Summary: SSHG, AU, Hermione finds a new life far away from Britain while attempting to find a rare plant to help Neville cure his parents.
Warning: Weasley bashing, selfish friend bashing, desert violence
Beta Love: Dragon and the Rose, Dutchgirl01
Ripples in the Sand
Chapter Two
There were no lies here. All fancies fled away. That's what happens in all deserts. It was just you and what you believed.
Terry Pratchett
The blasting, almost painful barrage of wind halted as the curl of one of the Makers moved around their harvesting patch. The great worm seemed to sense Hafsa's need for the gourds—it was a miracle that they even found a patch in the blowing storm—and obliged her by protecting them from the tremendous onslaught. Coincidence or luck, all of the gourds were yellow and ripe for picking, and she picked many of them but made sure to leave a few to help seed the next generation.
The patch, they discovered, was enormous—all of the plants' tendrils and fruits having been stealthily concealed until the windblown sand exposed them. He could tell that Hafsa was excited—more than just excited—at the discovery, and the vast amount of gourds would allow her to attempt to grow them in the refuge as well as give her a substantial crop of seeds.
When their collection of crates was full of gourds, she pulled out her worm tooth wand and provided water for the plants. She patted the side of the Maker, and it moved, its maw agape so they could settle securely within.
Slightly less unnerved by the experience the second time around, Severus settled in beside the witch as the worm's mouth closed and it dove below the sand and out of the sandstorm, moving quickly under the dunes. It was definitely not the way the native Fremen of Arrakis travelled by sandworm in the novels, but perhaps Frank Herbert wasn't trying to reveal all the secrets of the great sandworms, either.
Then again, he hadn't exactly NOT seen Hafsa ride on the back of a sandworm. For all he knew, it was completely possible. Nothing seemed impossible for the witch that had once been only Hermione Granger, Muggleborn witch.
And Hermione Granger had not been an insignificant figure of Wizarding society, no matter how certain groups tried to stomp her down and make her fit into a mould—
Upon arrival at the sanctuary, they enlarged the crates and set them in the special chamber Hafsa used to store produce. She set to work separating the seeds from the pulp of the colocynth gourd, a smile on her face that the desert had finally bestowed the gift of the magical gourd into her hands. The minor magic that it took to easily remove the seeds from the pithy interior did not seem to botch like some of the major spells, and there was a pile of seeds laying out to dry an hour later.
"I can tell you for sure, I know the best way to tell the magical colocynth from the regular kind," Hafsa said with a smirk.
"Do tell," Severus encouraged as he eyed the carcasses of the pillaged gourds.
"They smell much better," she answered. "The typical desert gourd stinks worse than the Quidditch player's smelly pits."
Severus' nose wrinkled just thinking about it. "Glorious."
"The scent is quite pleasing," Hafsa said with an experimental sniff. "I have to wonder if anyone has ever found the magical colocynth before this—or if they simply made up some fantastical story to make it impossible to find for others."
"Perhaps the stench lessens as the gourd matures and the moist interior dries up," Snape suggested.
"Possible," she said. "Some of them seem to be less ripe than others despite the bright yellow colour." She tilted her head, thinking. "I suppose it would be harder to smell the stench amidst a swirling sandstorm."
"Still," she said, her eyes focusing on the seeds as she held them between her fingers. Her eyes became the vibrant blue in blue that signalled her connection with the sandworms nearby. "These are definitely the magical ones. I'm not sure if your vision can pick up the aura without the roasting process, but I can see it."
Severus picked up one seed and studied it intently. "I see nothing."
"When you roast the magical ones, they give off a sort of purple aura," Hafsa said. "At least that is what the few journals Neville gave me claimed when he first sent me off on the wild goose chase."
Severus' hand fell heavily as he dropped the seed with the others. "Longbottom is why you are out here?"
Hafsa closed her eyes as she sighed. "Originally, yes. But the joke is on him, as I cannot leave the desert now," she said. "Finding the gourd, however, opens many doors for potential research of my own making, and even possible growth of the vines in a controlled setting."
She cracked the bones in her neck. "I believe I was conned. Sent on a quest for something he didn't believe actually existed. He gave me the research I needed—just enough for me to be convinced it was real—and then he sent me out to find it. For his parents, or so he said. To help with their ongoing therapy."
"I did a lot of research before travelling to the desert, but Neville insisted that the time I went was important—that my chances of getting the best mature specimen would be in the middle of summer when the storms would be most likely."
Severus' face darkened into a scowl. "That was the summer when Mr Weasley married Miss Brown. It was all over the papers. Students wouldn't keep talking about it even during the autumn term. They called it a fairytale romance."
