Riddle Me This
By Bambu
Disclaimer: The original story ideas, concepts and characters of the Harry Potter universe belong to JKR and her assignees. I, regrettably, am not one of them; however, I do not intend any infringement of her rights by playing in her sandbox for a time.
Author's Note: Written for leela_cat during the 2011 SS/HG Exchange from her original prompt requesting a story based at an archeological dig in Egypt. With one or two notable exceptions, this story is book-canon compliant. Those exceptions include, of course, the Epilogue Which Should Never Have Been Published, and a clever bit of film-canon. Additionally, as I'm not posting the entire story at once, I shall include each chapter's riddle solutions and attributions as end-notes to the chapter itself.
Much thanks to my beta team of Bambumom, Lifeasanamazon, TalesofSnape, and SnarkyWench. They have been invaluable as sounding boards, Brit-pickers, and to catch those errant bits of punctuation which litter my work, no matter how diligent I think I've been.
As a final note, I shall never again think of a Bakewell Tart without a smile.
Chapter One
What has one voice, and is four-footed, two-footed and three-footed? (1)
She paced, restless. It was dark, but she had been left in the dark before. Long years she had waited, patiently guarding her secrets, and then one came bearing light into her domain. To share her burden, he had said. He remained for many moon cycles, and in an uncharacteristic show of trust, she had given him the keys to her kingdom. Her payment had been betrayal and imprisonment and darkness.
Snarling, her front paw dug into the smooth sandstone floor, and when she resumed her pacing, left behind were small divots where her claws had extracted the retribution she had been denied.
Day and night were indistinguishable in the dark, but she guarded the great treasury and bided her time. Men would come again, bringing light and empty promises.
This time she would be ready.
This thing all things devours;
Birds, trees, beasts, flowers;
Gnaws iron, bites steel;
Grinds hard stones to meal;
Slays king, ruins town,
And beats high mountains down.(2)
It was early summer and the Queen's weather graced London with blue skies and sparkling sunlight. In Diagon Alley, a heavily pregnant Fleur Weasley made her way toward a snowy white building with burnished copper doors. She didn't notice the admiring glances from those she passed on the cobbled street; however, she remembered her placement at Gringotts Bank and nodded politely to the liveried guards flanking the front entrance. She had been to the bank hundreds of times, but this time, she barely glanced at the warning etched in the inner silver doors - For those who take, but do not earn, Must pay dearly in their turn - before entering the vast public banking hall.
The hundred transaction desks and myriad doors cut into the walls were familiar sights. Crowds of magical folk conducted their daily business, but Fleur hadn't come for a deposit or withdrawal of funds. Her shoes clicked on the highly polished black and white marble floor, one staccato note amongst the background symphony, as she crossed to the gold-plated door in the far wall.
"Bonjour," she said to the guard, and was unfazed when he did nothing more than nod curtly. He held out one, long-fingered hand, palm facing up, and Fleur placed her wand on it. A faint, golden glow limned the short length of rosewood accompanied by the hum of magic, and after a fraction of a second, the golden color deepened until it was crimson. The guard grunted in satisfaction, returned her wand, and allowed Fleur to pass.
The startling juxtaposition of ostentatious grandeur to everyday functionality no longer fazed Fleur as she entered the transport hub for the goblin bank's sub-levels. Six sets of rails ran through the hub, and when Fleur raised her wand, a small cart arrived instantly. She crossed between two sets of tracks, and with less grace than usual, settled herself on the cart's padded seat. Unlike those in the public vaults, these carts had a series of knobs to direct its operation. At the tap of Fleur's wand, her cart smoothly accelerated through the nearest tunnel.
Level sixteen was a newer level, carved out of the rock by Gringotts' goblins, and its dimensions accommodated human heights. Golden mage-lights floated near the ceiling at intervals along the corridor as far as the eye could see. Fleur's cart shuddered to a halt at the platform entry, and she laboriously extracted herself while glancing at the floor directory etched into a silver plaque affixed to the smooth stone wall. The Curse-Breaking Department was nestled between Treasure Retrieval and Customer Relations. Fleur walked swiftly to the third offshoot corridor and down the narrowed hallway to a small office before she paused in its doorway.
Seated behind a desk, piles of parchment and numerous scrolls scattered on top of its well-worn surface, was a curly-haired woman using her wand to levitate and rotate a hand-sized fragment of a much-faded and cracked papyrus. She seemed entirely unaware of her visitor's presence.
Fleur's temper flared, and her silver hair began to shine brighter than the surrounding illumination. "What have you done with Bill?" she asked abruptly.
Startled, Hermione Granger flinched, her wand jerked in her hand, and the floating papyrus spun wildly. "Fleur!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"
Fleur tilted her head at an oddly bird-like angle. "Where is Bill?"
"Sorry?" The papyrus spun out of its neat orbit and into Hermione's line of sight. She quickly cancelled her spell and the fragment wafted to the desk.
"Bill. My husband. Where is he, 'ermione?" When stressed, Fleur's accent thickened.
"Er—" Hermione blinked myopically. "Isn't he at St Albans?"
Fleur curled her lip disdainfully. "Zis was a waste of my time."
Hermione was on her feet, and coming round the desk. "Wait! Has something happened?"
"I do not know. Only zat Bill has been gone for a week, and I have had no word in two days."
"A week?" Hermione's eyes narrowed. "That's not like Bill."
"Of course not. My Bill Floos every night, if only to say good night to ze girls."
