Author's Note: This was written in 2016 for Round 7 of the Dramione Remix Fest.

First, my deepest thanks to my beta, eilonwy, for reminding me of the 25k word limit, dealing with the clumsy aftermath of my hurricane-esque edits, and giving me her time despite her several, and easily more important, real-life commitments. Any remaining errors are entirely my own.

Second, though no archive warnings apply to this fic, I do want to warn for violence, adult language, and secondary character death.

Third, my couple is Indiana Jones and Marion Ravenwood from the movie "Raiders of the Lost Ark." Here's their history:

Doctor Henry Walton "Indiana" Jones, Jr., more commonly known as Indy, is the world's hunkiest archaeologist. One day, he receives a commission from the Army: he must recover the legendary Ark of the Covenant, lest it fall into the hands of nefarious Nazi agents. The key to finding the Ark lies in Nepal with Marion Ravenwood, the daughter of Indy's late mentor. Marion, the world's booziest tavern owner, has something to prove. A two-year relationship with Indy - starting when she was a teenager and abruptly ending when Indy, ten years her senior, left to pursue his career in the United States - left Marion jilted and bitter. Now, a decade later, with her tavern burned to the ground and Nazis on their trail, Marion and Indy must work together to find the Ark and prevent Hitler from unleashing its terrible power upon the world.

Chapter One

Draco Malfoy, blond hair tousled and silver eyes dozy from eleven blissful hours of uninterrupted sleep, ambled down Malfoy Manor's main staircase. His slippered feet scuffed along the thick carpet, and his silk robe, tied loosely across his hips, revealed a scandalous amount of pale chest. The lie-in alone would have inspired a stern look and a snappish comment from Narcissa; his additional state of dishabille would have had him spelled into uncomfortable, restrictive decency on sight.

Fortunately, Narcissa was in Greece for a month, lounging by the seaside and drowning her sorrows in olives and ouzo. And with Lucius barely halfway through his hefty Azkaban sentence for war crimes, Draco had the manor to himself.

Practically to himself.

"Rosie!"

The last remaining Malfoy house-elf cracked into existence atop his feet. Draco swore and wobbled around her, nearly colliding with a large, antique vase. The elf looked up at him - probably too much of him, considering how the hem of his robe swung about her ears - with delight.

"Yes, Master Draco?"

"Breakfast," he mumbled, cheeks slightly pinked. He pulled the robe's sash tight. "Day ro-"

The elf was gone before he got the word out. He shared an annoyed look with the suit of armor standing guard across the hall and shook his head. "Elves."

A full English affair with eggs, beans, bacon, tomatoes, and toast, accompanied by a carafe of pumpkin juice, awaited his arrival. Rosie had cracked the window as well, and though the spring air still carried winter's chill, the invigorating smell of dew and budding greenery more than made up for it. Soon, he would be able to spend his mornings on the veranda. He would spend the whole day outdoors, in fact, liberally interspersing work with time on his broom. He stared out at the tree line, imagining it full and verdant against the bright blue sky, and smiled, tucking into his hot breakfast with gusto.

No doubt about it: Draco favored unemployment.

Or rather, he favored self-employment. He had tried the cubicle life for a few tense, post-war, post-Hogwarts years. The Ministry of Magic had felt like the right move at the time, a sign of his contrition and goodwill towards men. Given enough time, he might have been able to overcome the dirty looks from his coworkers. He might have been able to befriend a few of them, what with his charisma, good looks, and disarming humility.

It was the disrespect that finished him. The fetching tea for morning meetings, inevitably screwing up the order, and having to paste a smile on when the recipients questioned his intelligence and commitment. The endless taking of lunch preferences, to be delivered promptly and usually without reimbursement. The busywork - sorting boxes of scrolls, running memos between the offices of those too lazy to charm them the traditional way, taking meeting minutes without ever receiving credit or a speck of gratitude for his trouble…

No, thank you. His skills were better utilized elsewhere, specifically for his own benefit and the benefit of his family. And he had done a respectable job of managing it, so far. With Lucius indisposed, Draco had taken over the family company. He had distanced it from the economically and ethically questionable enterprises of the past and directed it toward long-term, reputable investments that would carry his family - and its wealth - far into the future.