Hafsa sighed. "Ronald and I were never truly a couple," she said. "Many thought we were because he always talked like we were—and I soon grew weary of correcting them when they wouldn't believe me anyway. He made it out like I was terribly possessive and clingy, and people believed it because it was so easy to believe that a Muggleborn like me had no 0ther options. I did not realise until a clipping was sent to me via owl—it was sent anonymously—that they had run off and wed while I was out in the desert. It was a relief, honestly. It was more the betrayal that no one could simply just tell me they were getting married. Why makeup such a great story instead of just telling the truth of it?"
"I fear there is little insight I could give on how the Weasley's brain works," Severus said with a sigh. "Even after teaching them for so many years, my comprehension for the depths of their frequent acts of stupidity failed me. I think the only one who kept his nose clean for the entire length of his time at Hogwarts was Charlie Weasley, and while Percy was never in trouble per se, there were many reports that he caused trouble for everyone else with his letter of the law rule-keeping. The twins were a menace, dangerous, and reckless. Ronald was never paying attention unless it involved whatever wasn't being studied, and Ginevra—that one had far more interest in brewing her ridiculous Witch Weekly concoctions than in completing her assignments."
Hafsa sputtered. "Truly? She told me that you hated her and that you picked on her."
"I did pick on her, but she deserved it," Snape said wearily. "Not every student I picked on did deserve to be singled out, but she was definitely pushing every button she could. Every last detention Miss Weasley received, she duly earned."
Hermione shook her head. "I suppose—I guess I should have seen that coming."
Snape saw her worrying on one of the "stones" woven into her hair as thoughts seemed to swim around her head like a school of fish.
She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I have come to a few revelations while in the desert, and one of them is that I cannot fault others for wishing to move on with their lives when they believe them to be short. Not everyone possesses sufficient patience to watch life as it happens. I have come to respect the illusion of time when I can separate myself from it. It's not that I feel detached from time, but I do not feel its yoke as I once did."
"Have you noticed any side effects from your newfound relationship with giant sandworms?" Severus asked, truly curious. He helped her wash the dates off in the purified water, dry them, and put them back in the special boxes that had been sectioned off to allow multiple dates to nestle in the same box.
"Other than a strange sense of vision through sound, vibration, and magic?" Hermione said with a laugh. "And a rather deeply seated territorial drive to defend the sands from random interlopers?"
She rubbed her head as she wrote out a handwritten card and placed it in the crate before closing it up. "My memory is more extensive now, but what I tend to think of is filtered through the worms. They don't always understand what I'm thinking about, so there are times when we share consciousness in order to understand each other. I'm used to it now, but when it first happened I passed out. Woke up feeling like I'd been run over by the Knight Bus and dragged for a few miles. Their instincts are powerful, but I've taught quite a few of them to stay away from scientific expeditions. Eating those could cause way too much drama."
She snorted, remembering. "Once, one of the young ones travelled under them and stole all their equipment. Just sucked it right under the sand and left without a trace. They like to deposit stuff like that at my doorstep, and I have to find a way to return it to the archaeologists or whatever else. I've had to get a bit electronic savvy, so I can wipe out any evidence of sandworms off their stuff before returning it. Though a few times, I've ended up with whole crates of weapons, and I had to ship it off to the African Ministry to deal with. That kind of thing is well beyond my ability to sort out."
"And the African Ministry knows you are out here?" Severus asked.
"They get a crate of fresh desert figs every Kwanzaa," she replied with a smile. "They send me dried mopane worms—a delicacy—and I cannot help but wonder what they would do if they met an actual sandworm. The mopane worms aren't truly worms though. They are the caterpillars of the emperor moth."
Hermione shrugged. "I am one of those "crazy witches who live in the desert, I suppose," she said after a while. "They know that I've stopped a lot of poaching rings going on in this area, so that's enough for them to give me their blessing. There are a lot of magical and even more mundane items being trafficked through the desert—I can only guess they believe no one would ever think to look here since any outsider travelling in the great desert would not last long. For the most part, they are right. Few that travel into the deep desert ever manage to last very long. The only thing that has changed is that I send the confiscated goods to the Ministry to filter back to the proper authorities."
"So, they know you are out here, but they do not know you actually live beneath the sand," Severus observed.
"I don't think the locals even know where I sleep," Hermione replied thoughtfully. "They likely presume I have some hidden base camp or perhaps a flat nestled in the heart of Morocco." She smiled. "I do, to be fair, but I do not live there. I did furnish it and set it aside in case I would ever need to entertain company."
"Does it—hurt you?" he asked, noticing the shift in her expression.
"Cities are loud and boisterous places," she said. "It is overwhelming to me not only from what I hear but from what I see. It is easier now, but it is never truly comfortable. For those places where the cities are in the desert, I can travel inside freely save for a bit of disorientation. But if I were to go to a place outside where I could at least see the sand, it would not be a pleasant experience. For me, or for the worms, I would imagine."