"Maybe—"
"He nevair forgets to say good night to ze girls!"
She tossed her mane of silvery hair, and Hermione nearly laughed at her friend's attitude, but Fleur had a point. "I know he doesn't; he adores the girls. But, Fleur, Bill and I haven't worked together for a couple of years. Why would you think I—"
"Because zat is what his note said. I'll be on assignment for a couple of days. Check with Hermione if you need to reach me." Fleur stamped her foot. "Well? I need to reach him." Hermione opened her mouth, yet Fleur's wobbly chin prevented her from commenting. "He needs to come home, 'Ermoine. It is near my time."
"Near?" Hermione asked, frantically calling her basic mediwizardry training to mind. She put her arm around Fleur and was shocked when the other witch started to cry. "Fleur! How near? Are you –? Now?"
"Not now, but soon." Fleur sniffled, and Hermione noted uncharitably that the other woman was still beautiful in her extremis. "Bill promised he would be here," Fleur exclaimed, and then she sobbed.
Hermione held her friend until the sobs subsided to hiccups, then Hermione neatly transfigured a comfortable chair from her umbrella stand. As she watched Fleur sit, Hermione was surprised by how awkward the pregnant witch was. Her concern heightened.
"Let me see what I can find out," she said before using her wand to tap three silver-chased runes carved into the narrow edge of her desk. Instantly, the center portion of the desktop, containing the papyrus fragment and other miscellany, dropped into a recess. Immediately, a thin sheet of wood extruded from one inner edge of the desk and slid across the gap to meet the bottom edge of the other three sides, filling the entirety of the space vacated by the previous desktop. The fresh, polished wooden surface, too, was worn with age and use.
Hermione nodded once, then, with a quick jab and swish of her wand, she levitated a glass and small jug from her single bookcase. A flick of her wrist and a silently cast Aguamenti filled the jug with water as it floated across the room to land softly in the center of the now empty desk. Her precision was such that the water didn't slosh in the pitcher. "Make yourself comfortable," she said. "I don't know how long it'll take."
Fleur smiled faintly. "I will wait."
"You remember the way to the ladies?"
"I remember, and I will wait. Victoire and Dominique are with Molly."
"If you get hungry, remember it's Wednesday." Fleur's grimace showed that her memory of traditional goblin fare served at the employees' canteen remained unblemished. "There's a packet of crisps behind the kettle," Hermione added as she tucked her wand into its sheath and strode from the room. "I'll be as quick as I can."
Fortunately, Bogrod was in his office. Unfortunately, he was the very same goblin Harry had cast the Imperius Curse on during the last days of the war. As a result of Ron, Harry and Hermione's break-in to the Lestrange vault and subsequent break-out, Hufflepuff cup in Harry's singed hand, Bogrod had suffered a demotion. After the war, Kingsley Shacklebolt had negotiated adequate restitution on behalf of the trio. Among several non-negotiable clauses in the eventual agreement was one stipulating fifty-two weekends of in-bank service under the direct supervision of Bogrod. Hermione would long remember the malice glittering in the goblin's black eyes that very first Saturday as he'd set the trio to cleaning the muck heap near the empty dragon's lair.
When the year was at an end, Hermione had found herself with a job, the grudging respect of her supervisor, and a return to being single. Ron had resented every moment of his time in the Gringotts' caverns, and he had belittled Hermione's, and even Harry's, interest in the goblins and their culture. Ron frequently derided his friends' willing efforts at recompense, clung to the belief they should be given an amnesty for any of their wartime exploits, and had destroyed any possibility of turning his relationship with Hermione into a more permanent one.
And yet, she counted herself richer in the long run. She might have lost one Weasley, but she had found another. Bill Weasley had returned to Gringotts within weeks of the war's resolution. One Saturday, he had ridden the carts reserved for the bank's clients to the large cavern where his brother and friends were slogging to repair the stone walls of the dragon den. Under Bogrod's suspicious, watchful eyes Bill had shared his lunch, and when the four had been nibbling the last of their crisps, Hermione had pulled out her current book, The Essential Goblin: Bargains, Agreements, and the Concept of Ownership. Bill's interest had been piqued and a firm friendship had grown from that moment. Hermione became a frequent visitor at Shell Cottage, cementing her friendship with Bill and forming one with Fleur.
While Bill became Hermione's mentor, Bogrod remained her supervisor at Gringotts. In fact, her accomplishments reflected well on the disgraced goblin. He regained his rank, and then was promoted above his former customer relations colleagues, some of whose noses were left out of joint as a result of his success. Bogrod hadn't minded at all.
In any event, Hermione's initial plans for a career in Law Enforcement had been derailed, and she had embraced the change to curse-breaking with customary zeal. She admired a number of the goblins she worked with, abhorred much of their treatment at wizards' hands, but also acknowledged their warlike, avaricious nature often put them at odds with other magical folk. In general, Hermione held a respectful regard for goblins and a cautious one for Bogrod in specific.
Hermione stood in her supervisor's office doorway, and as protocol dictated, waited for him to acknowledge her.
"What do you want, Granger?"
"I'm not quite sure how to ask, sir."
"Then don't." Bogrod pulled a scroll toward him and picked up his quill.
Hermione forestalled his dismissal by being blunt. "What has happened to Bill Weasley?"
Bogrod's quill hand paused between ink bottle and parchment, black ink forming a globule at the tip of the quill's nib. Neither human nor goblin noticed.
