JEWEL OF THE NILE
Chapter Thirty-Seven

(A/N: While I've attempted to preserve the basic structure of the Jordanian royal family for purposes of authorial integrity, all of the names I'm using are my own, and are not meant to represent any real people, living or dead.)

**

Three a.m. in the Hogwarts dungeons, and for once, all was well.

For two people who'd slept alone for most of their adult lives, Severus figured that they were swimming along nicely together. Of course, it didn't hurt that he'd Transfigured the bed from a double into a king - but all things taken into account, that seemed a pretty minor adjustment to make.

Looking up from his volume of Symbolist poetry, he took a sip of tea and glanced over toward the bed, where Sybil lay sleeping.

She was blonde tonight, milk-pale and flaxen and frankly, unapologetically plump, with Flemish-Renaissance good looks that were at once cherubic and serene. Her extravagant curves made her hands and feet seem impossibly small by comparison, dainty even ... and when he'd kissed her, he had felt swallowed in softness, drowned in her skeins of cornsilk hair.

Yesterday, she'd been dreamy and Gothic and raven-haired, with hollows in her cheeks and widely-set Opheliac eyes that stayed languidly closed up until the very moment he'd made her scream.

The day before that, he'd come back from his two-hour Exercise in Purgatory with the Gryffindor/Slytherin fourth-years, to find her in his rooms, doll-like and demure, fluttering geisha-girl lashes at him and pouring him tea.

Mind-blowing, really.

She coaxed his fantasies out of him, one by one in the dead of night while they lay wrapped together in the dark, and then fit herself into them so effortlessly that sometimes Severus could swear that he felt her changing beneath his very fingertips. Golden, russet, sable, mink - she came to him wrapped in disguises, each more alluring than the last, and took away with her in return only the ghosts of his fingerprints, the print of his skin, the echoes of the words ... endearments, obscenities ... that he murmured into her ears, as she plunged and crashed and rose again, reborn.

If he'd ever seen her true face, she'd never pointed it out to him.

It came as a great surprise to him that he, a man who prized ritual and process and, above all, calm, was just fine with that.

But then, Sybil wasn't Hermione - and with her, he didn't feel the same overwhelming need-coupled-with-guilt, that shaking, boundless desire to worship and genuflect and consume. He didn't know whether this relieved him or worried him more, to know that it wasn't him but them; somehow, it was preferable to think of that obsession as his standard MO, rather than as a conflagration, specific to their chemistry, that he couldn't control.

He'd stepped back from the roaring furnace of his love for that very reason - that, and because Hermione herself had found the flames so tempting, like a little girl in her mother's kitchen who perceives in a ring of blue fire the glittering, leaping invitation to a dance. It was easier just to shut the door, than to keep hauling them both away from the edge.

But this, with Sybil - this wasn't like that.

If Severus didn't know better, he'd be tempted to say that he was having fun.

He closed his book, extinguished his candle, and sat in the dark, watching her twist and murmur in her sleep and push the sheets into an untidy tangle around her hips. He knew that she'd smell like freesias and sex, that all that pale clear skin was as satiny and fine-textured as French soap.

That if he touched her, she'd wake and welcome him, that she'd shudder and mewl underneath his hands and curl those dainty pink-tipped toes into ecstatic baby seashells.

So why not do it? Why sit here all night, mooning over Verlaine and his absinthe dreams, when more tangible delights were a whisper and a nudge away?

Ils n'ont pas l'air de croire à leur bonheur, came the silent murmur from the book on his lap, the words printing themselves on his brain almost like an accusation. Severus sighed, and laid it aside.

Enjoy this while you can, he thought, and held himself back for just another moment before crossing to the bed. Even if she's just one more gift that you can't keep, there's time enough to think about that ... later.

Determinedly, he set himself aside. And slid into softness.

**

Dumbledore wasn't getting it.

"Look," Bill said, and shoved the crumpled note under the Headmaster's nose with shaking hands. "She says she's in danger. They've broken her wand."

"So it appears." But Dumbledore was looking past Hermione's SOS to the scribbled street address beneath it. "Curious," he murmured. Bill flung up his hands, exasperated.

