Jewel Of The Nile

Chapter Fifty-Seven

If they were going to do something, they were going to have to do it fast.

Three parts to the Binding. And now, just two. Sybil, not daring to look over at the rag-doll figure in the chair that was Hermione, pondered this cryptic statement with a racing heart.

Joining the Book had released the captive spirit – released the possibility of her. Burning it had enabled her to progress from the limited realm of ‘possessing-spirit’, to the still-limited, but more independent, category of ‘shade’. Not a ghost, mind – because, as Bill was saying now (thank Merlin for Bill, Sybil thought, and those easy charming tones of his):

"So the history’s false, then. You never really died at all."

Rule One when it came to life-or-death situations: Keep the Killer Talking. It was fortunate, Sybil reflected, that Hatshepsut had been in Jordan – and then in a British library safe – for most of the history of television. Had she happened to see even one Bond movie, she would have known that Bill was trying to stall her, not flatter her. As it was, she appeared to welcome his line of questioning.

Sybil supposed that after the first dozen or millenia or so, living in a three-inch hunk of jade would get confining. Not to mention lonely.

And – purely from a clinical standpoint, mind you – William Weasley was a very handsome man.

"And why should I have?" the Queen said now, tossing her head. "What purpose would that have served? My daughter, dead – my lover murdered, his tomb desecrated – should I have settled meekly for the knife, then?"

Her tone was harsh, defiant. "I, the first female pharoah in history? I, who wore the false beard, the ceremonial garb of kings – the shendyt, the nemes, the khat? I, who brought back ivory and spices from Punt, who showered my people with fifteen years of honey and gold and cedar trees, who built for myself the grandest tomb an Egyptian woman has seen, even to this day? Should I have fainted under the sword when they came for me? I think not."

She lifted her proud chin. "Vengeance is a king’s prerogative. And I was – I am – a king."

Ginny, standing opposite from Sybil and at a ninety-degree angle from Bill and Draco, was trying to get her brother’s attention from behind Harry’s back. Sybil caught her eyes and read their expression instantly: distract her. She shifted her position, enough to draw Hatshepsut’s eyes away, and saw Ginny fumble for something in her peach-satin bodice.

"This is a long time to wait for justice," she remarked mildly. "Clever of you to perpetuate that epic among the Muggles, of course – you’ve no idea how many copycat Priestesses you’ve inspired, over the millenia – but I’m afraid that your wayward stepson was dust long ago. Why not arise to smite him, back when it still would have mattered?" She schooled her features into bland curiosity. "Hard to get out of that lump of rock once you were in, was it?"

Ginny had palmed whatever it was she’d been after, but was still too far away from Bill to pass it to him. Bill, who’d exchanged a quick glance with her behind Hatshepsut’s back, cast his eyes heavenward in quick thought, then gave the unconscious Gabrielle a gentle push, ignoring Draco’s fulminating glare in his direction. Gabrielle moaned, and Hatshepsut spun back around.

"She’s waking up," Ginny exclaimed, and pushed out from behind Harry. "Here – let me – Madam Pomfrey says I’m a natural healer."

Ballsy, Sybil thought, admiring, as Ginny – channeling the no-nonsense Molly for all she was worth – picked up the train of her dress, bustled so closely past Hatshepsut that her taffeta skirts brushed against the Queen’s ankles, and dropped to her knees in front of Gabrielle in a rustle of crinolines.

"Well?" Sybil prompted, and with a last suspicious look toward the little huddle of students, Hatshepsut swung round to look at her again.

Behind her back, Ginny pressed something into Bill’s palm.

"Well, no one had ever done it before," Hatshepsut said, her haughty face hardening defensively. "Merely that the spell worked was a triumph – why should it matter to me how long it took to arise? Revenge knows no time limits."

"Uh-huh." Sybil did her best to look sympathetic, but wasn’t making a very good job of it; it was a relief when Snape stepped smoothly out of the shadows and picked up where she’d left off.

"Most unfortunate," he agreed, and Sybil’s eyebrows shot up – he was practically oozing empathy, that practiced greasy pureblood charm that Malfoy had turned on whenever Cornelius Fudge was anywhere in the vicinity. Must have been a Death-Eater thing, she decided, and gave him a surreptitious thumbs-up. He ignored her.