Beetle black eyes focused on her and Hermione shifted her balance. Suddenly, she was very concerned for her friend's safety.
"Why do you ask?" Bogrod's tone was so bland Hermione could practically see a veil of Occlumency settle into place.
"Apparently, he's in the habit of Flooing home at night to speak to his daughters. They haven't heard from him in days."
The moment attenuated. Then it broke. Ink splattered the parchment and Bogrod blinked before his features settled in a wizened frown. "In the past, McLaggen–"
"Cormac's working in the private sector now." Hermione kept her opinion from coloring her tone. She never complained about McLaggen's frequent attempts at coaxing her into his bed, one more celebrity notch in his bedpost. She had been quite relieved when he elected to jettison Gringotts for more lucrative possibilities.
"Irrelevant." Bogrod dismissed the former employee with a one-shouldered shrug. "All senior breakers are assigned. It was Weasley's territory."
As Deputy Head of Department, the entire wizarding world was Bill's territory, but Bill knew more about one than any other. "He's in Egypt then," Hermione said. "Despite his impending paternity leave Bill went to Egypt." Black eyes stared into hers, and Hermione knew there was more to the story. "Everyone thinks he's been in St. Albans." She bit her lip momentarily. "The Ministry's involved, isn't it? And the Egyptian Ministry, too."
Bogrod frowned. "Gringotts doesn't pay you to speculate."
Hermione smiled. She couldn't help it; she was right.
"Send the Veela away." Bogrod pointed a long finger at Hermione. "Your Portkey will be ready at three."
Hermione's smile faded. "You haven't heard from him either."
"It is not uncommon with Ministry involvement. Now go. Send Weasley's wife away. Then return to your domicile and pack. Your assignment may be prolonged."
Suspicion blossomed like a particularly bright firework in her mind. "What aren't you telling me?"
Bogrod snarled. "Is my faith in you misplaced?"
"No. Sir."
"Good." He pointed to the door. "Do not say he's been cursed-"
"What!"
Bogrod's sigh forced the tiny pool of ink to trail across the parchment in thin rivulets. "Weasley was cursed two days ago. You may be gratified—" he chuckled, a dark rather evil sound, "—to know McLaggen was the first to fall."
Hermione stared, her mouth dropping open. "Cormac's there, too?"
Bogrod snapped his fingers and the parchment was pristine once more. "You will go to Egypt, Granger. You will protect Gringotts' investment. You will discover the cause of Weasley's curse, determine if he can be fixed, and then you will fix him."
"What about Cormac?"
"What about McLaggen?" Bogrod asked.
"Do I fix him, too?"
Bogrod shrugged. "If he's there. If he is broken beyond repair, leave him. We have no interest in wasting our resources." He waved his long-fingered hand in a shooing motion. "Now go!"
Hermione raced down the corridor, trying to work out how to soothe Fleur, how to tell her something but not forsake professional confidentiality. As she turned the corner to her own hallway, Hermione tried to remember where she'd put her beaded bag. It looked as if she would need it again.
The more you take, the more you leave behind. (3)
Men had come again, bringing light into the once-famed seat of learning. In her time, she had learned caution, had learned to her great cost that treachery might lie behind a pleasing façade. These men, too, were compelling in their need, but they bore the taint of the Betrayer, and as was the nature of her kind, she sought swift retribution. In so doing she had broken the covenant granted her as eternal guardian.
Now, she paced relentlessly, her wing muscles aching to stretch to their full extent, but her prison was too confining. Her claws extended, slashing here and there, searching for an opening to exploit, a way out. None could she find, and thus retreated to her domain, and there, amongst the knowledge of the great age, she waited.
Someone would come.
I can be quick and then I'm deadly,
I am a rock, shell and bone medley.
If I were a man I would make people dream
I gather in millions by ocean, sea and stream. (4)
Perspiration dotted Hermione's brow within the first minute of her arrival. Luxor was significantly hotter than Alexandria where she had met representatives from Egypt's Supreme Council of Antiquities, Wizard Section, and the Ministry of Magic's Department of Cultural Relations. She had presented her credentials, reassured the bureaucrats she had no designs on Egypt's artifacts beyond the scope of her assignment – yes, copies were on file with the appropriate authority - and acquired the Portkey to her final destination. Hermione later discovered the small copper and aluminum disc used for her Portkey was a ten piaster piece; a local Muggle coin.
Stepping from the relatively cool building set back from the Nile's east bank, Hermione inhaled the river's rich scent and squinted against the glare. She scanned her surroundings, searching for the dig site's representative who was supposed to meet her. She saw many wizards, but no witches as far as she could tell. In the near distance, sunlight reflected off a head of gleaming white hair; momentarily, Hermione thought Fleur had broken her promise to stay with her in-laws. And then, in an instant as chilling as a bucket of iced water dashed in her face, Hermione recognized the person. It was a man standing aloof from his fellows, impeccably dressed to suit the locale. Furthermore, it was a wizard she knew.
As if her recognition were a beacon in the night, Lucius Malfoy turned his head in her direction. He nodded briefly in acknowledgement and strode toward her. Hermione gritted her teeth and held her ground, but she couldn't halt the reflexive curl of her fingers as they closed over thin air rather than the satisfying hilt of her wand.
Lucius correctly interpreted her reaction to seeing him. "I see Bogrod neglected to inform you of my participation in this venture," he said as he drew near. While still handsome, his face had aged in character rather than beauty.
