Jewel Of The Nile

Chapter Twenty-Seven

(A/N: Narcissa’s secret bondage-closet is borrowed from Hecate – you can read the original source, Still Time for Mischief: Heroes Behaving Badly, at www.witchfics.org.)

Voices.

Definitely voices, no doubt about it – deep and hushed and indistinct through the closed door, undershot with a note of tension that translated effortlessly regardless of language; they were arguing, they were in a hurry, and they were at least a little bit afraid.

Gabrielle could relate.

Who were they? she wondered. Aurors? Didn’t seem likely – from what Wronski had implied, the Ministry’s forces had already been and gone.

Death Eaters, then. Or thieves. Neither option held much appeal. Gabrielle wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself and considered her options.

She could retrace her steps, Floo back to Hogwarts – assuming such a thing was possible; she hadn’t, up until now, stopped to think about the alternative – and alert Draco to the intrusion … by which time it’d be far too late to do anything about it. She could stay where she was, under the Invisibility Cloak, and try not to give herself away by sneezing.

Merely at the thought, her nose started to itch.

Or … she could take cover, and try to find out what she could in the process.

All in all, that seemed the most sensible option. She’d have to be quick, though – even as she’d stood at the door deliberating, the voices had paused, then started up again much louder and clearer than before, accompanied by the muffled-but-unmistakable sound of footsteps.

They were coming her way.

Scanning the room for possible hiding places, Gabrielle decided on an ornately carved wardrobe just opposite the doorway – and had just enough time to slip inside, yank the hem of the Cloak in after her, and pull it closed. The next moment, the connecting door between Narcissa’s sitting room and what was probably Lucius’ study opened, and the owners of the mysterious voices were in the room with her.

It took Gabrielle a minute to realise that she wasn’t in the dark – the minute she’d closed the wardrobe door behind her, the space had filled with dim flickering light from enchanted candles – and a minute more to take in her startlingly spacious surroundings.

Well, she thought, looking around her, this was a fine comment-ça-va.

It wasn’t a wardrobe at all – it was some sort of kinky English pleasure-dungeon. Gabrielle pushed aside a neatly-hung series of jewel-toned feather boas and stared, open-mouthed, at the row of matte-black leather martinets lining the wall to her left. To her right, winking coyly through racks of belly-dancer costumes and fishnet tights, hung a matching assortment of riding crops. A black leather swing hung suspended from the ceiling by chains; a yellow schoolroom cane glinted evilly from the far corner.

And there – on the shelf just in front of her – were those ….?

Yes. Yes, they certainly were.

Oh, my.

Taking an involuntary step backwards, Gabrielle accidentally trod on something soft and squashy, and righted herself just in time to avoid crashing into a shelf full of suspicious-looking potions. Phew, she thought, and peered curiously down at her stumbling-block – a large, fluffy French poodle made of fuzzy purple plush.

Huh.

"Bonsoir, Fifi," she murmured under her breath, scooping up the toy dog and clutching it hard against her chest. "What’s a nice little chien like you doing in a place like this, anyway?"

There was no reply, of course, but Gabrielle felt a little better, regardless. Still holding on to Fifi for dear life, she sank gingerly into the darkest corner of the little room, pulled her knees up to her chin, and pressed her cheek resolutely against the mirrored door.

As long as she was stuck in here, she’d might as well try to learn something.

**

" … don’t see why it’s such a big deal," the first voice complained – a man’s voice: deep, brash, just a bit too loud. "One book gone missing? What’s the worry? It’s probably on his nightstand."

"Except that it’s not – we’ve already checked." This was the second man … softer of voice, milder of tone, but somehow, Gabrielle thought, more authoritative nonetheless. "And don’t you think it a bit odd? Shelves and shelves, impeccably arranged – if I didn’t know better, I’d think Malfoy was on the Dewey Decimal System – and the one book Albus sends us to find isn’t in its place?"

Albus, Gabrielle thought, suddenly cheered. That had to be Dumbledore, right? Maybe these two were White Hats, after all.

Patience, chérie. Don’t send up a flare just yet.

The sound of footsteps, of drawers opening – they were searching for the book. "Even so," groused Voice One. "Who gave him that title to begin with? I thought Trelawney said that legend was only passed down orally. Not exactly reliable of her to change her mind all of a sudden, is it?"

The second man seemed to consider this for a moment. "There’s reliable, and there’s reliable," he said finally. "And really, I think Albus feels we need to pursue every lead possible, even if it’s a long shot. If there’s something helpful in this book about the amulet –"

"Ah yes, the almighty amulet," Voice One cut in. "Would that be the one that has the Greasy Git shaking in his shorts?"