"And it must have been particularly galling," he went on, "to have come so close, after so many years – to have gathered so much strength – imagine, the life-force of a hundred generations of witches! And then to have been thwarted. I must confess I’m curious as to how Duathor managed it."

"That miserable old crone," Hatshepsut said dismissively. "One would have thought she’d have been flattered, to serve as the handmaiden of a Deity. And it’s not as if I was stealing the bloom of her youth, either." A flickering shudder ran through her frame at the memory. "She was always writing in that journal," she murmured. "I’d stopped reading over her shoulder long ago. Short-sighted of me. She slipped that Binding Charm in right under my nose."

Clever, Sybil thought; the next time she found herself in a pub, provided of course that she got out of this room alive, she’d raise a glass to Duathor’s memory. "But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?" she mused, mostly to herself. "There must have been some added magical element in the book’s Division, since Joining it brought you back into Hermione’s head."

"Ah." Hatshepsut shot her a cool look. "Indeed. One spell to Bind me corporeally to the book, and another to Divide me in two. Under the circumstances, it’s fortunate the little house-elf never made it onto her boat – wouldn’t you say? That would have been the end of me, then and there." She looked pleased with herself. "One of my more fortuitous insights, that."

Sybil decided against further inquiry in that vein, in favour of more practical and pressing questions. "But the Book’s destroyed," she said. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bill rise from his knees into a half-crouch. "And – you’ll pardon me saying this, but if you thought doing that would make you a goddess, you’ve still got a long way to go. I don’t even think you can manage that green fire thing anymore, now that you don’t have Hermione’s body to steady you and the amulet to give you power. You were better off inside the rock, if you ask me."

The shadowy figure gave another shudder, this one angry.

"I’ll remember that you said that, witch," she promised, "once I’m restored to my rightful form. And it won’t be long now."

Behind and to the left, Draco produced a shimmering swatch of fabric – the Invisibility Cloak, Sybil realised, that he’d arrived half-tangled-up in – and passed it to Bill. One bright Weasley head blinked out of sight; Ginny and Draco gathered into a tighter huddle over Gabrielle, as though to mask his disappearance.

"The Book was my main hurdle," Hatshepsut continued. "And it’s in ashes. As for my power—" here, she smiled coldly—"all I have to do is take the amulet. See? I’m nearly solid enough to grasp it now." She closed her eyes beatifically. "And for the immortality? Simple. I just kill the girl. She’s halfway there, anyway."

At which point Harry Potter, who’d been, up to this point, watchful and utterly silent, finally spoke up.

"You’ll find that difficult, I’m afraid," he said in his clear hero’s tenor, and smiled at her when she whirled to face him. Opposite him, the Invisibility Cloak fluttered to the floor, and Bill scooped an unresisting Hermione out of her chair and into his arms. "Seeing as she’s on her way out."

"What?"

Hatshepsut did an abrupt about-face. "You idiot," she hissed to Bill. "You think you can outrun me? I’d like to see you try."

"Be careful what you ask for," Bill said, and held up between his thumb and his forefinger a tiny piece of wood no longer than a matchstick. "You just may get it."

A moment later, he’d Apparated … and taken Hermione with him.

**

Fortunate the little house-elf never made it onto her boat. That would have been the end of me, then and there.

Bill wasn’t sure what she’d meant by that, but it had given him an idea.

They only had a couple of seconds’ lead, at most – not enough to get comfortable in, but, given the proper handling, maybe it would suffice. They blinked into solidity on the roof of their Cairo apartment building, just in front of the cabana marked ‘Witches’, Bill staggering a little under Hermione’s dead weight.

"Come on, honey," he panted, and shook her a little. "You’re still in there, I know you are. I need you to wake up, just for a second."

"Hm?" She blinked and clutched at his arms as he lowered her to her feet. "Headache. Don’t make me think. God, it hurts."

Groggy, Bill thought – too groggy, for what she needs to do – and, steeling himself against his Chivalrous Upbringing, hauled back and slapped her sharply across the face. Her neck muscles engaged automatically, keeping her upright. Under the circumstances, he figured that was a pretty good sign.

"Wake up," he said again, more harshly. "This is life and death. You don’t have to think, but you do have to take orders. Come on."

Ginny’s wand didn’t want to work for him – it was bucking in his hand, probably angry that he’d made it do an Apparation Charm for a stranger. Relentless, he muscled Hermione into the nearest changing room and stripped her down with a quick "Divestio!"