"A trifling detail which seems to have slipped everyone's mind," she replied tightly, noting signs of strain around his eyes and the way he held his mouth – as if against pain. Hermione wanted nothing less than to care about this man's troubles. He had caused her enough anguish for a lifetime.
"Severus was unable to tear himself away from a potion, and he insisted you be met by someone you knew."
"Severus? He's here? I thought he was in St. Albans. Oh." She rolled her eyes. How could she not have seen the connection? She asked, "I take it he's the Dark Arts expert?"
"You don't consider my expertise, Miss Granger?" Lucius asked in a flat interrogative tone.
"I assume you're the financier." When he nodded in reply, Hermione continued, "That fact alone would negate any expertise you might have in the eyes of Gringotts. They would require an independent expert before entering into an agreement with you."
"And so they did," he said negligently. Lucius raised his arm, indicating she should accompany him in the direction of the river. "Shall we?"
"You neglected to mention whether Severus was here or not."
"I thought the answer implied." When Hermione refused to be mollified, Lucius answered tersely, "Have it your way. I assure you I have no malicious designs on your person, Severus is indeed the Dark Arts expert on hand, and he awaits your arrival with bated breath. As do we all."
"No need to lay it on with a trowel, Mr. Malfoy." Hermione settled her wide-brimmed hat on her head. She would burn horribly otherwise. "A simple yes would've sufficed."
"Yes, Miss Granger." The slightly mocking tone trailed off into a sigh, and Lucius asked, "Would you like to contact the local Gringotts branch to validate my status?"
He was far too intelligent for the offer to be a bluff, and Hermione realized he expected her to seize the opportunity to embarrass him. Instead, she said, "That won't be necessary."
His brows rose, but he quickly regained his facial control, and was deliberately civil. "May we go now?"
"I'd like to know about Bill Weasley. He's the reason I'm here." Hermione wondered why his mouth pinched into a bloodless line. With some additional trepidation, she asked, "How is he?"
"As well as anyone could expect given the circumstances." She didn't think he was prevaricating; however, her past experiences had taught her to be wary of him. "Once again," Lucius asked, "shall we?"
"All right."
He led the way along a stone path to an open expanse of greenery, a small park filled with various street vendors hawking their wares from potions ingredients and spices to personal tea services and beautifully woven fabric. One of the vendors was a dark-haired, dark-skinned young man wearing a common white gelabiyya. Hovering behind him was a pile of carpets, some fringed, others frayed, and still others of fine cut, color and weave.
Lucius handed the young man a galleon.
"Mr. Lucius." The young man nodded deferentially and drew a wand from his sleeve. With a muttered incantation a wide, thick carpet bucked and flexed, forcing its neighbors to give way. It shot out from its position in the upper third of the floating pile, and neatly swept in an arc, gliding to a halt in front of Lucius, hovering a foot above the grass
Hermione's voice reflected her astonishment. "A flying carpet? I've never actually seen one. How do you ride?"
"It's a carpet, Miss Granger." Hermione glared at Lucius, and to her surprise, his impatience seemed to vanish. "You may stand on it if you've the talent to hold your balance. Many prefer to sit in a cross-legged fashion. You're not wearing a skirt under your robes?"
"No. I'm wearing jeans, but how do we – er – mount?"
Openly amused, Lucius said, "Let me show you." The carpet remained stationary as he stepped onto it, no wobbling or dipping in the middle. "It's quite stable." He then offered her his hand. "Miss Granger?"
Hermione looked from his hand to his face, and back to his hand. The moment attenuated, and then she accepted his assistance. His hand was dry and warm. She passed through a Disillusionment shield, and then it was as if she'd stepped onto a solid floor.
Lucius waved his wand and the carpet rose. Hermione gasped at the swooping sensation in her stomach. "I think I'll sit," she said faintly, and proceeded to fold her legs beneath her as the carpet ascended higher than the nearest buildings.
Lucius looked down at her, the corner of his mouth quirked. "It would be rude of me not to join you." He crossed his legs at the ankles and lowered himself gracefully to the thick rug. "The view is spectacular from here," he said, indicating the wide river, and the green ribbon of lush, cultivated land running along its sides, "if you ignore the eyesore of urban sprawl."
"It's quite a sight." Hermione replied, one hand clutching her bag, the other clutching the carpet's fibers as if they would anchor her in place. "The lack of rails is a trifle disconcerting."
His head swung in her direction. "Do you not like to fly?"
"Not particularly."
"It is one of the joys of being a wizard, I think."
She glanced at him sharply, searching his tone and expression for disdain and finding none. He was, she recalled, an excellent actor. She said, "Probably. I've had several rather unfortunate early experiences, including flying on the back of a Thestral."
"That's quite astonishing," he said, clearly intrigued.
"There are few things more unnerving than flying an invisible creature." When it was clear she had nothing further to say on the topic, he resumed his sight-seeing.
Hermione removed her hat, allowing the rushing air to cool her head, as she continued to dart glances at the scenery. Sailing boats dotted the river with their distinctive tall masts and white sails, and a number of Muggle tourist boats chugged along in stately fashion. Cutting a swathe in the cultivated farmland were clusters of buildings, both whitewashed and the dun color of clay, and in the distance, the sun-baked desert spilled off the hills, encroaching on the fertile land below.
It was, Hermione reflected, a little like being in an airplane, with less comfortable seating and rather more exposure to the elements. The view was spectacular though, and Hermione began to relax. As she released her grip on the carpet she really looked at it for the first time. Its elegant, floral scrollwork and comforting sepia tones was entirely familiar. "Good heavens! Is this an Axminster?"
