Jewel Of The Nile

Chapter Fifty-Six

Oh, she’d fucked this up, big-time.

And not just her, either. They all had -- Farouk, Dumbledore, Snape. How could they have been so naive, so quick to believe the myth, above all so childishly, mind-numbingly certain that Joining the two halves of that damn journal was a good idea?

So quick to dismiss Duathor’s motives as spiteful. So eager to label her a petty, misguided old woman that they’d missed this Home Truth entirely: when people went to this much trouble to lock a door, there was usually a damn good reason.

More fools they.

And now Hermione, a horrified Pandora if there’d ever been one, couldn’t think of a better way to sum up her current predicament than the words Duathor had already used to form the first paragraph of the Journal’s preface:

Kiyara, you inquisitive little dung beetle of a meddlesome fool ... if you’ve figured out how to read this despite the precautions I’ve taken to protect you, it’s already too late. I hope, if only for your children’s sake, that you’ve put your house in order.

It had taken Hermione a moment to realise what was happening – after all, she hadn’t exactly expected Malfoy’s half of the Book to arrive with three stowaways attached – and then there was the little matter of Gabrielle’s damaged arm to contend with. Not to mention the added complication of Malfoy the Elder himself, who’d arrived in a slight state of shock but was recovering fast.

Luckily, this party had already gotten started.

Snape had moved in with an almost-immediate Expelliarmus to take care of Malfoy and was standing over him now, looking grim and vengeful; his stint in Voldemort’s Dark Army had left him with fast reflexes to show for his trouble, and Hermione suspected he owed Malfoy a grudge or two, left over from the Old Days. Bill, for his part, had dropped to his knees on the floor, next to the unconscious heap of petite-sized school robes that was Gabrielle, and was putting his medical field training from Gringotts to good use. Draco, looking shaken but unhurt, spared a quick, all-encompassing glance of speculation for his surroundings – and a curt nod of rather surprised greeting for Hermione – then hurried unsteadily over to peer over Bill’s shoulder.

That left Hermione to deal with the Book itself. And she’d barely gotten to the end of that first warning paragraph before Duathor’s acerbic prophecy began to self-fulfill.

There was something -- someone -- in her head.

And it wasn’t friendly.

It felt odd, as if someone had pitched a pup tent in her brain and was wondering whether or not to light a campfire. Hermione could still hear her own thoughts, but expressing them was another matter. Even as she struggled to wrap her lips around a warning, her vocal cords were already engaging in a sentiment that wasn’t hers: At last.

Free. At last I’m free.

It was a low, mellifluous voice that didn’t sound like hers in the slightest, and it made Snape look up at her sharply. That gave Lucius Malfoy all the opening he needed; with a snarl and a lunge, he was on his feet.

"Free?" he echoed, incredulous. "You have a hell of a nerve, talking about freedom, when you stole six months of mine."

On his way up from the library floor, he’d palmed the wand Hermione had left lying on the table next to her notes. Now, he brandished it like a torch before sighting down its length and aiming it directly at her heart.

"Do you know what they say about freedom, in Azkaban?" he asked, his voice gritty and shaking over the hated name. "They say you’re never really free ... until you’re dead. If you walk down the corridors between cells, that’s all you’ll hear, over and over again: a hundred voices crying out for death. Rita Skeeter kissed my hands before I killed her."

He looked her straight in the eye and smiled, a mad, feral bared-teeth leer that made him look rabid. "You want freedom, you meddlesome little mongrel bitch? Well, I’m here to bring it to you."

He never got the chance to draw his next breath.

**

Before Hermione could duck, before Snape could launch a counter-attack, before Bill could drop Gabrielle’s small limp wrist in a bid for his wand ... the Voice in Hermione’s head was already taking command of the situation.

This is twice now, it murmured to Hermione. You owe me, little witch.

No serpent this time. No glowing-green twenty-foot-tall statue. Just a laser-thin jet of emerald flame, scorching a neat round bullet hole in the bodice of Hermione’s robes as it burst from the mouth of the amulet around her neck and cannonballed across the room.

Hermione saw Bill’s mouth fall open, saw Snape’s eyes widen, saw Draco press Gabrielle farther back against the wall, his thin face fearful but determined. Saw the jet of flame pause just before striking, as if to prolong the drama of the moment.

Saw Lucius Malfoy turn, and look Death in the face, and scream out his hopeless, angry defiance – in those last terrible few seconds before it hit him, and turned his bones to ashes.

And then there was silence, stunned and pregnant, into which Sekhmet -- for surely, Hermione thought, it must be she -- dropped these words:

Ah. I needed that.

Any platitudes about frying pans and fires were at this point completely superfluous – just now, mere seconds after Malfoy’s demise, the Voice was louder, stronger, as if it had taken sustenance from his death. Your face, Hermione! Draco whispered, the sound loud and horrified in the still air, and she brought up her heavy, unfamiliar-feeling hands to touch it; was it just her, or did the angles feel unfamiliar, the nose longer and more Etruscan, the mouth wider, thinner?