One such investment was print media, and after Draco finished his breakfast, he turned to the spread of papers Rosie had arranged. The local, magical paper - Wiltshire Daily - was on top, per usual. And so, at half past ten in the morning, stuffed and still be-robed, Draco began his workday.

By noon, he had either read or skimmed each of the three local papers and four magazines he owned. By one, he had reached his last for the day, his biggest investment, the crown jewel of his burgeoning media empire: theDaily Prophet.

According to the Azkaban guards, when Lucius had first learned of Draco's new investment, his threats of violence against his son had been so extreme that they had considered extending his sentence. Most who had heard that rumor supposed it to be a good joke, but Draco knew just how closely it skimmed the truth. Lucius had considered disownment, flaying, and beheading as equally satisfying ways to deal with Draco's inexcusable lack of business sense . Fortunately for them both, particularly Draco, Lucius could do no more about it than write angry letters.

Unfortunately, Lucius had been right. The Prophet was a sinking ship, its readership having been damaged by years of muckraking journalism (not that Potter hadn't deserved some of it…) and its biased reporting during the war; according to his most recent sales report, Prophet subscriptions had dropped below those for the Quibbler. Draco believed he could patch the Prophet's leaks and return it to its former glory, but it would be years before he saw a return on investment.

That had not been a surprise, however. Draco was not a careless man and had done his due diligence prior to moving forward with the acquisition. What his father and sundry business analysts failed to understand was that his decision - the answer to the oft-asked question, "Why ?" - had not been motivated by money.

He forced himself to peruse the paper page by page, mentally noting what stories were being covered, what advertisements were being placed where, and the ratio of photographs to articles. At last, he reached the Wizarding Interest section, and his heart rate sped up a beat or two. His reason, his why, occupied most of the section's front page, captured in a well-framed, black-and-white photo.

Hermione Granger had been photographed in profile. The sun set just behind and to the right, so that the light just kissed her small forehead, rounded cheekbones, pert nose, and stubborn chin. She wore ankle-high, rubber-soled boots that were made for trekking over uncertain terrain. Her form-fitting trousers, Draco knew, were khaki-colored and specially woven to breathe in the heat and resist moderate wear-and-tear. Her white, collared blouse was unbuttoned enough to reveal a modest "V" of unblemished skin, all the more tantalizing for what it hid. His mind skipped forward, dispatching with the next two buttons to reveal the gentle rise of her breasts and the small, brown freckle which made its home on her left breast's inner curve. A tight, thick braid forced her curly hair into submission. Every minute or so, it swung across her shoulders as she turned to shoot the camera an annoyed look.

The sight of her alone was enough to make Draco smile, but her expression - her look of infinite, inexhaustible exasperation, like she knew exactly who was responsible for such an intrusion and what would inevitably follow - made him laugh aloud.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the photo was the best part of the story. The headline, MoM, DoM Finances Another Egyptian Dig, was poorly conceived, with too many acronyms and zero grab for all the drama it implied. The article itself was mere fluff, meant less to educate the public on the potential value of the dig and more to cast light on the Ministry's questionable spending practices and the free hand it gave to departments staffed by recent war heroes. The annoyance Draco felt about the sensationalist tendencies of modern-day journalism was short-lived; as long as papers continued to sell, he could scarcely complain. And he himself was partway to blame: he had promised a bonus to any reporter who could find her. He glanced at the byline. Eric Casey was going to have a very pleasant week.

So was he, come to that. Spain and Australia had both been lovely vacations from his blissful norm. And he had always wanted to visit Egypt.

Draco blinked ash out of his eyes to better see the lanky, bespectacled form of Mitchell McVean. Originally from the United States, Mitchell had come to the United Kingdom in response to the influx of Dark artefacts that had appeared in the market after the war. It had been a heady, and therefore profitable, time as items were bought, sold, studied, catalogued, and stored. After a few years, however, the flood of artefacts became a trickle, and Mitchell had found himself unemployed, a man with a passion and no profession.

He had then offered his services to private collectors. Draco took the American on and persuaded - though Blaise Zabini still called it bullied - him into signing an exclusive contract. Draco set him up in a well-equipped workspace and kept him occupied with a constant flow of cursed jewels, jinxed shawls, hexed books, and generally mysterious bric-a-brac.

