So, this is my first attempt at this whole fanfic thing. Please review. I hope you like it . . . but if you don't, be honest. Will accept all criticism!

Disclaimer: This world is not mine, but the characters you don't recognize, obviously, are.

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Chapter 1: Another Letter

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The wind was blowing again. Dust was twirling in miniature devils around the sparse vegetation. Eleanor grimaced and pushed her bandana out of her eyes with her forearm. The sweat slowly developing on her forehead for the past hour had made the cloth's journey easy and somewhat adventurous. Eleanor had noticed Akban getting distracted by her eyebrows dancing, trying to prevent complete blindness. It was only her own stubbornness that had prevented her from putting the delicate urn down and using her hands.

She was stubborn. She knew it, but she was 35 and not about to change anytime soon.

"Do you think we're going to have a sandstorm?" she asked Akban, who was dusting off shards of pottery.

He opened his canteen and poured a stream onto the rock at the side of the table. He squinted at it before drawing his wand. After prodding the swiftly evaporating liquid, he smiled. "We are safe today, Miss Elle." His accent had a hint of English to it. He had studied at Hogwarts for a time.

Eleanor raised her eyebrow at him.

He grinned.

Knowing she couldn't do anything about his cheek, she turned back to the fragile pot on the work table. Akban was the only man in the entire encampment who dared to be cheeky with her; her temper had been more than established when the Archie McCallan's Iranian apprentice over at the Magical Urns tent whistled at her. The boy was still only talked about in hushed tones, though it had been fourteen months.

Eleanor couldn't help smiling to herself as she remembered the awe in the young girls' eyes as the boy limped off, hiding his tears behind an old copy of the Daily Prophet. (Only Archie would have a British paper delivered to him on a dig in Oman.)

Eleanor turned over the urn she was holding. There were some strange markings on the base. "Give me your canteen," she barked at Akban.

"Use your own canteen," he responded.

"Akban."

He handed it over. Eleanor had something in her sights, and he had learned through trial and great error that when she spoke like that, she meant it.

She poured a few drops onto the piece. The dust was quickly washed away.

"I don't see why you don't just use your wand, Miss."

"Muggle techniques work just as well," Eleanor muttered.

The characters on the bottom of the urn were even more unexpected than she had originally thought. They were French!

"I knew I should have studied another language," she grumbled, clapping her wide-brimmed hat onto her head. She held the artifact close to her stomach and set off against the wind.

"Where are you going?" called Akban.

She ignored him. He should know better than to expect an answer. Besides, she was bracing herself for the task ahead: Talking to Archie was a daunting task. Not because she was afraid of him, as Akban had unwisely teased her about once. She was not afraid of him. Not. He was merely . . . well . . . very Archie.

Women called to her as she wound her way through the tents and workstations. She smiled at them but didn't stop to chat. The men didn't even bother. They knew she would talk to them only when she had something to say. Except for Eugene, but everyone talked to him. He was the only reason some of the students stayed on the dig since Eleanor came.

If they aren't willing to work hard, they shouldn't be digging in sand in the middle of the desert anyway. Eleanor smiled grimly to herself. It wasn't as if magic made their lives that much easier. Sure, real meals and cold water could do wonders, but when it came down to it, wizard archeology and Muggle archeology had a lot in common. Most of the artifacts the dig uncovered were too delicate to clean with magic.

Eleanor approached a large, chartreuse tent in the center of the camp. A brown hawk flew up from behind the tent, flapping to gain altitude against the wind. She could hear Archie dictating to his secretary before she was near enough to see him through the shadowed doorway.

"Yes, then add the bit about the new boy from Hogwarts. They're always eager to hear news of the home-spun lads, you know."

Eleanor hesitated. Wizard culture was supposed to trump Muggle origins, but she couldn't help but hear her mother's Cork Irish tones warning her against "those British prigs." Still, Archie meant well, even if he did have more hot air in him than an excited 5-year-old with a large supply of Drooble's Best Blowing Gum.

But he did mean well.

Eleanor took a deep breath and pushed her way into the tent. Those bloody flaps were always hanging just a hair too low. The interior of the tent was very comfortable, but not surprising. Again, a benefit of having magic in the desert. It was also about 30 degrees cooler than it was outside. Archie liked to feel the gentle chill of England.

Richly colored rugs decorated the floor from canvas wall to canvas wall. The armchairs were plush and ornate. Small, mahogany desks were set up on one side of the tent; a large, ornate one on the opposite side. The small ones were used by interns, apprentices, and students to do their paper work. Archie believed in paperwork.

Archie looked up at her and smiled heartily. "Ellie, dear."

She winced. She was not a child!

"Archie, hello. How's it going today?"

"Oh, the usual." He shuffled papers around on his desk in an attempt to illustrate his industriousness. "I just sent off a weekly report to the Ministry. They're very interested in what you've been working on, you know."

Eleanor genuinely started. "Really? Why?" She was suspicious. The Ministry was in complete disarray at the moment. Why would they be interested in Western wizards in the Middle East?

"Oh, yes, they want to know if you've found any spells or anything. You know bureaucrats." He gave her a knowing wink, conveniently forgetting that he was exactly that: a bureaucrat.

"Well, I don't know about spells, but I do have something I need you to look at." She held the urn out to him. "It's French."

He started. "A French urn? Merlin's beard!"

Eleanor shook her head. "Not a French urn. An Arabic urn with French writings on it."

Archie snapped his glasses down from the top of his head and eagerly took the urn. He turned to his desk and Conjured a microscope of sorts. Reading it, he began muttered. "Old French . . . possibly from as early as 200 BC . . . of course, we don't really use BC . . . but, hmm, that's interesting . . ."

Eleanor turned out. Archie would let her know when he had something concrete. She gazed over the documents piling up on the end of Archie's desk. Next to the large pile sat a smaller pile: letters.

"Is this post from today, Arch?" she asked.

". . . oh, my, it really is French . . . poetry, it seems . . . what? Oh, yes. Just arrived."

Eleanor thumbed through the thick parchment envelopes. One was for her.

She glanced at Archie, but he was completely immersed in his mumblings. She flipped the letter over in her hand. It was from Remus.

Damn.

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TBC

Please remember to review. AND BE HONEST. Sweet. Okay. Bye.