"On the count of three?"

Mrs. Weasley wrapped an arm tighter around her youngest son's neck while patting her frizzy hair self-consciously. As his mother's arm wound its way around him, he wondered for a moment how he was able to get a sufficient supply of air through her mother-bear grip, but did his best to ignore that enigma and instead smile and wave at the tourist who had raised his father's camera. After counting down and snapping the photo, the man returned the camera to a grateful Mr. Weasley who enthusiastically began telling him about the family's recent wonderful luck and introducing a somewhat bashful Bill like a game show candidate. Bill shook the obliging tourist's hand briefly before turning back to his family. Ron was already doing his best to ignore the story hist father was forcing upon the friendly photographer; as exciting as the lottery win had been, hearing about it for the umpteenth time had somehow cheapened it. Bill seemed to realize what his youngest brother was thinking, and meandered over after he had graciously and skillfully extricated himself from his father's garrulous conversation. He wandered towards his family, which was mulling around in tight-knit groups. His feet scuffed up desert sand. He liked the feeling of walking through it, liked the steady reminder of the sun that beat on his shoulder blades. It was clear that his mother didn't; she was over by the twins, fussing with their sun hats and reminding them to maintain sunscreen charms hourly to protect their fair skin. Ron was standing slightly apart, his slender, awkward limbs askew. He looked strangely like a long-legged waterbird, awkward on the earth, always out of balance, somewhat angry at being grounded. The ridiculous sun hat, complete with the Egyptian attire that his father had bought not five minutes after the Portkey did not help make him look less ridiculous.

Ron was watching his father, with a familiar child-like sullenness that Bill remembered from his own tween years. Hearing Mr. Weasley spew those same, familiar sentences, ones that had been quoted in The Prophet and repeated to aunts and uncles alike, Ron was reminded of Hermione, of the way she regurgitated her facts with the same accidental fastidiousness, each turn of phrase and iota of tone a carbon copy of the original. With Hermione, it was a question of correctness, of science. But a family vacation shouldn't be that. For once, Ron wanted to interrupt and change the story, or at least remind his father that the trip wasn't over: it had barely begun.

"Dad's at it again," Bill informed his younger brother, rumpling his hair with surprising affection and perception. Ron scowled up at him; whether he was upset about the ruffling or the chatty father, Bill wasn't quite sure.

"I noticed," Ron snapped. So it was the father, then. "Aren't we going to actually do anything besides tell people about what we can do?" Ron was trying not to whine, but three straight days of travel, publicity, and his father's inane repetitions of his anticipation had made him crabby. It was time to stop talking about the opportunity and start using it.

"I don't think Mum and Dad would even notice if we snuck off," Ginny offered impishly, her eyes raking the pyramid-strewn horizon as she paced over to her brothers. She seemed somewhat at ease in the new climate, confidently wearing the gauzy black veil her mother had strapped over her face. As the hot, dry wind whipped up, it stuck to her sweaty skin and she occasionally batted it away, but she took it all in stride. It made Bill strangely proud and partially afraid – an adaptable twelve-year-old. Despite her past year (which must have been hell) she was standing there in a strangle place, surveying the land like Hatshepsut, shading her eyes against the sun and standing defiantly tall despite the sand that threatened her footing.

"And that's where you're wrong," laughed Bill. "They notice everything… or at least, Mum does…"

He smiled at his younger siblings. It was strange to think that he had once been there age, had once been a weedy thirteen-year-old, struggling with freckles that didn't quite suit the face he had been trying to grow into. The two of them – the two children, really – turned to glance at the aforementioned woman, who was now undeniably bickering with the twins. As the wind whipped up, scattering handfuls of sand into their faces, Ron and Ginny couldn't quite hear their mother's words – but her exasperation was apparent through every jerky motion of her short, stubby limbs.

"Mr. Weasley," came a voice husky, feminine behind Bill. He watched with the residue of some adolescent humor as his two younger siblings jumped in surprise, but quickly rearranged his expression into a business-polite. It was, after all, his colleague that addressed him.

"Please, Neti, call me Bill," he reminded her. She glared at him, arching a sleek black brow at his impertinence. "It will only confuse everyone," he muttered to her, indicating all the other Mr. Weasleys with a sweeping gaze. He hoped that, with a plausible explanation, she would revert to a more informal tone.

She seemed to think this over as Ron and Ginny surveyed her. Bill knew that the slant to her full lips meant that she was ready with some clever quip, but (whether it was the language boundary that prevented her comment or the fact that his child-like siblings were around) she remained silent. Unlike the decidedly British-pale Weasleys, Neti wore no head covering. Her bronzed skin seemed to absorb the sun, as though refusing to be daunted by the scorching heat; Ginny scowled to herself and wiped away another trickle of sweat that stuck her face-covering to her once more.