Mitchell's eyes widened comically at the sudden appearance of Draco's face in his Floo, and he nearly choked on his bite of sandwich.

"Mitchell," Draco said, ignoring the man's coughing fit. "How are you?"

"Cut the shit," Mitchell croaked, a long-fingered hand splayed across his heaving chest. He set down the sandwich and removed his glasses to wipe his streaming eyes. "I saw the article this morning."

"Glad to see you're keeping up with the morning paper."

"Not much choice in it, as the owl you sent won't stop screeching until I start reading."

Draco smiled. "Yes, he's a good owl. Anyway, we leave this evening."

"No, we don't," Mitchell said.

Draco lifted his eyebrows in mock surprise. "No?"

"No," the American confirmed, gathering momentum and looking altogether too pleased with himself. "That mirror you gave me has a magical signature I don't understand, and the test I want to run can't be delayed."

"Oh, that's right!" Draco said, layering the sarcasm so thickly that his words seemed to land like physical weights. "How foolish of me. Here you are, living your dream, examining a private collection of Dark artefacts for a family who has been collecting them for years. A delay would certainly not be tolerated, unless, of course - and I'm sure you've considered this - said delay was officially sanctioned by the family whose vault contents are not only occupying forty of your waking hours per week, but also providing you the means to live in a flat instead of a mud hut."

Mitchell sagged against his desk, looking green. Draco rolled his eyes. In return for Mitchell's services, Draco required relatively little: a copy of all discoveries made, a substantial portion of the profits if Mitchell ever decided to publish his research, and the man's full cooperation with impromptu field excursions. Subtle reminders of one's contractual responsibilities were hardly a reason to fuss.

"I don't want to go," he muttered, thumbing a scrap of parchment on his desk. "I don't like fieldwork, and Ms. Granger is a bit-"

Draco cleared his throat; Mitchell shot a guilty glance into the hearth.

"A bit much to handle," he finished smoothly.

"That she is," Draco agreed, his tone warmed by an upwelling of fondness for the difficult witch. "Yet the facts are unchanged. She is one of the best researchers in the Ministry's employ, and you are the best researcher inmy employ. If we don't capitalize on opportunities like these, I don't acquire new artefacts, and you would have to acquire new sponsorship."

Mitchell's eyes narrowed, as if new sponsorship wasn't the worst alternative he had ever heard. Then, he frowned.

"You're threatening me," he half-asked, half-stated.

Draco was, of course, though he would never admit it. "I'm reminding you of the relationship between supply and demand."

Mitchell groaned and collapsed into his chair. He took another bite of sandwich and, with a vindictive glare at Draco, spoke around it. His voice was as thick as the revolting peanut butter he loved so much. "Fine," he said. "I'll go."

Draco repressed a shudder at the intentional lack of manners and said lightly, "Glad to hear you've come around on the subject. I'll arrange a Portkey. We depart at eight."

Egypt's dry, desert air hit Draco like a Bludger. Though it was dusk, sweat prickled on his forehead and across his chest, the temperature having not yet abated to the usual cool of April evenings. He pulled at his linen shirt. A weak puff of warm air ghosted across his chest, providing little relief. Mitchell grumbled behind him.

"Be glad it's not late June," Draco said, beginning the trek toward the Ministry's campsite.

"I'll be glad when this excursion is over."

"Where's your sense of adventure?" Draco admonished. "I thought that's what you Americans wanted: fortune and glory."

Mitchell stumbled in the shifting sand. "That's why I came to Britain," he deadpanned, steadying himself on Draco's proffered arm.

Draco shot him a grin. "I hope you see the error of your ways."

"I do," Mitchell said emphatically, his brown eyes wide and earnest. "I really, really do."

"At least the walk is brief," said Draco, offering the American what silver lining he could. "Their campsite is ahead."

"Just over that rise," Mitchell confirmed. "I can see the fire from here."

"The fire," Draco repeated, vaguely aware there was something wrong with the observation. His footsteps slowed, then stopped as he looked toward the sunset. Flickers of yellow danced over the low, golden dune, and a thickening finger of dark grey smoke marred the delicate shading of the pink and orange sky. Draco looked at Mitchell, whose mouth hung agape as he stared.

