Jewel Of The Nile

Chapter Fifty-Four

Not that he was headed for his own bed. But he figured that for a plus, in this case.

For one thing, the sheets would already be warm. For another, he’d get to find out just exactly how many kisses he could steal before she caught on to his game and woke up.

He’d been thinking all week about where he was going to put them.

The back of her neck, first off, and then that soft little hollow behind her ear, where the curls liked to gather when she tucked them back. The spot where her collarbone joined her shoulder. After that, it pretty much depended on whether she was wearing one of those demure white-cotton nighties … or whether she wasn’t.

Either way, coaxing her out of her warm purring-kitten dreamland and up toward the surface promised to be the highlight of Bill’s week. He was actually just a bit disappointed to find the lights still on in the library, when he arrived at the villa … and more than a little startled at the identity of one of its occupants.

Automatically masking his surprise – in a profession like cursebreaking, you got to be good at that, fast, or you didn’t live long enough to get good at anything – he moved forward from the doorway to greet them, easy smile fixed firmly in place.

"Hi," he said to Hermione, leaning down to plant a casual hello-smack on her cheek … then, over the top of her head, "Hullo, Professor. Nice to see you again."

"Mr. Weasley."

Bill had no particular personal beef with his former Potions Master – if you added together his personal experience with Potions and the stories he’d heard from his disgruntled younger siblings, it seemed to him that Snape’s bone-deep grudge against the Weasleys hadn’t really reached full flower until he’d met the twins. Unfortunate for Ron and Ginny, maybe, but on the other hand, wholly understandable.

Bill’s own aptitude for the subject matter – school had presented him with few academic difficulties, with the possible exception of History of Magic – had gotten him through Snape’s class with only a minor skirmish or two to show for it. Honestly, he’d thought that Snape liked him, as much as was possible (Bill was, after all, a Gryffindor), and since his school days, their paths hadn’t crossed at all.

So why was Snape glaring at him?

Something odd about that.

Characteristically, however, he chose not to dwell on it. Instead, he dropped his eyes from Snape’s resentful stare, his glance falling first to the book on the empty table, then to the beaker of sludgy brown fluid in Hermione’s hands.

"Oh," he said, understanding now. "I’ve interrupted something. Sorry."

"No, it’s fine," Hermione said quickly. Her voice sounded a bit froggy, as though she had a sore throat. "Truly. We hadn’t started yet."

She twisted around in her chair to smile up at him, and in the sudden slant of light from the lamps, Bill saw something he hadn’t noticed before, when her face had been in shadow: her eyes were puffy, and rimmed with pink.

Huh.

He might have chalked it up to an afternoon’s close work in the laboratory – some of those fumes could get rather irritating, after all – were it not for the smudge on her cheek. It was a grayish-green colour and about as big around as a Sickle – a stray smear from some earlier experiment, presumably – and it was bisected neatly into two halves by one clean, thin vertical track of salt.

She’d been crying, and not so very long ago at that. Bill met Snape’s eyes again, this time returning anger with accusation: all right, what did you say to her?

No response but a blank, flat stare; whatever Snape knew, he wasn’t telling. Bill thought hard – what could careful, conscientious Hermione possibly have done to provoke him into a verbal assault? I’d have thought they’d get along – and then, nearly staggered under a suddenly-recalled memory: the two of them on her brand-new couch, back in September, trading post-dinner confidences and getting tipsy on his airport Chardonnay.

Were you in love with him?

No. Truth be told, I was sort of hung up on someone else.

So, do I know this other guy?

Sometimes I think even I don’t know him.

At the time, Bill had recognised that neat little sidestep for what it was – an evasion – and not pressed. Even then, though, the words had borne the unmistakable ring of truth, something that had made him wonder, every so often, exactly who Hermione’s Mystery Man was.

Now, a burst of near-Divinatory clarity had his eyes narrowing in speculation.

Oh, he thought. So it’s you, then.

Deep below the surface of his carefully neutral expression, his Inner Molly was gathering herself for self-righteous action, vacillating between protective outrage – honestly, the man’s old enough to be her father! – and good old-fashioned jealousy. Left to her own devices, Mum would have taken no prisoners; on the whole, Bill figured it was for the best that he’d turned out more like Dad.

Hermione and Snape.

It made a lot of sense, now that he thought about it. And it explained a few things that he’d been wondering about – namely, how the sleek, abandoned, sexually confident siren who fit so willingly into his arms could turn so cautious and flustered – baffled, even – when it came to romance. Flirting she was good at … hell, she could have taught a graduate course in it … but frank compliments tended to leave her blushing and tongue-tied.

Small wonder.

Don’t imagine he’s much of a one for romantic repartée, he thought. Malfoy, either, come to think of it. No wonder she’s a bit shy.