Lucius glanced at the carpet, and his tone was chilly. "I may have to live in exile, but I see no reason to sacrifice the comforts of home."
"Of course." Hermione replied, and then she giggled. "Sorry. It's just … just …"
"What?" His tone chilled further.
"It's exactly the same as the one in my parents' library. I wasn't expecting to find a … er … one of them here of all places."
"I see."
They lapsed into awkward silence, but shortly thereafter, Lucius recovered his aplomb and pointed to the left. Hermione automatically turned to look. Two statues rose from the dry dirt, easily fourteen meters in height and in considerable disrepair, but majestic nonetheless. Hermione was struck by the juxtaposition of the statues to the Muggle motorway running alongside. There were no tourists, just modern life speeding past ancient history as if it was part of the landscape, as indeed it was.
"Who are – were they?" she asked. "Do you know?"
"Amenhotep the third. They flanked the entry to a temple erected in his name. It has long since been destroyed."
There were no signs of crumbled walls, just a dry and dusty field. She said, "Perhaps there are treasures buried beneath the surface."
"Perhaps."
"Is this our site?"
"No, but it's not far from here." The carpet angled as if to follow his thought. "Our destination is the temple complex at Ipet-isut."
"That's Karnak?"
"Its original name. I believe it means 'the most sacred'."
She nodded. "Isn't it terribly crowded with tourists – both Muggle and magical?"
"Indeed. We are fortunate our location isn't open to the public as yet, although Muggle archeological expeditions provide the reasons we've taken a number of precautions."
"If the site is so dangerous, why hasn't the Ministry put it on the proscribed list?"
"Regrettably, it was first discovered and explored by Muggles, and then some years later Nestor L'Hote visited the site on behalf of the ministry. He was little more than a squib and made his life in the Muggle world. But his observations were accurate, beyond anything at the time, and he found no trace of wizards.
"When it was discovered that the Precinct of Mut housed magical artifacts, it was simply too late and knowledge too widespread for the Ministry to take effective measures."
"Unlike Shangri-la," Hermione murmured.
"Exactly." Lucius turned to look at her fully. "Although rumors of its existence persisted for decades."
"And have resolved themselves into myth, legend, and fiction."
"Correct." He glanced at the desert before continuing. "As Karnak is of historical significance to us and the Muggles, the Department of Cultural Heritage and Supreme Council of Antiquities have come to an understanding."
Hermione noticed his use of the word 'us', and it seemed terribly out of character for him to include her as part of 'us'. Yet, there had been no special emphasis, or lack thereof, on the word. She shelved her thoughts for later contemplation. "In other words," she said, replying to his comment, "we're working along parallel lines, but we are on hand in case of a development which might damage the Statute of Secrecy."
"As well as exploring a potentially important find."
"Is that why you're here? Why Bill was sent?" As an afterthought she said, "And what about Cormac McLaggen? Why -"
"Please, Miss Granger. If you will hold your questions until our arrival, Severus can provide you with full details."
"But—"
He inclined his head, and his white hair gleamed in the sunshine. "Would you believe my account?"
There was no way to answer that question without offending him or lying so she remained silent.
The carpet banked, gently but deliberately, and as it completed its turn, Hermione was facing the sun. She squinted into the glare, and raised her hand to shade her eyes.
"You don't use an Anti-glare Charm?" he asked.
"I considered it, but thought you might misinterpret the gesture if I pulled my wand."
"Perhaps. I wouldn't take it amiss now."
She was more relieved than she would like to admit when she felt the smooth shaft of wood in her hand. Hermione cast the Charm on herself, fully aware that he was watching her while pretending to admire the landscape on her side of the carpet. It seemed he was equally wary of her.
"Better?" he asked.
"Much," she replied.
In another moment, Lucius said, "There we are."
When she could see beyond the sun's glare, Hermione was startled by the reality of Karnak's location. The temple complex was nestled between a main road running parallel to the Nile's bank – the east bank, she reminded herself – and the urban sprawl Lucius had commented upon earlier. Nonetheless, while Hermione had lived in a thousand-year-old castle for six years, these ruins recaptured that breathtaking moment when she had first seen Hogwarts. These ruins were three times the age of the castle, and time had not been kind. It gladdened Hermione that they had withstood the predations of time and were still appreciated.
As the carpet flew over the double colonnade of the main temple, she was astonished by the numbers of people funneling through the temple ruins, herded by tour guides.
"How in the world did you find something magical here?"
"Not I and not there." Lucius nodded toward the open air exhibits. "Our location is south of the main complex in what is known as the Precinct of Mut."
The carpet flew past the Luxor temple and over the rectangular sacred lake. Hermione said, "I've only read a little about it. Isn't there a second sacred lake shaped in a horseshoe?"
"Isheru. That's where we'll find Severus."
"In the lake?" she asked, half-joking.
"Under it," he replied as the carpet glided to a neat stop, a foot off the ground, hovering above a patch of scraggly, tough camel thorn near Isheru's reed-dotted bank. When Hermione stepped off the carpet, a cluster of black-winged stilts took off from the nearby shore as if they were a sign welcoming her arrival.
Two bodies have I though both joined in one
The longer I stand the quicker I run (5)
Seething with irritation, Hermione threw her beaded bag on the campbed. A tent. By all that was holy, her quarters were a tent. Yes, it might have all the mod cons, but it was a fucking tent! What feeble-minded lack of forethought had led her to believe international field work wouldn't include camping.