A faint, panicked, "Shite!" broke the spell.

Draco dropped his pack and began to sprint. He crested the small hill and slid down its face toward the Ministry's campsite, which was more ablaze than any campsite had the right to be. Orange and yellow flames burned merrily in the fire pit at the camp's center, trailed across the sand, and raced up the side of a canvas tent. He stopped several feet away, the heat from the fire more punishing than that of the ambient air, and drew his wand.

"Aguamenti maxima on three," he shouted to Mitchell, who skidded to a stop beside him. "One, two -"

A great howling overtook the sound of crackling flames, and Draco gasped as a wall of wind swept toward them. Too late to run, he could do no more than crouch, cover his head, and hope Mitchell did the same.

Suddenly, the wind veered toward the tent. Gathering speed, it began to twist, rotating and growing like a tornado. The whirlwind collided with the fire, and a great whoosh sent him sprawling. A pillar of flame rose from the charred tent into the darkening sky, illuminating the campsite and the distant ruins beyond. With a noise like a rocket, it shot skyward and disappeared, as brief and glorious as a meteorite.

For several seconds, Draco heard nothing but his own heartbeat. Then, Mitchell groaned.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said, holding up his busted spectacles by a bent earpiece.

Draco ignored his colleague's moaning. He scrambled to his feet and looked around, still half-blinded by the vortex of flame. "Hermione? Hermione!"

"INTERNS!"

Draco calmed and lowered his wand; he would know that screech anywhere.

"What was -"

Draco waved a hand behind him, motioning Mitchell to stay down. "Quiet," he said. "Don't draw attention to yourself. Just enjoy it."

"Enjoy it?"

From the smoke and gloaming stalked Hermione, wand drawn, looking resplendently singed and apocalyptically angry. Draco stayed very still as her sharp amber eyes hunted for her victims. Her lips turned in a fierce scowl as she spotted them.

"Which. One of you. Was responsible. For that?" She drew closer with each word, her petite frame looming over a cowering group of young people, not one of whom was under five-foot eight. An accusing finger pointed at the tent's blackened remains punctuated her fury.

The interns flinched and squirmed, but Draco felt steady. Too often had he been on the receiving end of Hermione's rage; seeing it second hand was a treat.

The anticipatory moment of silence had stretched for too long. Hermione gestured again for emphasis and yelled, "Well?"

All three interns started babbling at once.

"Todd made the fire, but Jim was responsible for gathering -"

"Heather said she knew the charm, said she could cast it in her sle -"

"No one else was volunteering, and we were hungry, so I -"

"Enough!" Hermione snapped. The silence was immediate and complete. "The brightest young minds the Ministry has to offer. That is how you were advertised to me. The brightest minds, who drink too much the night before archaeological work in the desert, puke the next morning, and don't have the sense to clean it up before their trusting chaperone steps in it."

A male intern with spiked blond hair, blue eyes, and sunburned skin looked down and away, like a chastised pet.

"The brightest minds, who mishandle potsherds in a pitiful and ineffectual attempt to impress a co-worker, and would have shattered the lot if it weren't for their sharp-sighted and magically adept employer."

Hermione's glare turned to the other young man, whose dark skin paled somewhat when he tried to meet her stern expression. He shifted his gaze to a point three feet to her left and instantly regained some of his color.

"The brightest minds," she continued, "who cannot cast a simple cooking fire without burning down their own bloody tent!"

The woman in the group - Heather, Draco surmised by process of elimination - blushed to the roots of her Weasley-red hair.

Hermione's blew out a frustrated breath, pinched the bridge of her nose, and closed her eyes. After composing herself, she looked back at her victims, who were all near tears. She studied each and, apparently satisfied that her message had been heard, nodded once.

"Right. Has anyone been injured?"

Each team member hesitantly shook his or her head. Draco nearly laughed. The interns may have been physically unharmed, but emotionally? He had to smile - the group would not soon forget that lecture.

"Good. Unfortunately, there's no undoing what's been done. The tent..." she glanced over to the spindly, charred frame, which collapsed into a heap under the weight of her stare. "The tent is irreparable," she said on a sigh, turning back to the interns. "And there's not enough room in mine for all four of us."

