Jewel Of The Nile

Chapter Thirty

"I have never," Hermione said dazedly, "seen that many zeroes on a cheque in my life."

The Americans had been seen to a cab, and were on their way back to their hotel, no doubt for an evening of imported pleasures billed as authentic Egyptian fare: steak, liquor and a belly-dancing show, everything a fraud but the immutable blue Nile outside their windows.

And she and Areli, bent on celebration, had gotten only as far as the common room before collapsing into chairs.

"I feel like I should frame it," she said now. "Or something."

Areli laughed.

"It's a windfall, all right," she said, snapping off a handful of deep gray-blue grapes from the bunch in the coffee-table fruit bowl and popping them into her mouth with a palpable air of self-satisfaction. "And the money might be nice, but it's almost a secondary issue, considering all the other bennies - though, in case the information interests you, you've just passed up the archeaology team as our main moneymaker."

She took another handful of grapes. "The favourable publicity is going to go through the roof - just wait. And the contacts." She tilted her head back against the back of the chair with a pleasurable little sigh. "Lilly's one of the biggest pharmaceuticals in the U.S., if not the biggest, and they work on heavy-duty projects. Mental illness, diabetes, cancer, AIDS. You've got a built-in entr้e, now, for whatever it is that you want to work on next. Your foot is in the door, kiddo."

"Yeah." Hermione rolled her head around on her neck and whimpered as the tight tendons gave way with a protesting crackle. "But - Areli … there's just one thing I was wondering about …"

"Yes?"

"How exactly are you going to manage all the Illuminata you promised them?" Hermione contemplated the fruit bowl, decided it was too much trouble to bestir herself to reach for anything, and cracked her neck again instead. "I mean, the only phoenix I know of in existence is Fawkes - and he can only have so many Burning Days, right?"

"Easy." Areli kicked off her shoes. "We make one batch, and then we Replicate exponentially. Doesn't hurt that Illuminata has a longer shelf-life than Twinkies, but to be on the safe side we can replenish with new stock every couple of months, if we start to get paranoid about quality."

"Won't that take up a lot of time?"

"It would, if we had to do it." Areli wiggled her stockinged toes ecstatically. "But I have some contacts at a wizarding warehouse in Rabat. They do flying carpets, mostly, and some of the more arcane spices. Exotic creatures, sometimes - you know, for potions ingredients. They've been at it for at least four centuries; they're the best in the business. If we send them one case of Illuminata every four months or so, they'll take care of the Replicating and everything else."

She raised an eyebrow at Hermione and laughed. "What? You thought we were going to open a factory?"

Hermione, cross with herself, slumped in her chair. "Replication," she repeated. "I should have thought of that."

"You're tired," Areli pointed out. "And you've been under a hell of a lot of stress." She shot Hermione a sidelong look. "Do you want to talk about it? About what happened last night?"

"Um." Hermione shook her head. "I wouldn't know where to begin," she said finally, shrugging. "Thanks for the offer. But I think I just need to go home and deal with it myself."

"Go home and sleep, you mean," Areli corrected. "And don't bother coming in tomorrow, do you hear me? Go to your class, if you must, then take the rest of the day off. They can wait a few weeks for the rest of those samples they want."

"Okay. Thanks."

**

She decided to walk home, instead of Flooing - it had rained the day before, unexpectedly, and the sticky heat had lifted, swept away by a strong breeze off the river. Normally, wind meant added discomfort for the denizens of Cairo, due to the fine layer of desert sand that covered the streets and sidewalks and everything else that stood still long enough (yet another practical reason to wear the hijab, according to Itmana; less chance that way of getting a mouthful of the Sahara on your way to market). But today, the recent rainfall had dampened that layer of grit just enough to stick it to the ground, not quite enough to turn it into mud.

In other words, perfect walking weather.

Hermione stopped at a corner juice stand and pointed to the basket of blood-oranges that hung suspended from its corrugated-iron roof. The concoction she was handed a few moments later in a plastic bottle was tart, pulpy, Crimson-Tide red and, for once, not too warm. Sipping it gratefully, she considered a brief detour into the bazaar for groceries, then thought better of it. Bill wasn't due back from Mexico for another two days, after all, and she didn't have the energy tonight to cook just for herself.

Still - all that money - she could do some shopping, maybe …

You're just putting off going home, remarked the Daredevil. Don't be such a baby - what's left there to be afraid of?

Well, excuse me for being a little bit jumpy, the Voice of Caution retorted, stung. Easy for you to say - you probably got some sick kind of thrill from that snake thing last night, didn't you?

Up yours.

"Enough!" Hermione said out loud, sharply, then blushed and made a production of throwing away her empty juice bottle.

You're cracking up, Granger.