"Curious? Curious?" He wheeled, paced, spun back around to glare. "There's blood on that note," he gritted out. "Malfoy's got her, and she doesn't have her wand, and she's bleeding, and you call that curious?"

His voice was rising - his mum would knock him into next week, if she knew he was talking to the Headmaster like this, but he didn't care, couldn't ... not when he felt so sick and scared and squeezed-out on the inside. "I should be there by now," he muttered resentfully, eying the hearth through which he'd emerged into Dumbledore's office. "Not just standing around wasting time. Doing something."

"Malfoy, did you say?" Dumbledore was still studying the address. "I don't think so, somehow."

Bill started, surprised. "No? But who else could it be?"

Unwillingly, he thought of Hermione as he'd last seen her - running late for school, zipping herself into a robe and a silk scarf and dashing back into the bedroom with her backpack dangling awkwardly from one hand to kiss him goodbye, almost as an afterthought. She'd tasted of toothpaste and orange juice. Smelt like soap.

See you tonight, he'd called from the bed, and she'd turned back in the doorway, smiling. She'd made a little fish-tail with her hands pressed together and wiggled it at him. Blown him another kiss.

See you.

"Who else would do something like this?" he said now, almost to himself. Dumbledore looked up at him, something sharp in the blue eyes.

"I wouldn't think that evil would surprise you by now," he murmured. "Having seen all you've seen."

Bill grimaced. "When it comes to Hermione, it does," he said. "How could anyone want to hurt her? She's nothing but ... light."

Dumbledore raised one shaggy eyebrow, as if to say - are you so sure about that? - then turned back to the scrap of paper on his desk.

"This address," he said again. "I don't know why it's been chosen as Miss Granger's unwilling destination, but I can assure you that no harm will come to her there."

Bill looked skeptical. "How do you know?"

But Dumbledore was already pinching up a bit of Floo Powder and crossing to the hearth. Bill heard him mutter something in Arabic that was too low to hear, as he stared intently into the emerald flames. Then: "Farouk!" Dumbledore cried happily, and bent further into the fire. "It's been nearly half a century - dear me, how the time does fly. So sorry to interrupt you, this late at night - but might I beg a word?"

A few moments, during which Bill continued to fidget irritably. The flames leaped higher. And then an aged figure in a plain grey robe appeared in the hearth.

"Albus," he said, stepping out of the fire to wring Dumbledore's hand and shaking bits of ash from his robes. "What a pleasant surprise. It's been far too long."

"Indeed," Dumbledore said. "Won't you sit down? Can I offer you some tea?"

"That's very kind." The old man's beard was beginning to smolder a bit; absently, he snuffed the flames and lowered himself into an armchair. "Good old Hogwarts," he said, the light of reminiscence in his eyes making Bill grit his teeth in impatience. "Never regretted that year I spent here. How's the education business, Albus?"

"Never better," Dumbledore said cheerfully, then - catching Bill's murderous glare and pointed glance at the clock on the wall next to Fawkes' perch - motioned him over. "Farouk, I'd like you to meet one of our recent graduates; this is Bill Weasley. Bill, may I present His Royal Highness, Prince Farouk bin al-Hussein of Jordan."

He was still talking - curse-breaker at Gringotts, former Head Boy, one of our finest families ... bit of a misunderstanding that I was hoping you could iron out for us - but Bill's head was spinning too fast for him to process much of it.

He wasn't completely up on all his Middle Eastern royalty, but he knew about Farouk bin al-Hussein, the current King of Jordan's uncle and - by all accounts - the most influential political moderate in the country. That Prince Farouk was also a wizard wasn't such common knowledge, on the other hand ... but knowing now that he was, the thought that he and Dumbledore should be acquainted wasn't such a stretch - nor did he seem to be a likely ally of Lucius Malfoy's.

Okay. Then the only real question left was this: who had kidnapped Hermione, and why was she headed for the Jordanian palace?

Patience, Indiana. When has Dumbledore ever let you down before?

With a last worried glance at the clock, he dragged himself back into the conversation.