When Lucius Malfoy had shown her to her accommodation, neatly disillusioned and nestled amongst a palm grove just to the east of the Mut temple precinct, he had been pleased. The smug smile on his face had told her so.
"Here, Miss Granger," he had said, handing her an oval piece of clay impressed with an unrecognizable cartouche. "It's enchanted to guide you to the entrance of our location. Severus will meet you there when you're refreshed." He had then handed her a badge with the official seal of the Supreme Council of Antiquities.
"It's Muggle identification," she had said, and then flushed with embarrassment for having stated the obvious.
"It has been charmed so you shouldn't be bothered."
"A Muggle Repelling charm? How ironic." She had suddenly remembered the night of the Quidditch World Cup when a group of Death Eaters had tormented the Muggle family running the campsite, and the rumors that Lucius Malfoy had been the instigator. It was no wonder she hated camping.
"Should you draw unwanted attention, this will redirect their thoughts with a subliminal suggestion," he had said, turning on his heel and exiting the tent as if she'd accused him of miscegenation.
Hermione had stalked around the luxurious tent, discovered two bedrooms (one already occupied), a kitchen, a loo (complete with bath and shower), and the main room into which Lucius had escorted her. There was a small dining table in one corner with two chairs; piles of books and parchment, assorted quills and two bottles of ink showed there was work in progress. In the center of the large room were a sofa and two comfy chairs around a coffee table. Most of the comforts of home, she grudgingly admitted.
It was still a tent.
The week she had finally thrown Ron out of her flat, Hermione had returned to the Forest of Dean where she located the tent abandoned when she, Harry, and Ron were captured by Snatchers and taken to Malfoy Manor for interrogation and torture. When she had finally found the tent it had borne the brunt of fifteen weather-beaten, neglected months. Hermione had ruthlessly Scourgified the mess, packed the tent and all accoutrements, and returned it to Arthur Weasley. Closure, Hermione had reflected, came in many guises.
And here she was, eleven years after Voldemort's fall, in another bloody tent.
She sighed heavily, chastised herself severely to get on with it, and opened the beaded bag to unpack her things.
After ten minutes, Hermione had transfigured the campbed into something more comfortable and sorted her clothes and other personal items. She retrieved her Dictoquill and narrow scroll of memo-parchment, cast a privacy shield on her 'room' before tucking her wand in its sheath, and left to find Severus.
Outside it was hot. And dry. The palm trees offered little respite in the mid-day sun, and a small aggregation of donkeys jostled for available shade.
The cartouche-inscribed trinket subtly nudged her forward, and Hermione skirted Isheru's east bank, picking her way through detritus which appeared to have been underwater at some point. She surmised the lake had receded or otherwise been drained in the recent past. Ignoring the disc of pottery guiding her hand, Hermione took a detour toward the Muggle dig site. She wanted to get a feel for the physical layout of their location.
One of the first things she had learned about curse-breaking was to look at the big picture. Where an item had been found and in what condition were excellent clues toward unraveling curses or protection spells. Bill Weasley was widely acknowledged to be a stickler when it came to safeguards and recognizing when to request assistance, and he actively discouraged hubris in the department. She remembered his oft-repeated phrase: Confidence puts bounce in your step, but hubris will kill you faster than a Persian Breath-Stealing Curse.
Hermione was increasingly uneasy about her assignment. Cormac McLaggen was a competent curse-breaker and Bill exceptional; both had more field experience than she. Active in the profession for a decade, most of Hermione's field experience was based in Britain where Death Eater homes and hide-outs provided challenging practice. After decontaminating the Lestrange Folly on a solo assignment the previous summer, Hermione had been promoted to her current position. Since then, however, she had been office-bound, heading the Vault Survey Team in compliance with current Wizengamot rulings relating to inheritance laws.
The closest thing to a challenge had been the scrap of papyrus Severus sent her six weeks before. Translation had revealed it to be directions for a healing potion, or salve, but Hermione wasn't sure of the last, faded glyph. However, there was inadequate information to parse the list of ingredients and the quantities involved. Until Lucius Malfoy mentioned Severus Snape's name, Hermione had thought it a purely academic conundrum.
Despite the heat, Hermione shivered.
Severus was waiting to debrief her. He was Bill Weasley's first choice of experts in the Dark Arts, especially in challenging circumstances. And Severus hadn't let her know he was in Egypt.
She climbed a mud embankment to survey the broad expanse of the Mut Precinct. It was rubble-strewn and dotted with reconstructed walls and columns. Here and there work parties clustered, some wearing casual western attire and others in the blue gelabiyyas which closely resembled wizarding robes. One team of workers was devoted to removing camel weed and halfa grass, a vigorous plant which could grow through stone. As Hermione wound her way along wide baulks, the walls separating architectural features, she visually connected disparate structures into the outlines of what had once been impressive sites of worship. Passing the Taharqa gate, she paused to trace a hieroglyph carved into the stone. Several splotches of paint, sun-bleached from the original blue and red tints, adorned a leg or a face. Hermione marveled at the fastidious industry which had found and restored these pieces of history. And yet, much had been lost to time, successive conquerors, and the ever-present encroachment of the desert.