"Of course, Bill," she corrected herself stiffly, her Egyptian accent making some noises into musical, husky syllables. Instantly he was glad that he had used the shortened version of her name; the idea of her addressing him as "William" for the next few weeks was ludicrous.

Bill realized belatedly that his family had not been introduced to her. Ron was staring at her as though she was the last chocolate frog card that would complete his collection, his jaw slightly slack and his eyes unfocused and wide. Bill considered his younger brother's reaction, and then turned to reassess Neti. Of course, she must look strange to his family. Like most curse-breakers, she wore all black, from her shiny dragon's hide boots to the clingy ebony top that exposed the bare arch of her bronze collarbone. She wore a look of continual displeasure, as though disgusted that her desert would be populated by such pale, ginger foreigners. All of this was familiar to Bill; Neti was at least a third generation curse-breakers – and it was entirely probable that the line went back even farther than that. He was always going to be an outsider to her, and his family was the nth degree of invaders to the Egyptian Neti who could probably draw her line back to the New Kingdom.

"You must be Bill's partner," Mrs. Weasely hobbled over, stumbling over the sand. Although her polite tone was still marred by her frustration towards her cavalier children, she did her best to smile genially at the dark, slender figure that was silhouetted against the reflected glare of the sand. As she used her left hand to shade her eyes against the sun, she extended the right hand to shake. Neti regarded it haughtily for a moment, as though disgusted by the pale, chubby fingers, and then crossed her arms decisively.

"We should go inside now."

She addressed Bill without looking at him, and it was clear by her commanding tone that her suggestion was merely a politely-worded order. Ron was staring up at her in pure adulation as Ginny scoffed to herself; the twins had staggered over and were whispering to each other; Charlie and Percy were both trying to look her over in a manner they probably felt extremely stealthy and furtive – and perhaps would have been if Neti were not a curse-breaker trained to unravel ancient Egyptian spells daily. Bill resisted the urge to place his head in his hands, but instead offered Neti an apologetic glance; she pursed her lips and sauntered off, her dark raven's hair whipping in the wind. It was the wind that had Neti heading for the nearest building, the lodge at which the Weasleys were staying. Otherwise she would have avoided the lodge, the structure built in the style of the Romans with tall columns that had been painted to look old. Everything probably grated on her interpretation of her identity, from the anachronistic art to the paint that was dabbed on the walls to make them look old. It was, in its very essences, a mockery of her history built to attract the tourists she hated.

Bill could see her walk under the overhanging roof and stand by the door. Her slender hip jutted out in a way that said she was very, very angry. Bill smiled to himself in humorless disbelief. This was going to be an interesting visit.

"C'mon, she's right," he told his family finally, raising his voice over the wind. "It's very likely that we'll have some bad weather soon and trust me, inside is the best place for us all."

After some wrangling, his parents managed to get the whole clan inside, where an angry Neti was sulking by the front desk, chattering quickly in Egyptian to the clerk behind the desk.

"Not a very happy girl, is she," Mrs. Weasley muttered to Bill, pursing her lips disparagingly. Bill hesitated, staring at Neti's back. He could tell that she had heard; they hadn't spent six months together narrowly evading death and cracking curses without him learning how to read her body language. He could see now by the way that she set her shoulders, stiffening them slightly as though to protect her neck, that she was very, very put off by his mother's reproachful comment. She continued pacing as the concierge skittered into the back room, most probably to find the Weasleys' room keys.

"She's a highly trained curse-breaker, Mother," he told her, trying not to sound reprimanding, "and we're trespassing on her hospitality." Neti was now gesturing wildly at the hotel worker; apparently the keys he had found her were not sufficient.

Bill sighed to himself, seeing how his mother was staring, her brown eyes wide in shock at Neti's commanding.

"She just takes a while to warm up to people," he muttered.

Across the room, Bill could see that Neti shoot him a dark look over her shoulder between her angry comments that had the poor man bowing obsequiously as he fled, yet again, into the back room. She did not appreciate his polite lies – but she also did not know Molly Weasley.

"Give her a chance," he said hurriedly. But even as he spoke he fought the sinking feeling: she was never going to get along with his family, just as she was never going to get along with him. Mutual respect went far enough in the field – perhaps even more than enough – but when his family (and his mother) was in town, respect wasn't going to be enough.

"I don't see why we need her," Mrs. Weasley huffed, very clearly embarrassed by the rude treatment she was receiving. How could this twenty-something Egyptian girl already hate her? Or perhaps it was, how can my poor son have to work with this ungrateful trollop who can't even wear a complete shirt to meet my family?