Draco cleared his throat and stepped forward, plastering on his most charming smile. Hermione's expression, which fell from determined to dismayed, put an additional spring in his step.

"I believe I can assist you with that," he said, sidling next to her. The interns stared at him with wide eyes. "Draco Malfoy," he said by way of introduction, nodding at them. "Businessman, billionaire -"

"Busybody," Hermione finished for him, arms crossed and hip cocked.

"Bringer of extra supplies," he corrected. "My associate, Mitchell -" He gestured back at his traveling companion, who gave a quiet, "Hello" to the group. "And I saw your expedition covered by the Daily Prophet, and had an undeniable urge to join the search."

"You saw it," Hermione said skeptically. "Randomly. With no prior knowledge. Just opened up the paper, and there it was, plastered across the Wizarding Interests section, just like the last time in Spain. And in Australia the time before that."

"Hit the Kneazle on the nose."

"And you don't think it's funny, don't even think to question the coincidence, that the papers you own are the ones reporting these private, Ministry-sponsored digs?"

Draco lifted both brows in genuine-looking surprise. "Never crossed my mind. Though I do believe the wordsprivate and Ministry-sponsored are mutually exclusive. A keen journalist would have no problem monitoring the Ministry's pending archaeological applications."

"And why would they be monitored, I wonder?" She narrowed her eyes at him, but he was not about to admit to incentivizing his employees to stalk her on his behalf. Especially before so many witnesses.

"Curiosity and an abiding interest in wizarding history, I imagine," was his blithe answer.

"Equivocate all you want, but I know the truth. And you can't be here," she countered, chin lifting in defiance. "This isn't like Australia or Spain. You need a permit for this site, and you can't have had the time to get one. Ours took months to go through."

From his peripheral vision, he saw the interns exchange a panicked glance. He bit his tongue to keep from grinning.

"Mitchell?" Draco held his hand out, palm up, and waited. He kept his eyes on Hermione as Mitchell worked behind him, summoning their bags, locating their freshly-inked permit, and sending it zipping to Draco. It landed in his palm with a faint slap. With a flick of his wrist, it unfurled, curling up onto itself as it hit the ground.

"Pity yours took so long. Let me know next time. I have a friend at the Egyptian permit department who's always glad to be owed a favor."

Hermione's lips thinned in frustration. "Our permit is exclusive."

Draco's brows rose again, but in real surprise this time. "I wasn't aware they granted exclusive permits. This is public land, after all."

"Ours is a special circumstance," she said, her tone too forced to be casual.

Draco narrowed his eyes. Though her flaws were few, Hermione had always been a shite liar. However, now was not the time to probe that particular point.

Instead, he heaved a sigh. "I'm not looking to get on the Egyptian Ministry's bad side. What about you, Mitchell?"

"There are several other things I'd rather do."

"Agreed. Well, you've bested us at last, Hermione. Show us your permits, and we'll leave at once."

Hermione's face lit with the most beautiful, victorious expression that Draco almost regretted what was about to happen.

"Our dig permit please, Jim," Hermione said, holding out her palm like Draco had done.

No movement. No sound.

Hermione narrowed her eyes and looked over to the interns. "Jim?"

The dark-skinned intern stepped forward, his broad shoulders awkwardly rounded. Fingers twining and untwining, he did not attempt to meet Hermione's eyes this time.

"The dig permit," he said in a small voice. "There's a… There's a, um, problem with that."

Hermione's hand fell to her side. Her expression became rigid as she prepared to hear aloud what she had just silently realized.

Draco had to strain to hear Jim's reply: "It was in the tent."

Hermione took a trembling breath, and Jim backed away into the relatively safety of the intern herd.

"You can see this as good luck, really," Draco said, struggling to sound somber.

"Oh?" came Hermione's waspish reply. "How is this good luck?"

"The request for a copy of the dig permit must be made in writing. Depending on volume, it takes five business days for the request to process, and then the permit must be retrieved in person by the requestor," Mitchell recited. His accurate but unprompted reply earned a glare from Hermione.