But illuminating as all of this was, it still didn’t explain what had just happened between the two of them, before he walked in. He let his gaze wander the room: spare, uncluttered, lined with books, expensively furnished. Laboratory equipment glinting from an open trunk. A forlorn little heap of crumpled tissues peeking from the seat of one of the two armchairs. The two of them – fully clothed, thankfully, and largely unrumpled – at opposite sides of the wide table, presumably working together but avoiding one another’s eyes.

Whatever happened, Bill thought, it went badly and ended worse. Possibly it was mean-spirited of him to feel glad about this, but try as he might, objectivity was hard to come by in this case. And now she’s smiling at me. Puffy eyes and all. He squeezed her shoulder, half for comfort, half in speculation, and felt her hand come up to cover his.

Yeah, that was nonverbal for glad to see you, all right.

And at sight of the gesture, Snape’s eyes went flatter – then fell, clearly conceding the field. Interesting.

So it hadn’t been sex, then, nor anything like it. Bill searched for other options.

A goodbye, maybe?

One can always hope.

Sort it out later, he counselled himself; there’s plenty of time … and pulled up the chair next to Hermione’s.

"So tell me, Madison," he said, and had the petty-but-satisfying pleasure of seeing a puzzled, disapproving Snape frown covertly over the nickname. "Is this the book? The famous journal? Did you crack the code? And why are we all still awake, looking at it?"

**

Phase One had gone well, in Gabrielle’s estimation. Phase Two, on the other hand – well, nothing had gone wrong, yet, but she wasn’t about to break out the marching band, either. Too many variables to consider.

Back at Hogwarts, she and Draco had had a long discussion about the parameters of their mission. Neither of them enjoyed Care of Magical Creatures enough to make assistant-gamekeeping a palatable career option, and that meant no Unforgivables; sure, Hermione had gotten away with her emergency Imperio, but they weren’t going to push their luck.

Short of killing him, then, their options were limited.

On one hand – as Gabrielle pointed out – more than a few people would sleep easier knowing that he wasn’t at large, and bringing him in alive would nip everybody’s problem in the bud. Conversely – this from Draco – Malfoy had already been effectively neutered; merely by removing his access to money, he’d been driven underground. If it weren’t for the lurking threat of the Priestess, he’d merely be a refugee from justice, skulking in what might differ greatly from Azkaban in terms of material convenience, but not in function. It’s not the man, he’d said thoughtfully, that’s the threat, any longer. It’s the book.

Gabrielle wasn’t sure she agreed with this – personally, she thought Malfoy was a threat – but from the bits and pieces she’d picked up about Draco’s childhood, she could certainly understand why he’d want to avoid open conflict with his father. You didn’t have to be a mediwitch to know that some wounds took a long time to heal – or that they were easily re-opened, even once they’d scarred over.

Fair enough, she’d said, and they’d compromised, deciding that the book was their first priority – if an opportunity for capture didn’t present itself, they could at least strip him of his prize, a worthy mission in and of itself.

Now, however, Gabrielle was beginning to think they had a shot at the man, too. Here she was, after all, a dead ringer for Tumtum the house-elf, trundling up those endless steps toward the master-suite study with a carafe of coffee containing enough Dreamless Sleep Potion to turn a dozen Malfoys into Rip van Winkle. Even one healthy swallow, and he wouldn’t wake up until they got to Hogwarts, no matter how many times he bumped his head on the way down the stairs.

A satisfying thought, that.

Draco was somewhere behind her – where, she wasn’t sure. He’d layered one Invisibility Cloak over the other, to make himself that much less visible to elf-eyes, and was armed with the last few inches of Dreamless Sleep in the bottom of the plant-mister. There was one watch-elf still unaccounted for – a nasty trollish specimen, Draco said, named Trog – but they hadn’t encountered it yet.

The door loomed in front of her. Schooling her features into an appropriate semblance of meekness, she ventured a timid knock and heard – with a little frisson of trepidation – Malfoy’s curt voice, telling her to come in.

Courage, mon chou, she thought grimly, and took the time to recite a few quick steadying lines of an algorithm in her head before she opened the door. Malfoy was bent over something on his desk. He didn’t look up as she entered.

"High time, too," he said, waving one hand irritably toward the corner of the desk. "Pour. And if you spill anything, I’ll have your hide for slippers."

Yessir, Massa, Gabrielle thought, resentful – merely his tone, drawling and dismissive, put her hackles up – but managed to murmur something obsequious enough to pass in a low tone that wouldn’t carry sarcasm, and poured a precise three-quarters cup that would have made a New Jersey diner waitress hand in her apron in envy.

Cream, no sugar, she remembered the real Tumtum repeating, and lifted the delicate porcelain cream pitcher to administer the honours. A hairsbreadth away from pouring, she was stopped by a cold tone and a steely grip on her arm.