"It's Gringotts policy that we work in pairs. And believe me, Mum, she's saved my neck more than a few times."

This seemed to brighten Mrs. Weasley's view of the girl; she huffed to herself, somewhat contrite.

"Well at least you could teach her some manners, really Bill."

Neti was now accepting the key grudgingly; the manager seemed near tears.

"I'm sure it's just a language thing," Bill lied quickly, still staring with disbelief at Neti's successful capture of keys that she was jangling triumphantly. "English isn't her native tongue."

Immediately Mrs. Weasley softened, trading disapproval for motherliness.

"Well why didn't you say so, Bill?" she asked, nudging him with a pudgy hand in exasperation. She waddled off to go talk to her husband, but would not get a word in edgewise, as he was now relaying their story quite animatedly to the clerk behind the counter who was loading their bags onto a red velvet cart. Bill noticed that his father now had the picture they had taken outside and was waving that around as well.

Bill sighed, reminding himself that their stay was not permanent, and wandered back over to his youngest siblings.

"Enjoying yourselves yet?" he asked them. Ron made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat, his eyes lingering on the fountains along the far wall of the room in boredom.

Ginny was staring at the threshold of the main door. She had removed her face covering when they had entered the lobby, and Bill could see her pale eyebrows knit in confusion.

"Something wrong?" he asked her.

"That symbol," she said, looking at the carved shapes along the posts of the doorway. "It's a shield charm, isn't it."

Bill was surprised by her quickness, by the lack of hesitation in her tone.

"Yes," he replied quickly. "It's an anchor. Once activated, it serves as a sort of tether for the charm."

"Some say that's where hieroglyphics emerged from," Neti murmured. Ginny flinched; in her fascination with the carved symbols, she hadn't noticed Neti's arrival. "You're a very clever girl," Neti crooned, her sultry, foreign voice low - and dangerous. Bill knew that look; it was the way Neti had glanced over the shepherds that had – falsely – told them that the pyramid had been de-spelled years ago. It had almost been a look of begrudging respect, like Neti was impressed by their lies. Now she was watching Ginny in the same way, with careful approbation... Or perhaps Bill was just over-analyzing everything, and his family had made him crazy like they always did. Perhaps he was ready for someone to disapprove, ready to be the hand-me-down Weasleys, those people with red hair and freckles. He shook his head to clear it. Her dark eyes always seemed guarded, he reminded himself; it was just her way.

Ginny glanced up at the woman, trying to decide if her tone was colored by derision or condescension.

"Thank you," she finally replied, still watching Neti's expression carefully. The woman stared back evenly.

"Your room is ready," Neti told Bill without moving her gaze from Ginny's petulant face. She held out the keys languidly; Bill took them silently. "I suppose that father of yours will continue speaking through sundown, but there's no reason for this entire flock to remain in this tacky lobby."

She gave Ginny a final look and then floated off without another word, her hips swinging impishly.

"We should follow her," Bill told his siblings, and, after a moment's hesitation, strode off down the corridor after the slender black form.

"I don't trust her," Ginny told Ron.

Ron shrugged, finally able to tear his eyes away from the dancing water.

"Did she say anything about food?"

Not surprisingly, Ron was the first to dinner.

"I'm starving," he said, sitting hurriedly.

Neti was lurking at the head of the table, almost weightless in her languorous lingering. She stared disapprovingly at Ron, who was already seated with his silverwear strewn across his dinner plate and his napkin tucked into his collar.

"I may be unfamiliar with English traditions," Neti began slowly, turning to a Mrs. Weasley who smiled helpfully. "But isn't it considered rude in your country as well to not break bread together?"

She was looking at Mrs. Weasley with a look of cool indifference that may have been better suited for a certain Slytherin professor; the look kind expectation had slid off of Mrs. Weasley's face. She hurried over to Ron and quickly pulled him upwards from under his armpits as she had when he was three.

"Mum!" he protested, fighting to find his balance. The whole family froze, and the line between Neti and the Weasleys almost tangible, a ribbon of tension unfurling between the two of them.

"What are we waiting for," Charlie called jovially, bounding into the room, ignorant to the dividing line. He seated himself carelessly next to Ron and picked up his utensils. "Let's eat!"