"Precisely. Rather than try to explain a week's delay to your supervisor, you can work under our permit." Draco shot Mitchell a chummy smile, which the chastised American did not return. "Considering your recent equipment mishap, we would be willing to share our supplies, as well."

"A joint company!" intern Heather exclaimed, as if the idea were original.

Draco smiled and offered her his hand. "What do you say, Granger?"

Pride was a large, spiny thing that puffed up when confronted and was difficult to swallow when bested. Draco knew firsthand what that was like, and so did not rush Hermione's decision. He knew what questions waged war in her mind. Accept help, or suffer a week's delay? Compromise, or return to the Ministry empty-handed? That was also why he did not worry. He knew, probably before she did, what her decision would be.

She took his hand and shook, her expression that of one who had made a losing deal with the devil and knew it. From her perspective, that might have be true, but to him, the arrangement fell firmly into the second chancecategory. Or third chance, if he were being literal.

Hermione dropped his hand. She turned away from him, from the entire team, and stalked off toward the homey glow of her tent. His heart gave a sudden twinge, but he tamped down the urge to go after her. Hermione dealt with losing the way most self-respecting adults did: a good cry and a stiff drink. He would talk to her later, when she was cried out and soused. Then they could make some real progress.

In the meantime, however, he had a campsite to organize. Hands on his hips, he surveyed the scene. The interns, though slightly more relaxed now that Hermione had disappeared, were still grouped together like wary cattle. Mitchell stood off to the side, an open pack at his feet, rhythmically tapping the various broken parts of his glasses to find the correct repair sequence.

It wasn't much to work with, but it would have to do.

"Which of you three has the most practical field experience?" Draco asked, addressing the interns.

They shared looks, then blue-eyed Todd piped up, "We're all first timers, sir."

"Anyone ever go camping?"

Silence.

"Who here knows how to cook?"

After a brief hesitation, Todd stepped forward.

"You're with me," Draco said before the young man could change his mind. "I'll teach you how to build a proper fire, and then we'll start supper. You two are with Mitchell." The two parties exchanged glances, each set looking like they had gotten the raw end of the deal. "Set up the tent and scavenge whatever supplies you can from that heap." He inclined his head toward the ex-tent.

Once Draco had the fire crackling at a containable level and intern Todd was cooking something he probably wouldn't ruin, he helped Mitchell with the tent.

"You're sure about this?" Mitchell asked, ducking inside as Draco secured the tent's outer posts with his wand. "A single bathroom and hot water supply shared among four other people? A common sleeping area with no privacy? You have a enough difficulty bunking with me ."

Draco pointed his wand at the bathroom, watching closely as the various tubes fit themselves together. "You don't actually think I'm staying with you lot, do you?"

Mitchell swiveled to shoot him a skeptical look and got boffed in the face with a pillow for his distraction. There was a snap of glasses breaking.

"Son of a -"

"Supper's on!" Todd shouted.

Todd exceeded everyone's expectations by preparing an edible meal. Draco piled four pieces of toast on a plate, scooped several servings of beans into a mug, and left the young group of four by the fire.

The distance between the firelight and the canvas flap door of Hermione's tent was maybe twenty yards, but walking it in the dark felt infinite. A million stars shone overhead, and the desert's vast, rolling dunes reminded him of the ocean's swells. He felt like a seafarer, navigating a calm gulf into unknown, potentially dangerous waters. An abundance of caution would not go amiss.

"Hermione?"

He waited for a reply. When there was none, he nudged his way into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind him.

"Come to gloat?"

Hermione stood wearing a pair of athletic shorts that stopped mid-thigh and a baggy t-shirt. She had showered. The smell of Satsuma and vanilla wafted toward him as she moved, and her curls were stretched out into waves from the weight of the water. Awash as she was in the soft, yellow-gold glow of candlelight, Draco momentarily lost the capacity to speak. Instead, he gaped at her like someone under the Imperius Curse, happily lost in the nonsense of his own mind, awaiting instruction from the one who held the wand.

She cleared her throat and shifted her weight. "Is that for me?" She nodded at the plate and mug he forgot he carried.

"Yes." His voice cracked. He shook himself and tried again. "Yes." There - much manlier. "I thought you might be hungry."