"You can’t blame Severus for being worried," Voice Two said mildly. "I know he’s a bit of a hard sell –"

"—oh, is that what you call it?"

"—but he really has her best interests at heart, just like the rest of us. And he doesn’t scare easily, you have to give him that. He told Albus that the thing buzzed in his hand. That it warned him off."

"Hmph." Voice One sounded sulky. "Well, I don’t see what Malfoy’s got to do with it, anyway."

"Don’t you?" Voice Two pulled out another drawer, ominously close to the wall of the wardrobe where Gabrielle crouched. "Albus seems to think Hermione’s at the head of his list, when it comes to revenge. He’s got Sybil off Merlin-knows-where at this very moment, looking for some hired thug she used to know. I think he’s determined to put Malfoy out of commission, with or without Fudge’s help this time."

"Mm. But the amulet …"

"Well, isn’t it odd that she gets this potentially dangerous piece of jewelry, complete with ancient curse attached, and not six weeks later Malfoy’s out of Azkaban and passing counterfeit Galleons to a rare-book dealer for the very volume that’s the only written source of information about the Jade Priestess? According to Irma Pince’s contact at the Ministry’s archives, there are only two copies of that book in print – and the other one’s in a private collection in Jordan. It can’t be a coincidence, Padfoot."

"Hm. Maybe not."

Padfoot? Gabrielle frowned. Odd name – but she couldn’t help thinking she’d heard it before. The question was – where?

The man called Padfoot made a noise in his throat that sounded oddly like a growl. "It’s past five," he said impatiently. "Come on – we should get going. The sun’s going to be up in half an hour."

"One more minute."

"Moony –"

"Oh, all right," Voice Two acceded wearily, yawning. "I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry – we’re just going to have to come back again tonight to finish looking."

"Well, thing is … it’s the first Quidditch game of the season," admitted Padfoot, "right after breakfast. Gryffindor-Ravenclaw."

"Really." At this, Moony seemed to perk up himself. "Harry’s playing?"

"Who else?"

Allors, Gabrielle thought. Padfoot – that was Harry’s godfather. What’s-His-Name. The one who’d been cleared by Hermione’s testimony at Malfoy’s trial. Draco had pointed him out one afternoon down by the lake in his Animagus shape, playing Frisbee with Harry and Ron.

The Floo question – could she or couldn’t she? – was really starting to bother her. If they were going back to Hogwarts, she ought to hitch a ride … better to get in a bit of trouble, than to spend the rest of the day trapped here in this creepy, tasteless pile of bricks and worry everyone to the point of getting her father – or worse, Fleur – summoned to fetch her.

Padfoot, sensing an advantage, pressed it. "I figure, we leave now – we can see Dumbledore, catch an hour of shut-eye, have some breakfast, stay for the game. What do you say?"

Moony hesitated. "Well …"

Gabrielle took a deep breath. Now or never. Keeping a tight grip on Fifi, she flung open the door of the wardrobe and looked up, almost defiantly, into two surprised faces – one dark and saturnine, the other pale and lined, with startled-but-kind grey eyes.

"I’m sorry for listening in," she said, "but I couldn’t help overhearing you. If you’re going back to Hogwarts, would you mind taking me with you?"

**

One minute, she and Sal had been alone in her living room, and she’d been revelling in the discovery of a cool new skill. Establishing the link had almost been too easy. And then, it had gone wrong almost from the beginning – Hermione had expected Trelawney’s annoyance, but not that feeling of sick panic, of tight worried electricity, squeezing her so that she couldn’t back out again. Nor had she expected him to be there, a silky-smooth masculine presence at once strange and familiar with a question that smacked of condescension: and who might you be?

Don’t tell him.

Easy enough to take a look-see for myself. Always full of surprises, aren’t you, Syb? And Hermione had been so busy trying to place that voice that she’d missed Sybil’s shrill warning – you can go now; get out now, before it’s too late!

And then – a flash, a roar, a hard bright tug in the middle of her head, like a stab of migraine. And when she’d opened her eyes, there were naked people on her living-room floor.

She saw the woman first – Trelawney, she presumed, from Maxie’s description earlier that evening – long-limbed, mocha-skinned, grappling for something with the man underneath her. A wand, that was it – they were fighting for a wand. Hermione watched, frozen to the sofa, as the man fought his way to his feet, wrested the wand away from Trelawney, and sent her sprawling to the carpet with a casual backhanded blow that snapped her head to the side with a crack like lightning through dry tinder.

So this was Mikhail – tall, slim, loads of disheveled black hair. From the back, she’d have taken him for Sirius Black … or better yet …

Wait a minute.

Trelawney moaned from where she’d fallen, but didn’t move. The man shook his hair out of his face, conjured himself a robe with a flick of his wand, and turned to face Hermione with a self-satisfied smirk.

