, hugged them reflexively. "Oh. How awful for him. For you."

"Mm. I'll say." Wronski looked petulant. "When it comes to Quidditch, Lucius Malfoy doesn't know his ass from his elbow. Downright galling, being owned for your resale value." He brightened marginally. "But the kid - now there's a fan. I've been hanging in his room since he was six - keeps me a bit out of the loop, not being down in the gallery with all the others, but on the other hand, I'll take his company over his father's any day."

"Really," Gabrielle said, studying him with renewed interest. "You must know Draco rather well, then."

"Better than some," Wronski agreed. "Why? Looking for an inside angle? You're a bit young for him, cupcake."

Gabrielle rolled her eyes.

"I wish," she said tartly, "that people would stop going on about my age. It's just a number, after all. And besides, Draco's only a friend. Which is fine with me."

"Funny," Wronski said reflectively, "that he's never mentioned you. Unless …" Improbably, he drew a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from an inside pocket of his Quidditch robes, and peered at her through them. "You wouldn't happen to be the famous Miss Granger, would you?"

Gabrielle glared at him.

"No."

"Just asking," Wronski said, shrugging. "I thought he'd never shut up about her, last summer. ‘Hermione this', ‘Hermione that', ‘this is what Hermione says' … she must be some dame, that's for sure; I've never seen a guy so hung up on the girl who dumped him."

"Dumped him? You're mistaken about that," Gabrielle said sharply. "She didn't leave him. He left her."

"Whatever you say." Wronski, who didn't look convinced of this assertion in the slightest, jerked his head toward the writing-desk by the window. "Whole story's down in black and white, if you're really interested. Every minute that he wasn't baying at the moon over his Lost Love, he was scribbling away in his notebooks. Might clear things up for you to take a look."

Gabrielle allowed herself one speculative look in the direction of the desk, then squared her shoulders resolutely and shook her head.

"Don't have time," she said (not without regret). "Besides, it's not Draco I'm looking for now. It's his father."

"Lucius?" Wronski grimaced expressively. "Not to give out gratuitous advice, but you might want to rethink that one, sweetheart. That's one Big Bad Wolf whose tastes run to the decidedly peculiar; mess with him and there won't be enough left of you to frost a Toll House Cookie."

Gabrielle wrinkled her nose at him.

"Ew," she said, shuddering. "Get your mind out of the gutter, will you? I want him in jail - that's why I'm looking for him."

Wronski laughed. She glared at him.

"What's so funny?"

"You are," he said. "The whole Ministry's looking for Malfoy - there've been more Aurors fine-tooth-combing this house in the last week and a half than you can shake a Snitch at. What makes you think you'll succeed where they've failed?"

Gabrielle tossed her head and slid off the bed.

"Let's just say," she said, "that I have a vested interest." She swirled the Cloak, let it settle around her shoulders. "Good night."

"Bon voyage, cupcake."

Gabrielle let herself huffily out into the hallway, closed the door behind her - not as gently as she might have - and scowled at it.

Cupcake.

She'd cupcake him, all right.

For sheer pretension, you just couldn't get any snootier than a black-and-white wizard photo.

**

It occurred to her, half an hour later, that Draco's room would have been a good place to go down for a power nap. By then, however, she had passed into the Malfoy master suite - and she was rather less inclined to linger in these rooms. One of the bedrooms, she assumed Narcissa's, was smothered in pleated rose-damask swags and aggressively-pastoral toile wallpaper; in the light from her wand, Gabrielle watched, darkly amused, as a pair of rosy-cheeked pageboys bookended a shepherdess.

Well, that was the English for you. Her father was right - they were obsessed with sex, the lot of them.

She wandered through a marble bath the colour of Pepto-Bismol and a similarly-outfitted sitting room, crowded with little claw-foot tables and antique silver services and velvet-upholstered Louis Quatorze chairs. The scent of artificial jasmine and sandalwood hung in the air, thick enough to drop Coco Chanel in her tracks; waving one hand distastefully in front of her face, Gabrielle headed for the opposite door. For a wizarding manor, this house was bizarrely symmetrical - unless she was gravely mistaken, she'd find Lucius Malfoy's private quarters on the other side.