"Starved," she admitted. She sat on a low chintz-patterned armchair. He set the plate, mug, and utensils onto the coffee table, then fetched her a glass of water from the kitchenette. Placing his pack on the floor, he settled on the loveseat nearest to her and watched her eat. She finished all but the last piece of toast and accompanying ration of beans, which she offered to him. He wolfed it down and removed the used dishes to the kitchenette. When he returned to his seat, he was surprised to see three fingers of whisky waiting for him in a glass tumbler. Hermione held a matching glass. The sparkling amber contents exactly matched the color and shine of her eyes.

He took the drink and leaned back into the cushions, trying not to stare. "About today," he started.

Hermione cut him off with a sharp gesture. "I suppose you think I owe you a thank you," she said with no small measure of bitterness.

"The thought had crossed my mind."

"And I do," she continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "Thank you. Really. I may not have wanted you here, but I don't know what I would've done if you weren't."

"Quite the recommendation," he deadpanned.

She shrugged a shoulder and finished her drink. "It's the best you're going to get, at present." She poured herself another small glass; he wondered, absently, how many she had had. "I suppose I should tell you a little of what we're doing here."

"I think that would be helpful, yes."

Hermione set her drink on the side table, leaned forward to shuffle through the parchments on the coffee table, and handed him a map. He set his drink down, too, and unfurled the scroll.

"The site is called Pa-maru-en-pa-aten, or Maru-Aten for short. It was constructed in the late eighteenth dynasty by the pharaoh Akhenaten." She paused for a moment, then asked: "How well do you remember Binns' Ancient Egyptian history?"

"Well enough to remember that one of Akhenaten's consorts was Nefertiti, and one of his sons was King Tutankhamun."

"Maru-Aten wasn't constructed for either of them," she said with a small smile. "Since it's not big or flashy, it was overlooked for a long time. The site was excavated by Muggles in 1921, but it hasn't been touched since."

"What did the Muggles find when they excavated?"

"Enough to understand the site's basic layout. It's three kilometers - a little under two miles - from the city of Akhetaten. You can see how it was built on the map - two adjacent structures, one slightly larger than the other. Each showed evidence of water features. The larger structure enclosed a lake, and the smaller one had a pond. There were gardens, trees, flower beds…" She trailed off, staring at the map, her eyes faraway. "I imagine it was beautiful. Peaceful."

"How did they get the water?" Draco asked, bringing her back to present. "It's certainly not here now."

"Until a dam was built in the 1970s, the Nile flooded annually. Ancient peoples built their lives and religions around it."

"And this place was no different."

Hermione's eyes met his briefly. "We think it's a little different," she hedged. "Do you remember anything about the Egyptian religion?"

Draco set down the map and picked up his drink. "Polytheism and no. I didn't realize I'd have to swallow an encyclopaedia before I came."

"What makes archaeology exciting is its context," she snarked at him. "How people lived, what they believed, what mattered to them and what didn't."

She paused for a moment, as if expecting an argument. When he remained silent, she continued. "The ancient Egyptians were polytheists who worshipped a shifting pantheon of gods and goddesses throughout their civilization's lifespan. You'll recognize the names - Isis, Horus, Osiris, Sekhmet - but the king of all the gods was Ra. Ra was almost always depicted as a man with a hawk's head standing beneath a sun disk.

"One pharaoh, named Amenhotep IV, thought that the worship of Ra was wrong. He had never seen a man with a hawk's head interfering in his life, for good or bad. What he did see, however," - she pointed skyward - "was the sun. The sun disc, Aten, an aspect of Ra, held the real power in the lives of Egyptians. Aten made the crops grow, gave the people life and livelihoods. Aten created . Amenhotep IV took the name Akhenaten and started what is considered one of the first ever attempts at monotheism: Atenism."

"Pa-maru-en-pa-aten…" Draco said, eyes wide.

"Translates to The Viewing-Palace-of-the-Aten."

"So it was a palace."