"Well-aware of your mental deficiencies as I am," Lucius Malfoy said softly, "I fail to see how you can have overlooked this simple rule of thumb: coffee is to be served to me black, with all condiments on the side. Tumtum, is it?"

Oh, merde.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Sorry." The iron grip tightened, enough to make her cry out. "Somehow I don’t think so. But you will be, believe me. Put that down."

By ‘that’, he meant the cream pitcher, which she returned unsteadily to the silver serving tray. A moment later, her arm was twisted behind her back at an unnatural angle, and he was pressing it further, as if he intended to wrench it off completely. Gabrielle set her jaw and looked him straight in the eyes; a moment later, she realised her mistake.

Defiance, after all, wasn’t really a house-elf thing.

"Has it been too long, Tumtum?" he purred, forcing her elbow to the midpoint of her spine and pressing down. "Have you forgotten the broken wrist so soon? Those nasty burns on your ears? Very festive they were, too, like little red holiday caps." Another inch of excruciating pressure. "Why don’t you wriggle, my grimy little freak-show? Why don’t you squeak? Surely you’re not refusing me the only entertainment presently available to me … or perhaps you’d like me to prolong it?"

The pain was unbearable – but that wasn’t the worst of it. Gabrielle could feel her control slipping, and with it her protective Transfiguration. In times of physical or emotional stress, veela always transformed; Gabrielle, being only quarter-blood, couldn’t achieve what Fleur had always referred to as Full Harpy-Face, but the bit of her that was her bequest from Grandmère Evangeline was now simmering just below the surface, ready to take over.

Outside the door, she heard a growl of protest, followed by the barely-audible sound of spritzing and a heavy thud. Draco and Trog had found each other, it seemed.

Help was coming, then.

Hold on, Gabrielle, she told herself. Don’t give in. But even as she said it, she could feel Tumtum’s squashy potato-nose receding, could feel that tingle at her eyelids that meant her lashes were growing. And as – with a final vicious wrench – Lucius Malfoy dislocated her shoulder, Grandmère broke free.

Her whole head was a red blur of agony; her arm was limp and dangling, her shoulder and neck a mass of screaming nerves. You’re not a house-elf, you’re a veela, she heard him saying – not as angrily as one would expect, but then, men had rarely had the presence of mind to be angry with Grandmère. Why are you here? What do you want?

It was then that Draco hit him over the head with the serving tray.

He’d just moved – instinct, maybe, or just plain good luck – so it was a glancing blow, not enough to knock him out. Lucius staggered, but then turned low, cannily, like a street brawler, and lunged. A muffled thump, as Draco hit the ground; a slither of fabric, as the folds of the Invisibility Cloaks fell clear of his legs. Growling, Lucius ripped the rest of the concealing fabric aside, his eyes widening in shock and speculation as he recognised his attacker.

"Well, well," he said slowly, a cold smile spreading over his austere, elegant features. It should have been attractive, but it wasn’t. "If it isn’t the Prodigal Son." He seemed to have forgotten all about Gabrielle, who was presently leaning against his desk, trying not to retch. "And just when I thought you could sink no lower."

"You swine," Draco spat, his thin face alive with hate. "Always hitting things that are smaller than you. You bloody coward."

Lucius ignored this; if anything, his smile grew broader. "I should have known you wouldn’t stay with the Mudblood. Too classy for you, was she?" he asked conversationally. "So much easier to score with something that isn’t even human, after all. Watch out, though – veela get nasty if they’re crossed."

He was holding Draco’s arms immobile with both hands and the bulk of his weight, but that didn’t stop Draco from rocking up with his torso. Gabrielle heard the crunch of bone as the top of Draco’s head connected with his father’s nose. There was muffled cursing after that, and the strangely wet-sounding thwacks of fists hitting flesh.

She didn’t pay any attention to that.

The book on the desk was glowing.

"Look," she said – slowly, but clearly. "Look. It’s disappearing."

"What?" Lucius whirled around. His nose was bloodied, his robes ripped from the struggle, but in that wild, feral instant he looked every inch the Silver Fox. "It’s disappearing? But it can’t!"

Gabrielle was an inch away from unconsciousness, so woozy with shock that she couldn’t seem to control her arms. "It’s okay," she said distantly. "I’ll get it for you."

The book was still solid enough for her to get her hands around it. She seized it, blinking in a sort of dazed wonder as her fingers started to glow transparent. "Oh, look," she said. "Now I’m disappearing, too."

Malfoy grabbed her by the shoulders, but she was too far gone to feel the pain, except as a sharper edge on the steady blur of red. "You come too, Draco," she said. Her voice sounded tinny to her, and very faraway. "We’ll come back for Fifi later. It’s okay."

And then the book took her, and she didn’t feel anything at all.

**