Avoiding the eyes of the juice-stand proprietor, who was now openly staring at her, she pushed her way through the crowd at the intersection and headed north toward Doqqi, queasy-stomached but determined.

She needn't have worried - as it turned out, she was actually glad to be home, once she got there. The apartment was quiet, sunlit, and empty of distractions: no footsteps, no voices, no laugh track from Sal's beloved television sitcoms, no running water that meant someone else was using her bathroom. Just Cleo, her spaniel-sized body curled into a tight sleepy ball on the suede ottoman by the sofa; as Hermione came in, one gray-blue eye opened, blinked slowly twice, and shut again.

So much for the welcoming committee.

The little pile of ashes was gone from the carpet. There was a note on the butcher-block in the kitchen, written in Sybil's strongly slanting hand: We cleaned up and gave the place a purge before we went. Did some extra wards around the windows, too. Now go to bed, dammit.

Hermione pictured her wispy, fluttering Divination professor saying dammit and choked back a slightly hysterical laugh - who'd have thought it?

More disturbing was the second visual that popped into her brain, of an exotic dark-skinned beauty with her legs wrapped around a familiar set of lean naked hips, her face hidden by his fall of shoulder-length dark hair.

His hand, pale and blue-veined, splayed possessively across the silky skin of her back.

His voice, soft as mink and as beautiful as she'd ever heard it, tickling her ear: Avada Kedav …

Stop it. Don't think about that right now.

She forced her thoughts back to Trelawney, biting hard on her tongue. I wonder what she really looks like. I wonder if even she knows?

Scary.

She crumpled the note, dropped it into the kitchen dustbin, then headed for her bedroom, disrobing as she went and leaving her discarded clothing like a trail of bread crumbs behind her. Never one for casual nudity during her dormitory days at Hogwarts, she'd gotten rather used to the kind of skyclad wandering that solitary living engenders in all but the most modest of souls. It was nice to reclaim it.

She stripped off her wristwatch, unhooked her earrings, rolled down the nylon tights Areli had Transfigured her into that morning, and yawned as she slid under the down comforter.

Oh, she could sleep for a year.

**

"Assuming you did the assigned reading for today," Severus said to his second-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, "you should be in an excellent position to brew your Swelling Solutions without any further assistance from me. You will be graded at the end of class. Page forty-five; begin whenever you are ready."

He was unable to summon much of his customary vitriol today; even when Marianne Subotnick dropped an entire phial's-worth of live fire-ants right next to Emily Manton's sandalled toes, excess sarcasm on his part seemed hardly worth the effort. Almost absently, he dealt with the spill, sent the tearful Emily limping off to the infirmary, and measured out a fresh phial of ants for Marianne with no more than a sharp "Mind your fingers, Miss Subotnick".

No doubt this would have the class muttering about him later, over their luncheon. But that was the least of his concerns.

The Headmaster had gotten an international owl, well before breakfast this morning - Severus had seen the owl winging its way over the grounds, presumably with its return message, he'd caught Dumbledore murmuring into a shocked-looking Minerva's ear at the Head Table, before the students started to trickle in, and he'd been the recipient of a cryptic, in-passing, "My office, later, Severus?"

It appeared that a meeting was imminent, and furthermore that circumspection was called for. Which was fine and good, but all the same Severus would have liked some foreknowledge of what it all was about, and he hadn't had time before class to question Albus further. So here he was, baby-sitting his second class of the morning, with absolutely no idea about what had happened last night - except that he had a feeling that it involved Hermione, and therefore that it probably wasn't good.

It took every bit of self-control he possessed, not to simply get up and walk out. The three little words dancing on the tip of his tongue - Class is cancelled - refused to be swallowed, try as he might. He stared at his hands and tried not to twitch.

"Professor Snape?"

That was Marianne again, sounding timid. He didn't look up from his steepled fingers.

"Miss Subotnick, I suggest that you refer any questions you might have to your textbook."

Silence. Then:

"It's not that, Professor. Th-there's someone here to see you, that's all."

Startled, he looked up to find Sal hovering at the back of the room, next to a tall thin Black woman he didn't know. "You're supposed to be in Cairo," Severus said blankly - heedless of the second-years' curious stares - and then, as a premonition washed over him in an oily wave of nausea, he went white to the lips.

"Where is she? What's happened?"

Sal looked grim. "We need to talk," he said. "I'm sorry to burst in on you like this, but …"

Severus wasn't listening to him. "Class dismissed," he barked. "Leave your ingredients right where they are, take your books and get out. Rowland."

A chubby, blond-haired Ravenclaw boy started violently. "Y-yes, Professor."

"Go upstairs to Professor McGonagall's classroom and tell the fourth-years that their class with me is cancelled for today."

Rowland, clearly relieved, swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"We will resume this potion during the next class," Severus said, standing up and gripping his desk hard for support. "Whoever leaves the room last, shut the door behind you. Good day."