Another one-shouldered shrug. "Maybe. The royal family could have made it their residence, sure, but Maru-Aten was close enough to the main city of Akhetaten, Horizon of the Aten," she translated at Draco's loaded glance, "for easy travel between the two. I think it was a temple. Just imagine it - Aten would shine down upon the lake, and the lake would reflect his greatness. Akhenaten and his priests could stand on the quay to hold services, or just to be closer to their god. The water could be used for sacrifices, or baptisms, or -"

Draco held out his hands, palms up. "Okay, I'm convinced: it's a temple. But there are plenty of temples around. What makes this one so unique?"

"The sun disc," she said, taking a sip of her drink and leaning back in her chair. "The Aten."

"The god?"

"The relic."

Draco lifted an eyebrow. "You think it's real?"

"The god?"

"The relic," he answered, patience wearing thin. He reached for her glass. She noticed, shot back the rest of the whisky, and handed it to him without protest. He grimaced and set it on the side table next to his.

"Why shouldn't it be?" she asked, dropping her head against the chair and staring at the tented roof. "Plenty of pictograms depict the Aten, both with and without its Ra counterpart. Other show the Aten being worshipped by pharoahs and slaves alike. There's at least a chance that the pictograms are more than mere metaphor."

"And what's why the Ministry is interested. They want to know if the Aten is real."

"Kneazle, nose. Also, it's haunted."

"The relic?"

She laughed, an unladylike snort through her nose. "The site."

Draco drew his brows down in a furrow. "The cathedral in Spain and the cave in Australia were supposed to be haunted, too."

Hermione nodded, her head sagging. "Plenty of haunted places," she said with a careless wave of her arm.

"Those weren't," he said, trailing off. Something about Maru-Aten being haunted felt wrong. Tacked on, like an afterthought, like an excess of justification given by an inexpert liar. Or the selling point needed to persuade a skeptical woman who, despite it being given by an experienced liar, had trouble spotting a deception.

Draco looked at Hermione and was startled to find her staring back at him. Her almond eyes were unfocused and half-closed with exhaustion, and his lips twitched into a wry smile at the sight. He stretched, arms wide and back arched, then rose from his seat on the couch.

"Come on," he said, working a hand beneath her arm and tugging her upwards.

She laughed again. This time, it was a low, careless sound that warmed him to his toes. She rose, rocking into him as she gained her balance. "Draco Malfoy, are you taking me to bed?"

He grinned down at her. "Wouldn't be the first time."

A playful swat at his chest preceded her shambling off toward her bedroom. He followed, eyeing the bed with a sense of anticipation, wondering… He glanced at her sideways and was surprised to find her studying him with a frank expression.

"No," she said at once. "I may have done some drinking, but I'm not that drunk."

He feigned an expression of great insult, splaying a hand over his heart. "What sort of rogue do you take me for?"

She turned down the blankets and looked at him as she climbed in. "You know exactly what sort of rogue I take you for."

He grinned; it was true enough. "But not one that sleeps on the couch when there's half a bed available, surely."

She raised a dark eyebrow. "Would you prefer the floor?"

They locked eyes for a long moment, neither flinching, until suddenly Hermione groaned. "Fine," she said, pulling back the blankets on the other side of the bed. He noticed, with a small measure of satisfaction, that she still slept on the right side. He had always preferred the left.

"But no funny business," she chided, even as she watched him unbutton his shirt. There was no mistaking the blush on her cheeks, which deepened when he stretched, solely for her benefit this time. She extinguished the candles before he could remove his trousers.

Warm and content, Draco began to drift off. On the edge of sleep, he thought he heard her speak. The voice was so hushed that he might have imagined it, or it might have come from his own exhausted brain.

"You shouldn't have left," the voice said.

Real or not, Draco could not let it have the last word. "You left first," he muttered, then gave over to unconsciousness.

End Note: The majority of the history I gave on ancient Egypt is accurate (as far as Wikipedia knows). However, I did use artistic license to bend some of the facts for my story. For example, no one can say for sure why Amenhotep IV decided to break away from the accepted polytheistic religion and form monotheistic Atenism. I think my guess is a good one, but yours probably is, too. Also, it's equally likely that Maru-Aten was used as a palace or a temple, or maybe both. The temple worked better for what I needed, so that's the interpretation I used.

"Fortune and glory." is from "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom."

I used Wikipedia for all of my information on Maru-Aten, Aten, and Akhenaten.