"They can sense you?"
"I am like a young sandworm to them, I think," she answered with a chuckle. "The Makers might think I need rescuing from my own stupidity. Big places like Rabat or Casablanca would be tremendously stressful while taking a jaunt into Mhamid would not be quite so bad. Thankfully, there is a small Wizarding village where I make my official home, so the goblins take care of whatever finances I require manoeuvred, and no one will think to question how often I am there. And, the fashion of covering your face to keep the sand from infesting your nose and throat has often protected me from prying, casual eyes."
"I should have done something similar," Snape said ruefully. "Out here in northern Africa, I thought myself to be safely anonymous, but someone had me targetted—someone who wanted to bury me out in the desert."
"Or someone knew you were to be out here," Hafsa said with a furrowed countenance.
"Careful there, Miss Lioness," Severus said approvingly. "You are starting to sound very Slytherin."
Hafsa snorted. "I am rather pragmatic when it comes to life these days," she said wryly. "It comes from being bound to the Makers."
"Surviving a war, betrayal, and an apprenticeship with Minerva?" Snape suggested cheekily.
Hafsa sputtered. "I'll have you know that Minerva was quite fair with me. Strict, yes, but fair."
She stared at him and realised his lips were curved upward in what, at least for him, was a wide smile.
They continued to sort, wash, and pack the dates, and Hermione sent a shrunken box via owl just as they were finishing up.
Snape lifted one brow in question.
"It's for Minerva."
"She's known you were here all along," he observed. It was not a question.
Hafsa nodded. "She honoured my request to keep my whereabouts safely unknown just as long as I sent her something every so often to let her know I was okay."
Severus tilted his head. "The tabby cat has scales under her fur," he said. "I did not ever suspect that she knew. She deflected all attempts to ascertain your whereabouts, but she wasn't lying either. She really didn't know where you were, only that you were alive and safe—or at least well enough to check in."
Hafsa smiled. "I knew she would worry, and I did not want that for her. I did not want her to think that she taught me for nothing."
Snape wrinkled his nose. "I doubt anyone that knows you would ever believe that knowledge was wasted on you. No matter how obscure your application of it ended up."
Hermione laughed. "Sounds a lot like Luna," Hermione said with a sad smile about her mouth. "She was out here searching for the Crumplehorned Snorkack for a while, you know. It took everything I had to keep her from being eaten by the Makers. She—"
Hermione sighed. "She has no respect at all for boundaries, be they real or imagined. It is one of her strengths to see outside of what others do, but it almost got her eaten—and I could not reveal myself. There were too many questions that I could not answer, and she would not have stopped pressing. I fear what she was looking for is not to be found in the desert. The Makers know about all that walks, crawls, or flies in the deep desert and everything in between. But how they view it—it is not as we humans do."
"The Makers strike me as being very black and white about their approach to most things in the desert. Trespasser or acceptable visitor. Food or extra metal content, if the eating of random vehicles is any sort of indicator." Severus arched his brow.
Hafsa laughed. "Their ability to digest the supposedly indigestible is rather amazing," she admitted. "I am fairly certain that anything that can be broken down can and will be when it comes to the Makers. They do not waste anything."
"Lay waste, perhaps," Severus noted dryly.
Hermione chuckled. "I'm sure some would think so."
"How do they recognise you?" Severus asked.
Hermione tilted her head. "They recognise my unique energy and the tread of my walk. Much like how you have a distinctive cadence. We could always hear you coming long before you stormed into the classroom with that intimidating billow."
Snape snorted.
Hafsa tilted her head, thoughtful. "I say that, but understand it is only a guess. All I know is that they can tell the difference between me and a hundred other footsteps across the sands. I can change my walk to be less luring to the younger ones, but I have no doubt that the Makers know exactly where I am at all times." She paused, her thoughts seemingly passing across her eyes. "The young ones have a feel for me, though. Otherwise, I'd be half in their mouths before they even realised who I was. They tend to think with their hungry stomachs first."
Severus' stomach growled loudly as if to add its own commentary.
Hafsa chuckled, tossing Snape a plump date from the pile. "I'll get you some food before you wither away to nothing."
Severus bit into the date and sighed. "I am but a mortal man with an impertinent stomach."
Hafsa smiled. "Actually, I think I'll take you to the family who makes the very best sand bread in the area. They would truly enjoy meeting you."
Snape perked at the memory of the first food he ate after being rescued from the desert. "I would like that."
Hafsa smiled broadly. She picked out a crate of dates and wrapped it securely for travel. "Let's go, then!"