A gust of hot wind blew dust and sand into her face, and Hermione coughed. Shaking off her reverie, she continued on her way, passing a row of canvas-covered frames which shaded folding desks, plastic chairs and a series of enormous sandstone blocks on raised mustaba, the cement benches built to keep precious artifacts from further contamination. Above and overlooking Isheru's inner curve was a plywood shed and an electrical pole with power lines linking the dig site to the nearby housing district and the rest of the Karnak temple complex further north. Immediately adjacent to the shed was another canvas covered frame, and it was to that structure Hermione was directed by the cartouche-inscribed disc in her hand.
She paused at the empty shed, glancing around to see if anyone noticed her. To a casual observer it would appear as if she was looking at the lake, seeing the thicker regrowth of reeds on the eastern shores, and the newly excavated eastern quay. She ducked beneath the canvas awning and right through an illusion of a folding table and plastic chair. In reality, it marked the entrance to a staircase as broad as the tent was wide, leading down under the lake.
Lighting wasn't abundant, small metal bowls held flickering magical flames, and Hermione almost tripped as she tucked her hat in her beaded bag. She attempted to calculate the depth from what she'd seen outside but really didn't know. The walls were lined with aging hieroglyphics, evidence of decaying enchantments, but still noticeably blue, red, and yellow – a more vibrant version of the paint remnants she'd seen above-ground. She felt a twinge of guilt; Muggle archeologists would never have a chance to see these representations of what they so carefully conserved.
Hermione heard the conversation before she reached the bottom of the stairs.
"Did it never occur to you, Lucius, that Miss Granger wouldn't like being reminded of her lengthy sojourn in the English wilderness, especially by you?"
Hermione grinned at the irritated tone of voice. It had been three months since she had last seen Severus.
"How was I to know where she was living that year? There wasn't time to chat about housing while my deranged sister-in-law tortured the girl! "
"I asked you to put her in the—"
Lucius interrupted him. "She cannot stay in our guest room."
"Why?" Severus asked softly, but Hermione shivered at the cold anger in his tone.
"It's Egypt, Severus! She can't live with an unmarried man, or two unmarried men." Hermione listened harder, but wondered when Lucius Malfoy had become single. She had assumed he referred to Narcissa when he'd said 'our'.
"Muggle customs have never concerned you before."
Lucius replied in a hard voice, "We're not in England. The terms of my parole and exile are quite clear. I have given my vow to conform to local customs such that my behavior will not cause any embarrassment to the Ministry."
At that moment, a soft flutter of wings and a cool draught of air distracted Hermione, and she looked up as an owl flew past, bent on its mission to deliver the post. Hermione almost laughed aloud as she recognized the owl as hers. Persephone hovered for a moment as if unsure whether to continue her flight or abort it, but then she swooped down the stairs in pursuit of her goal.
When Persephone reached the bottom of the flight of stairs she flew through a magical barrier, evident by the motes of light spiraling outward from the point at which the owl crossed. With a twist and flick of her wand, Hermione determined the barrier served multiple functions. One of those functions acted as a doorbell, another, she noted, as she passed through the invisible spell-ward and into the cavernous expanse beyond, was to define the parameters of the charm which so rapidly turned the beaded sweat on her brow and upper lip to cool refreshing dots.
The chamber into which she had stepped could best be described as a subterranean forecourt, similar in style to those found at the Luxor Temple. It was a vast, high-ceilinged antechamber with radiating hallways leading south, west and east. The western corridor was barely visible beyond a scintillating, magical barrier. A dark detection shield had been layered into the barrier, telltale bright flashes of spell-fire flared every few seconds, indicating a contaminant. Hermione might have indulged her curiosity had Severus not stepped from a brightly illuminated room a short way down the hall to her left. He waved Persephone off with one hand.
Thoroughly amused, Hermione hurried the rest of the way, heedless of any noise she made. "I see you've got my note," she said, absurdly happy to see him.
He was dressed, as always, in black trousers and a white linen shirt, except his collar was unbuttoned and the cuffs of his shirtsleeves were rolled back. For the first time since she'd visited him in St. Mungo's after the final battle, and during his long convalescence, Hermione could see the visible reminders of Nagini's loving care. The scars from the snake's bite had aged to pale, parallel ridges on his neck. But that wasn't as remarkable to her as the fact she could see his Dark Mark. Like any regretted tattoo, the mark had faded over the years, but Dark magic sustained its presence long after the caster had abandoned this mortal coil.
Severus eyed her warily.
Hermione grinned.
"Did you bring my papyrus?"
"No," she replied, and then forestalled any snide comment he might have made by adding, "If you'll open your missive, it'll be in your hands. I had no idea you were here or I would've saved Persephone the trip."
Severus thanked the owl, telling her she could roost anywhere she was comfortable. Then he returned to the room he had so recently exited, followed closely by Persephone who had always been fond of Severus, probably due to all the treats he had fed her when she was an owlet.
"Well?" Severus' voice came from the inner room. "Come along."
"'Lovely to see you, Hermione,'" she muttered in a false baritone, following it up with a saccharine reply. "'Why, thank you, Severus. It's been a while.'"
Throwing off her irritation, Hermione stepped forward. She entered a spacious chamber built of enormous sandstone blocks with a surprisingly low ceiling. Sconces housing mage-lights were placed in numerous brackets, casting a warm golden tone on everything within. Placed along the opposite wall to where Hermione stood was a long stone bench, reminiscent of the mustaba she had seen above-ground. The bench held potions paraphernalia, including a small gold cauldron set above a very low, bluebell flame. A rack of bottled ingredients, Severus' spiky writing neatly inscribed on labels, floated in the air adjacent to the cauldron, far enough from the flames to protect the preserved ingredients and to prevent the disaster of their falling into the potion.