Ron removed himself from his mother's grip and seated himself, scowling. Mrs. Weasley found her seat at the other head of the table and sat, snapping her napkin around violently. Neti seemed to look over stocky Charlie, the Charlie who could tame dragons, and then swallow her acerbic comment. Apparently he was a foe that she did not wish to engage with, not someone who could be easily dispatched with a judgmental glare or a sarcastic comment. She lowered herself into her chair smoothly, her eyes never leaving Charlie, who had recently discovered the never-ending bread basket and was happily chomping at it like an enthusiastic horse. Ginny watched Neti and was embarrassed to discover how disconcerted she was by the fluidity with which she moved.

Bill came into the courtyard a few moments later, jogging, still clutching the letter he had just opened.

"I'm afraid they weren't able to wait for you," Neti sneered from her place at the head of the table. Bill checked his stride, surveying his family with surprise as he shoved the letter into his breast pocket. His mother gave him a cynical glare as she slowly buttered a roll; she inclined her head towards Neti, who was sitting like a queen in the cushioned chair at the head of the table, her slender back rigidly straight, as though fearing that the back of the chair could burn her.

"That's alright," he said, trying keep his tone light as he slid into the chair at Neti's right hand. Neti pursed her lips, but once again held back whatever thought had occurred to her. She looked like the words that she caught in her mouth were causing her pain, though, through the first half of the meal as the Weasleys boisterously fed themselves and each other, as Mrs. Weasley pestered her youngest to have more greens and her eldest to eat more, as Mr. Weasley began repeating the story to the waiter who came to refill his water glass, and as Bill maintained a constant stream of apologetic glances in her direction. Her bronze face remained still as a statue, as a bust of her namesake. Only her thick, black lashes moved, as they fluttered only as a result of the breezes that stampeded through the courtyard, their violence muted by the four walls of the surrounding lodge. Occasionally Ginny was able to look away from Neti's bronze, Machiavellian face. Upwards, she could see the sand whipped around in the winds, forming strange whirlwinds, shapes that she imagined into shapes, into creatures. She could see those tethering hieroglyphs carved along the roof, forming impenetrable charms that kept the sand and most of the wind out of the courtyard. She traced the lines of the charms and the carved hieroglyphics that crisscrossed the ribbons of magic. The Ministry back home would have conjured a protective covering and hidden it; it was surprising the way the magic here was freestanding, linked back to carved images on the columns and roof.

As she checked on Neti, she realized that the Egyptian occasionally caught her glance and traced her eye line upwards to the roof with a sort of begrudging respect. It made her nervous, to imagine those dark eyes on her, watching her. She found herself poking around the remnants of her salad nervously, fearing catching the critical glance but too afraid to stop from glancing over.

"Not a fan of arugula?"

Ginny jumped slightly, surprised to hear Charlie's voice so close to her ear.

"Huh?"

"You're segregating your salad," Charlie pointed out, jabbing his fork towards her plate and speaking through a full mouth of greens.

"Oh," Ginny remarked, catching a sideways glance from Neti, who was apparently fascinated by her eating habits.

"It is sort of like rabbit food, isn't it," Charlie muttered out of the corner of his mouth while watching the waiter as though to make sure he couldn't overhear, a covert lettuce dialogue. Ginny offered a laugh; it sounded fake the moment is rang through the dry air. Charlie gave her a rakish grin, the way he had when she was a toddler and he had taught her dirty words, but that too seemed to have an undertone. Worry, perhaps. Worry for the year he had left her at Hogwarts, as if he could have lingered in the stone corridors for a few more years to protect her from the terror of Tom Riddle.

Ginny glanced down at her plate, trying to ignore the prickling sensation of Neti's eyes on her. She traced the fingers of the green leaves that cut across her salad plate with forced interest. The feeling of Neti lurking, of following her, it felt too familiar. She shook herself to remove the feeling, like a half-forgotten nightmare hovering in her peripheral memory, a fearful deja vu.

"Don't think the elves could ever get this through to the Great Hall, there'd be a mutiny," laughed Charlie. Ginny smiled up at him, relieved by the easy, natural cheeriness of her brother. Then again, he was used to his conversations being rather one-sided, and perhaps it was relieving that Ginny didn't breathe fire.

"I wouldn't be surprised," scoffed Ginny, glaring across the table at Ron who was stuffing his face non-stop. "That lot doesn't even seem to realize what they're eating."

Charlie glanced over at Ron, who was now eating bread in the same mouthful of his second serving of salad that he had pilfered from his mother.

"I remember those years," Charlie laughed, staring at Ron. "Not fondly," he clarified quickly, turning back to Ginny who shared a half-hearted laugh with him. And somehow with Charlie smiling over her, his stocky frame imposing and solid, Ginny wasn't as worried about the possibility that her other brother's coworker was glancing at her occasionally. She took a breath in to steady herself, and enjoyed the dry perfume of Egypt for the first time since their arrival.