Getting the mermaid gear onto her was harder. He pinned her up against the wall, trying not to jostle her injured wrist, and fumbled with the knot on the metallic sarong. Don’t bother with the bra, don’t bother with the hairclip – it’s just the skirt that holds the magic – but even now, there was a chill at his back, and a self-satisfied female voice: You’re too late, wizard.

"Ha," he panted – "that’s what you think."

"You think you can save her? You think you can stop me?"

The floor was beginning to waver. Bill stepped back, letting Hermione slump to the floor of the cabana, and grabbed Hatshepsut by the arm. His fingers sank in slightly – she wasn’t quite solid yet, not all the way, anyway – but held.

"I don’t know," he said, forcing himself not to look down at where Hermione was disappearing into the water. The gills will keep her alive. All you have to do is get her to the ship. "But I’m sure as hell going to try."

He jumped through the floor, and dragged the Goddess down with him.

**

A second of shock, as the cool water hit her heated skin. Hermione opened her eyes.

The pool. How’d I get here?

I never swim at night.

And then, Oh. I’m not here at all – I’m in Alexandria. I’m with her.

This must be a dream. Nice of her, to let me go out on a good dream.

But behind her, the water churned. She flipped around, half-spooked, to face her follower head-on.

A human man, his movements clumsy but determined, his red hair gleaming almost black in the dark water. Bill. And why isn’t he wearing his tail? As she watched, he opened his mouth to call out to her, and immediately faltered.

Silly man. She propelled herself toward him. Humans can’t talk in water.

And apparently, this particular human had never learned to swim, without his merman apparatus. Typical wizard, Hermione thought fondly with a flick of her tail. Helpless without his magic.

The ship. Need to get him to the ship.

A twinge of the old headache, sharp and metallic-tasting, that had gone away for a moment when she hit the water. She turned round again, and felt the cool wet slide of jade between her breasts. A black-haired woman struggled toward her.

Her. Icy jolt of fear, seemingly out of place in the calm water. It’s her.

She’s not supposed to be here.

The woman, at least, had the sense not to talk. She was weak in the water, her robes hampering her movement. As she paddled awkwardly toward Hermione, it was easy to see why she wasn’t getting anywhere fast; the water was heavier than she was, and her attempts to pull herself through it were doing more to tire her out than they were to move her forward.

Why ghosts can’t swim. Bill, you’re a genius.

On the other hand – this, with another look back toward his floundering figure – they don’t need to breathe, either. And he does.

The farther away she got from the black-haired woman, the better her head felt. One cheek was still smarting – Hermione wasn’t sure why – but that didn’t seem to matter. "Come on," she said to the rapidly weakening Bill. "Let’s get you to the ship."

She took his hand and began to tow him up to the surface. "Nearly there," she called back encouragingly, then froze. The black-haired woman had managed to get hold of one of his feet, and was taking advantage of the free ride.

Oh, no, you don’t.

She’d been thinking almost clearly for a minute or two there; now, that awful debilitating weakness was back, as she yanked Bill’s unprotesting form up through the last few inches of water to the surface. With the last of her strength, Hermione managed to wrap his hands around the rope ladder leading up to the ship’s deck; then she plunged back into the inky lagoon, at once relieved and terrified to find that the black-haired woman let go of his ankle immediately to follow her.

She was close, too; it seemed that as time passed, she grew more solid, better able to navigate the water. Hermione felt the woman’s fingers brush her tail, felt an icy shiver of lassitude worm its way up her spine to the back of her neck.

It’s useless, little witch. You’re valiant beyond question, but you can’t fight a Goddess.

I don’t want to die.

You don’t have a choice.

Fingers on her hips, sliding up into the concave dip of her waist. Fingers on the amulet, tugging hard enough to make the silver chain cut into Hermione’s neck. She yelped in protest.

Give in. Just let me take it. I promise you, I’ll make it quick.

Hermione felt her muscles going weak at the Lady’s touch, felt her gills flutter and slow. You will? she breathed, half-resigned. You promise?

Of course. Another hard yank – almost, but not quite hard enough to break the chain. Don’t you believe me?

And then, a rush of water like scissors through silk, and a scream. Hermione felt the fingers on the amulet slide away, felt her gills open and pulse with renewed energy. She looked down, and could have wept with relief.

Fidel.

**