Before she could prove her hunch, however - before she could even turn the handle of the door - she heard voices.

And froze in her tracks.

**

Professor? Are you all right?

Sybil's whole body clenched in sudden apprehension, causing Mikhail to gasp appreciatively underneath her. She hardly noticed.

Fine, she telegraphed back sharply. For the moment. Now for the love of all that's holy, get out of my head. If you don't, we'll both be in danger.

Um. Okay.

Sybil felt the edges of the portal waver - once, twice - then heard Hermione's hiss of frustration.

I'm trying. I can't seem to get it to work.

Mikhail was clutching at her arms, trying to pull her down into a kiss. Sybil felt icy sweat begin to pool in the small of her back.

Well, try harder, she snapped at Hermione, and felt the younger witch's wave of apologetic annoyance sweep over her.

I can't. I'm stuck. Another shockwave in her brain as Hermione tugged at the portal. This was Sal's idea, not mine. You know I've always been hopeless at this stuff.

It wasn't that. But Sybil didn't feel like going into it at the moment.

Of course Hermione was stuck; a brain in the throes of arousal screwed up just as tight as anything else, didn't it? Nothing in her head right now but a big psychedelic vacuum, sucking itself in-in-in and gathering itself for the coming explosion. Without the momentum of her physical body to help her, Hermione had as much chance of breaking out of that spiral as Sri Lanka had at the Quidditch World Cup.

None of which would be a problem, Sybil thought wildly, if she didn't happen to be fucking a telepath at the moment.

Christ.

"Kiss me," he muttered now against her jawbone, his hands insistent on her shoulders. "Mother of God, but you're a great fuck, Syb - come on, kiss me; I wanna taste you when you come …"

And then there was no holding him back anymore - his lips were locked to hers and his hands everywhere at once, and much against her will Sybil felt her blood heat again, not gradually this time but all at once, in a great black flood, and even as she shuddered and cried out against his mouth, she could feel the fragile psychic barrier between them evaporating - could feel herself pouring into his brain like water, and feel him pouring into hers.

**

Sex between Seers. In the end, that moment of vision, that flash of perfect, touch-the-stars clarity, had been the biggest draw of all.

And the biggest danger.

She was slumped against him, breathing hard. Trying to draw away.

And he wasn't letting her.

"Multiple personality, Syb?" he murmured into the sweaty crease between her neck and her ear. "That's a new one."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she said dully, knowing even as she said it that it was no use.

Sure enough, he was already ignoring her, and turning all his considerable charm on Hermione.

Well, hello there. And who might you be?

Don't tell him, Sybil ordered wildly, and heard Mikhail laugh delightedly in two places - inside her head and out. There had been a time when that stereo-effect had amused her; now, it chilled her to the bone.

Doesn't matter, he murmured now. Of course you don't have to tell me. Easy enough to take a look-see for myself, now, isn't it?

With one fluid move, he'd reclaimed his wand from the table. "Always full of surprises, aren't you?" he murmured to Sybil, as he tightened his arm around her waist and slid the wand deftly between their bodies, so that the business end rested just below her hammering pulse.

"Leave her out of this," Sybil gasped. "Nothing to do with her."

"That's what you think," Mikhail said, and kissed her once more with Snape's mouth. "Too bad, Syb - no hard feelings, right? But a man's gotta put bread on the table."

Get out, Sybil shot in Hermione's direction. You can go now - get out now, before it's too late!

But it was already too late.

"Consecutus!" he whispered - the Following Spell - and there they went, naked bodies still entwined - Apparation with a purpose, no Location Charm needed in this case, oh no, Hermione's telepathic link like a silver thread reaching across all of upper Africa to draw them down to Cairo into her graduate-student living room.

Sybil closed her eyes and waited for the crash.

**