**

Prince Khaled was tall and dark and handsome. He was also pissed as hell.

Hermione found this a bit satisfying.

They'd been discovered just before dawn, snuggled down in their nest of blankets in the back seat of the Jeep, and hauled out into the chilly desert morning to receive their comeuppance. In the light of sunrise, they both looked like hell - hair rumpled, clothes dirty, teeth fuzzy, the right side of Itmana's face a violent shade of purple. From the throbbing in her own head and the tenderness across one cheekbone, Hermione figured they could still be bookends.

But then Khaled saw Itmana, and all that changed.

"You little bitch," he said softly - and without another word of warning, backhanded her across her undamaged cheek, so hard that she fell. Hermione, twisting free of Abu, bent to help her up.

"Y'know," she said, thinking of Mikhail, "I'm getting really tired of watching men hit women." Khaled sneered.

"You're in the wrong part of the world, then." His English was flawless but faintly accented. "Go back where you belong, if you don't like it."

Hermione didn't reply to this. Apparently Khaled wore a ring; a slight trickle of blood was winding its way down from Itmana's temple. "Are you okay?" she whispered in Arabic, and Itmana nodded.

"Fine. Just ... shut up. Don't make it worse than it is."

"Wise words, little sister." Khaled twisted a handful of Itmana's long dark hair into his hand and yanked her to her feet. "You could have saved yourself a lot of trouble long ago, if you'd only been half so smart."

He looked ready to hit her again. Hermione decided to distract him.

"I've read some of the Koran, you know," she said conversationally. "I'd be interested to know how you reconcile your ... um, methods ... with its nonviolent message."

It worked; Khaled dropped his hold on Itmana's hair and turned to face her, the corner of his mouth curled in a sneer.

"You," he said contemptuously. "I know all about you."

Hermione played for time. "You think so?"

"I've been watching you," he said, his eyes narrow. "With your hijab and your headscarf and your bag full of books, playing at being a native. Making a mockery of decent women's dress to suit your own purposes. Spreading your legs for that redheaded Englishman all the while. You don't fool me ... you may look respectable, but you're still a whore."

"Whereas I'm sure you're saving yourself for marriage," Hermione said pleasantly. He took a step toward her.

"I live by the Book. Don't you impugn my morals, you little English gutter rat."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Hermione took a deep breath. This just may turn that shiner into a matching set. "After all, every deeply moral man I know is into illicit toxic dumping and blackmail. Truly."

He advanced toward her, jaw set in outrage. "You think you're safe from me?" he demanded. "You think your precious British passport's going to protect you? I could snap your neck right now, and they'd never lay a finger on me."

"Oh, is that an example of living by the Book?" Hermione was scared, but determined not to show it. "I must borrow your copy; they've taken that part out of mine."

His hand flashed out, knocked her down. She stared up at him defiantly, tasting blood in her mouth. Her ears were ringing.

Wait a minute, Granger. Why would a split lip make your ears ring?

And then Khaled was digging in the holster on his belt, and Hermione realised the sound she'd heard was his cellular phone.

Huh. Guess you can get a signal out here, after all. Who'd-a thunk?

"Yes?" Khaled said curtly. Hermione heard the tinny overtones of speech, like gibberish, from the telephone's earpiece, saw Khaled's face tighten in an expression she couldn't read.

"Yes," he said again, in a very different tone of voice. "Yes, I did. Yes, of course."

Another rapid paragraph from the telephone, like Alvin and the Chipmunks quoting Winston Churchill. Khaled's free hand tightened into a fist, but his face stayed blank.

"Of course," he said. "Yes, sir. Right away, sir."

He cut the connection. Turned away. For a long moment, Hermione stared at his back, then caught Itmana's worried gaze: what now? Then Khaled turned back around, and she had to force herself not to recoil from the tamped-down rage and frustration in his flat black eyes.

"Husan!" he snapped. "Put them in the plane. We're going."

Huh, Hermione thought, and caught Itmana's eyes again, who lifted her shoulders in a tiny-but-classic shrug. Wonder what all that's about?

But she couldn't help but feel like they'd just been reprieved.

**