"She’s taking me over," she said, and immediately wished she hadn’t – merely the effort of forming the words and pushing them through an unwilling vocal apparatus had exhausted her – and it seemed that as she tired, Sekhmet grew stronger. Hermione stumbled to a chair, slumped into it … and could have cheered, albeit weakly, as the telepathic window in her head chinked open and she heard Trelawney’s worried voice: Hermione? What’s happening? Where’s Malfoy?

Telepathy was easier than talking – no traitorous body to muscle back under control. Still, Sekhmet beat her to the punch: Malfoy’s dead. And then, moments later, Hermione felt her neck swivel and realised the Goddess was scanning the room through her eyes, pausing speculatively at the two heads, bright and pale, bent over Gabrielle’s tousled golden curls.

No question about how tasty they’ll be. Such pretty hair …

Anger and panic made Hermione strong, for a moment – No! – and then there had been pain, a streak of anguish behind her eyes that made her scream and left her limp and whimpering. Little witch, you forget yourself.

She had just enough strength to keep open the Link as Sybil hissed her Consecutus … and then wished heartily that she hadn’t, as Harry and Ginny slid to a stop by the library table a moment after Sybil’s arrival.

Had she thought this would improve her odds? Hardly.

She’d just brought Sekhmet three more potential victims.

**

Bill hardly noticed the new arrivals. His attention had swung past Gabrielle – still unconscious, but the shoulder was back in; if she didn’t go into shock she’d be fine, and it looked like young Malfoy was keeping her warm enough at the moment – the minute Hermione had screamed … and hadn’t wavered since.

She didn’t look like Hermione anymore. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t.

"Who are you?" he asked, as calmly as he could, and the girl in the chair swiveled her head toward him – the motion graceless and lumbering, as if whatever was driving her neck muscles wasn’t quite in control of them.

"Funny you should ask," that low throaty voice purred. "I’m about to show you. Little witch—" this, apparently, to Hermione—"pick up the book. Now."

"Hermione, don’t!" Snape ordered. The note of warning in his voice drew a laugh from the interloper.

"I warned you once, wizard," it murmured. "Do you remember? I do. I told you not to interfere – and you went sick and weak, merely at my touch." A grim, terrible smile flickered on what had five minutes ago been Hermione’s lips. "I’m stronger now than I was then. Do you want to feed my strength? Do you want her to?"

And again, in that hungry-sounding murmur: "Pick up the book."

Hermione obeyed.

"Ahhh." Sekhmet closed her eyes, beatific. "Three parts to the Binding," she said. "And now, just two. Throw it into the fire."

"No!"

This from Trelawney – a quick motion up from the floor, batting the waterstained little volume out of Hermione’s hands. The goddess hissed angrily.

"You," she accused. "The witch in my head. A hundred pairs of eyes, you have – looking, looking. But your knowledge can’t stop me. Only this." Hermione’s hand snapped out, caught Sybil full across the face – and dashed her to the ground with more strength than even a strong young witch in the pink of health should have been able to muster. "Pick it up," Sekhmet directed yet again, and Bill watched, bile rising in his throat, as Hermione’s hands plucked the journal from Sybil’s limp grasp.

"So many friends," Sekhmet mused. "Little witch, did you know you were so well-loved? And none of them can help you. None best try." She scanned the room with burning eyes. "Throw down your wands," she said. "My little priestess gives up her spirit tonight for a good cause, regardless of what you do. It’s up to you whether she goes easily, or whether …" here, a terrible sharp crack as she gave Hermione’s wrist a bone-crunching wrench with the opposite hand … "she doesn’t."

A high, soft keen from the throat – the real Hermione staggered in pain, and let go the journal. Sekhmet caught it with the other, uninjured hand and skimmed it toward the hearth; it hit the merrily crackling flames, and began immediately to burn.

And then came a ripping sound, no louder than a whisper, and a choked cry from Hermione, in Hermione’s own voice … as whatever it was that had taken up residence there stretched, and yawned, and began to peel itself away. Bill watched the unfamiliar features pull away from Hermione’s face; watched a smoky figure rise from the slumped body in the chair, to stand triumphant on blurred but independent feet.

"You …" This from Ginny, fighting her way out from behind Harry’s protective arm. "You look like Riddle," she said. "You’re all … blurry round the edges. You aren’t real."

That might be true, Bill thought – and it made sense, that Voldemort would have stolen that diary technique from somewhere. But he was more occupied with his own realisation … and, like his sister, he couldn’t quite keep it to himself."

"I’ve seen you before," he said, and the ghostly figure turned, inquiringly, to look at him. "I know you – from your temple. You’re not Sekhmet – you’re not a goddess at all."

Queen Hatshepsut shook back her loose black hair, straightened her robes, and smiled at him.

"Not yet," she said. "But I’m almost there. Just give me time."

**