The other occupant of the room was seated at a worktable in the far right corner. His expression was one of polite disinterest as he toyed with a quill. Persephone flew to the back of a second chair, eying the blond wizard before she landed and tucked her head under her wing.
"Hello again, Mr. Malfoy," Hermione said cordially. "I'm afraid I overheard some of your conversation. Sound really carries down here."
Behind her, Severus halted, and muttered. "Gryffindor."
She whirled. "We're not doing the old school thing. It's rubbish."
When Severus laughed, Hermione ignored him and addressed Lucius. "You have concerns about your behavior embarrassing the Ministry?"
"Not at all, I assure you," Lucius replied, blandly.
Deciding kindness would ruffle his feathers more than stroppiness Hermione gave him a bright smile. "I'm relieved you think so. I also want to thank you for arranging my accommodation; I'm sure I'll be quite comfortable."
"A pleasure." His smile was tight. "If you will excuse me, Severus will bring you up-to-date. I hope you are able to join us for dinner this evening, Miss Granger."
"I look forward to it," she replied.
With a brief nod at Severus, Lucius departed, the sound of rapid footsteps dying quickly.
Hermione said nothing, waiting for an explanation.
Severus stared at her for a long moment. "Hermione—"
His tone alerted her, and she really looked at him, at the dark circles under his eyes, the extreme oiliness of his hair – always a sign of stress. And was he thinner? Suddenly, her misgivings about this assignment surged in a wave she couldn't duck, swamping any residual amusement from her Malfoy-baiting. "I wish you'd told me," she said.
"I—it has been difficult."
She couldn't rid herself of the impression he expected her to punish him in some way. "I'm not angry with you."
"You aren't?" he asked, and then his posture changed, becoming rigid and remote.
Hermione thought they'd dispensed with that nonsense. "We're friends, aren't we?"
"If that's what you wish to call it."
Hermione laughed. "We certainly aren't enemies."
"Hardly that," he said, his mouth curving in a sly smile. He crossed to his workbench, and broke the seal on the letter Hermione had sent. Tapping the thick envelope with his wand, the papyrus fragment slid from the parchment sleeve before floating to the far end of the workbench where it hovered. "In the past—"
"We're not rehashing the past." Hermione interrupted him while watching the hovering papyrus; a sheet of glass rose from the workbench where it had lain as a protective covering. "We've done that often enough—"
"To take it in jest."
"Yes," she agreed. "Friends do that, Severus. And friends don't always tell friends when they're out of the country on confidential assignments. It's not as if we're a couple."
Severus looked at her sharply, his attention diverted from his spell-work, but not enough to disrupt it altogether. "Indeed."
She stepped closer as he turned back to his task. The well-traveled papyrus fragment floated into a position directly above a larger document, one which had been flattened and held in place by the sheet of glass.
Foolish wand waving to Severus Snape generally meant extraneous fillips and flourishes. It had taken Hermione years to realize that his brilliance was in refinement. Like the marginalia in his sixth-year potions' text, spells of Severus' creation bore a distinctive, elegant minimalism. At present, he demonstrated that refinement in the subtle rotation of his wand, and his softly whispered, "Integrare."
The edges of the fragment flared as if lit by a match, and a bright yellow outline of the piece would be burnt into Hermione's retina for several minutes. There was an identical outline on the larger document lying on the table, which Hermione could now determine was also papyrus. Deep scarlet in hue, the magical outline exerted a magnet-like force pulling the fragment to the larger whole. In seconds, the fragment fitted into place and the joined edges flared once again, an amalgam of color, deepening to bright orange, and then subsiding as the pieces melded into a seamless whole, like a completed puzzle.
When he returned to the simmering cauldron, Hermione remained quietly observant. She had learned, over the years, that Severus was more forthcoming when allowed to follow his own timetable.
He picked up a reed stirring rod, and counted as he deftly added a gram of powdered asphodel to the cauldron, stirring the concoction anti-clockwise. Regrettably, Hermione didn't recognize the ingredient, only that it was a brown powder. As ever, his long-fingered hands manipulated the equipment with skill and grace, and she smiled with the simple enjoyment of watching an artist at work.
No matter how much she had grown to like Severus over the years, and despite the assignments on which he had helped, or the rather significant amount of time they had spent together, Hermione had never really considered him as more than a friend. He was an untouchable, like married men or priests, although Severus was possibly more faithful to a memory than many to a live woman or an ideal. His paragon of virtue had been the martyred Lily Potter. Beautiful, intelligent, lively … heroic. For her own peace of mind, Hermione had never allowed her admiration for him to veer into the category of romantic attachment, simply because his heart could not be touched by a mortal, real, fallible woman. And Hermione feared doing so might be the breaking of hers.
~o0o~
End Note/Riddle Solutions:
The answer is 'man'. This is the classic Theban/Oedipus riddle of the sphinx, and this version was the closest to an original translation I could find. The more modern version is this: "what speaks with one voice, and walks on four legs in the morning, two at mid-day, and in the evening three?"
The answer is 'time', and is one of J.R.R. Tolkein's riddles from The Hobbit.
The answer is 'footsteps', and I found this on the Riddle Poem Page on the internet.
I found this riddle at the , and the answer is 'sand'.
It is an 'hourglass'. I discovered it on .