The corridor between the Potions classroom and his private rooms had never seemed so long. Half out of breath, he unwarded the door, gestured his guests inside, and locked it behind him.

"Now," he said. "Why aren't you still in Egypt, Sal? What's happened to Hermione? And -" this last directed toward the woman standing apprehensively by the door, as if poised for flight - "who the hell are you?"

**

It was dark outside when Hermione woke up, and for a sleepy luxurious moment she considered rolling right back over and not getting up until morning. But then Cleo yowled - her bowl was probably empty; she ate like a rhinoceros - and another call issued from Hermione's bladder, quieter perhaps but no less insistent.

"Okay, okay," she said, and threw back the comforter with a pang of regret. The air was cool enough on her sleep-heated skin to make her shiver; pulling on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and shuffling her feet into the bunny slippers Ginny had given her last Christmas, she headed for the bathroom.

Despite his Kneazle status, Crookshanks had always been content with standard cat fare - a can of wet food twice a day, and dry Cat Chow in between, to keep up his strength. Cleo, on the other hand, though she'd crunch at the dry stuff if she had to between meals, turned up her nose at canned food.

She liked her food bleeding. And if possible, still warm.

On the plus side, she wasn't terribly choosy about what sort of raw something-or-other landed in her bowl, as long as there was plenty of it, and Hermione had discovered early on that camel meat came cheap at the government butcher shop - especially if she shopped right after the drovers came through on Thursdays. Now, she dug a securely-wrapped loin roast out of the bottom of the refrigerator, sawed off a half-pound chunk, and began to dice it into Cleo's bowl.

It wasn't until she'd set the bowl on the floor and was turning away from the ensuing carnage that she heard the scuffling at her door - furtive, feathery little sounds that might have been papers rustling, might have been the scrape of shoes on the mat. Ignoring the sudden icy jolt of adrenaline that shot through her system, she forced herself to rewrap the camel loin and stow it safely back in her crisper drawer.

It's probably nothing. It's probably just …

The sound wasn't going away, though. If anything, it was louder.

Hermione's fingers curled around the cleaver she'd used to chop Cleo's dinner.

I'm not scared, I'm just being cautious. Cleaver in hand, she tiptoed toward the door, paused for a second with her ear to the crack - her eyes narrow, that whispery little sound ringing in her ears like a battle cry.

Whatever it is, it's about to get surprised.

Her fingers found the knob. Twisted. Pulled.

"Aaaaaaaa-HAH!"

Bill Weasley jumped, took an involuntary step back, and dropped his pencil.

"Hi," he said. He looked quizzical, slightly alarmed, and cuter than ever. "Your lights were off; I didn't think you were home. I was just leaving you a note." His eyes flicked to the upraised cleaver, which was now dripping camel blood onto Hermione's sweatshirt. "Am I interrupting something? A ritual sacrifice, perhaps?"

Feeling more foolish than was supposed to be possible, Hermione lowered the cleaver. "Oh," she said, nonplussed. "It's you. Sorry."

"Hey, don't apologise on my account. I get all hot and bothered for girls with big knives." His gaze slid to her bunny-slippered toes. "Especially when they've got animals on their feet. Have you had dinner yet?"

"No," she said, then frowned at him. "Why aren't you still in Mexico?"

"Got done early." He shouldered past her into the apartment, bent to pat Cleo. "Thought I'd swing by and see if you wanted to go out to dinner."

"Go out?" Hermione parroted numbly. Bill grinned at her.

"Yeah. You know, sit in a restaurant, sip exotic drinks, pay people to cook your food and bring it to you. Go dancing afterwards, maybe." He shot her a warm, mischievous look over his shoulder. "I've missed you, Madison."

Oh. Well.

"I'm not dressed for it," she said finally, not knowing what else to say - it was embarrassing to be flummoxed by this little slice of normal boy-girl flirtation, but on the other hand, the last thing she'd expected to find behind that door was a Romantic Evening for Two.

Bill shrugged. "That's okay. Everything's open late in this town - I can wait."

Hermione searched her subconscious for a plausible reason to beg off, then stopped herself abruptly.

Why beg off? Why not go?

Why, indeed?

For a minute, she thought - Severus. And bit her lip with the tumult of contradictory emotions that surged through her blood, merely at the name. Across the room, Bill beamed persuasively - a Gryffindor's Gryffindor, the Potions Master's virtual antithesis, Just-Out-For-A-Good-Time made flesh.

Tempting, so tempting just to walk away from the Dark, to link arms with the Light.

And after all, it was only dinner.

"Okay," she said slowly, and let the cleaver drop into the kitchen sink with a rattle that made Cleo look up from her gorging. "Okay. Just give me a minute to change."

**