Hermione felt bile rise in her throat. Without knowing quite how, she was on her feet.

"Severus?"

"No," Trelawney gasped from the floor. "It’s not –" but the man was nodding calmly.

"I’ll answer to that," he said. "Miss Granger, I presume?"

Hermione’s hand slid into the pocket of her dressing-gown, curled around the slim warm comfort of her wand. The man didn’t flinch. "What is it?" she demanded hoarsely. "Polyjuice?"

"Nothing so simple as that, I’m afraid." He looked down at her with amusement. "Ready?"

"For what?"

He didn’t get the chance to answer. Sal, old face grim and lined, had raised his wand.

"Impedimenta!"

The Not-Snape staggered a little under the force of the curse, but didn’t fall; Hermione watched, dry-mouthed, as Snape’s dark features flickered for a moment to reveal a younger, paler man with Lockhart-blue eyes and high spots of colour in his cheeks. Purposefully, Sal raised his wand a second time, but Mikhail was faster.

"Dissaepio," he said calmly, waving his wand, and Hermione gulped as a foglike veil of mist began to spiral out of its tip, wrapping the two of them inside its reach like a bandage. She heard Sal throw his curse again, but it was absorbed in the mist before it reached them. And then the veil vanished – vanished, yet remained, crackling and solidified and transparent as air, transparent as glass.

The Barrier Charm.

Hermione bit her lip and prayed for courage.

"You’re not Severus Snape," she said, somehow managing to keep her voice from trembling. "Why are you wearing his face?"

"Matter of expedition." He raised one hand, brushed one thumb over her cheekbone. "We’re both Transfiguration junkies, Sybbie and I. Could have gone for days in that marketplace and never known each other, if I hadn’t decided to put on a familiar skin. Besides, the word on the street says she’s hot for him. Thought I’d give her a thrill."

"That’s … vile," Hermione said through clenched teeth. Mikhail laughed.

"What’s the matter?" His grip tightened, his gaze sharpened, and suddenly Hermione felt that little portal in her brain slide open again – oh, shit. "Oh, I see," he said silkily, and moved a little closer to her. "Sybbie’s not the only one with a slick in her panties for the good Professor, eh? Still waters must run deep."

"Get your hands off me."

"You could always curse me," Mikhail suggested. He sounded so cheerful about the prospect that Hermione stiffened, suspicious.

"I could," she agreed guardedly. He grinned at her.

"But then, you never know," he said softly, "who those curses are really affecting. Do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe it’s Transfiguration," he suggested, still in that silky Snape-whisper that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. "And maybe it’s not." Deliberately, he let the glamour flicker again, so she could see his delighted angel’s-face, smiling through the dark veneer. "Lots of ways to steal a body. If you aren’t too particular about what shape it’s in afterwards."

At this, Hermione’s lip trembled. "Why are you here?" she demanded, determinedly changing the subject, and he smiled again. Flat mad eyes in her lover’s face.

"To kill you, Miss Granger. Why else?"

She swallowed hard. "Malfoy."

"I never divulge my client’s identity, Miss Granger. Matter of professional courtesy."

Hermione forced her spine to stiffen. "He doesn’t have any money, you know. If he’s given you any, it’s counterfeit. I was at his sentencing – he’s lost control of his estate."

Mikhail laughed. "I didn’t take his gold," he said. "Why should I? I’m going to take my fee right off your dead body." When Hermione gaped at him, he gestured toward the gleam of green between the lapels of her dressing-gown. "The Priestess," he said. "More valuable than a thousand Galleons. And a million times more interesting."

Hermione met his eyes levelly. "I’ll give it to you," she said quietly, her hands going to the chain around her neck. "You want it? I’ll take it off right now and hand it over."

"Ah. But that would take the fun out of it – now, wouldn’t it?"

He edged her up against the Barrier, cupped the nape of her neck in one capable, calloused hand – Snape’s hand. She felt him slide into her brain again.

Remarkable, he murmured into the space in her head. Your wand’s right there in your pocket. And you won’t do it, will you? You won’t hurt him to save yourself.

No.

Ah. His tone was casual, almost clinical in its curiosity. And why is that, I wonder?

Hermione took a deep, shuddering breath. I love him.

Ah. Her eyes were closed, but she could feel him smile against her cheek. You know, I almost believe you do.

Smile, he whispered now. And close your eyes. This won’t hurt a bit.

Cool tip of the wand, just below her ear. Enjoy paradise, little girl.

She swallowed hard. Goodbye, Severus.

"Avada Kedavra," he breathed – the words sing-song, like a lullaby.

The world went green behind her eyes.

**