Memo Posted in DoM's bulletin board
Sand Lion Apothecary Releases Remarkable Nutrient Dense Wafers
The Sand Lion Apothecary is making waves in the Wizarding World by providing what our hard-working Aurors and Hit Wizards are calling a true miracle of modern magic.
Nutrient-dense and magically rejuvenating, these small water biscuits pack a punch that not only eases hunger pangs but also boosts the magical reserves with a wide variety of different flavours like chilli pepper, cheddar cheese, sour cream and chives, sourdough, garden vegetable, and spelt. There are even meal wafers with tasty options like roast dinner, fish and chips, curry, and pizza as well as something for the sweet tooth with gingerbread, summer pudding, vanilla cream, and double chocolate. There is something appealing for every taste (with no worries of getting a vomit or ear wax flavour!)
Wizards and witches with highly demanding and active jobs have been raving about the convenient and tasty edible that keeps easily and is highly portable. Places like St Mungos have noticed quite a significant improvement in patient health after supplementing the wafers to patients who have poor appetites.
Currently, the wafers are made in small batches by the Desert Lion Apothecary with only finite resources at hand, so distribution is currently limited to those with high-risk profiles such as Aurors, hit witches and wizards, and patients in severe life-threatening situations at Wizarding hospitals such as St Mungos.
If your team will be spending extensive time in stakeouts and intensive monitoring situations, please contact Amelia Bones, HBOY, to obtain a ration of wafers for your assignment.
"Come one, Draco, for old time's sake," Harry coaxed. "It's for Neville's parents."
"Pull the other one, Potter," Draco snorted as he shook his head. He straightened his green healer's robes. "We were never friends. You made that abundantly clear when I begged you to check on my father in Azkaban after the war."
Harry winced at the reminder. "Look, I realise that I wasn't being very impartial back then, but this is Neville. Neville has never done anything to you."
"We're talking about the same Neville who immediately pulled his parents out of my care, saying he'd rather take care of his parents himself than have a dirty Slytherin looking after them?" Draco said pointedly. "No. I will not bend St Mungos' rules for you, Potter. There are patients here who rely on those supplements just to stay alive and keep their magic from overwhelming the hospital with random accidental spurts. We use them to save lives, and they are a last resort, even then."
"At least let me contact the Apothecary to plead my case!" Harry insisted.
"Feel free to ask the Goblin Nation, they serve as the first point of contact," Draco said coolly. "You know, the goblins that you and Weasley refused to pay restitution to for busting through their bank on the back of a dragon."
"It was to save lives!" Harry argued, his face flushing red with anger.
"Of that, I do not question," Draco said simply, his pale hands straightening his collar. "But you didn't even bother to offer any assistance during the great rebuild. It would have taken one moment of your time to endorse the goblins after the war and help them out during a difficult time, but you were far too busy being led around by the cock by the Weaselette."
Enraged, Harry launched himself at Draco, and the healer swiftly dodged. Harry fell into a tea service cart with a loud crash.
"There was only one single person who did advocate for my parents' release from Azkaban, Potter. And that person paid restitution to the goblins too," Draco said stiffly. "And she is not here asking for my help. Get out."
As a pair of burly security guards dragged a struggling Harry Potter out of the healing ward, Draco reached into his desk, pulled out a plump honey date, and chewed on it thoughtfully. "Idiot."
Sent via Goblin Post
℅ Grizzleback, head of goblin affairs
Dear Miss Granger,
My wife and I send you our sincere appreciation for your shipment of dates this season, and Narcissa believes this to be the best and tastiest harvest yet. The flavours are beyond anything we can get here in Britain from any source, and as one who has his fingers in both Wizarding and Muggle markets, that is indeed saying something.
We are currently living in France. Narcissa loves to go walking in the fragrant lavender fields, and I feel I must indulge her after all she has had to go through because of me and the most regrettable choices I made for our family. My son informs me that Mr Potter recently accosted him at St Mungos in some attempt to extort a share of the new nutrient wafers that your fine apothecary has developed.
I fear that the boy, and I hesitate to call him a man, has lost all manner of sense and decorum when it comes to helping his friends and forgetting all those he has stepped on along the way. I used to be much like that myself—I can only hope that one day, Potter wakes up before someone he loves is sadly lost.
I have put out feelers in hopes of learning who might have put a hit out on our mutual friend, and I fear that whoever did it does not travel in the same circles I used to. There is the possibility that they believe me a traitor as well, but no attempts on my life, Narcissa, or Draco have occurred to date. I think that many believe I am just as I have always been, and that is a dual-edged sword that both allows me to mingle with the old crowd but also stymies my attempts to become free of my past.
I held a rather exclusive party back in Britain the other weekend to see if anyone I knew may be involved, but none have. I truly regret that I cannot help you more with this.
Whoever did it—
I suspect that they may be of newer blood than the old families—or they are of families that have hidden their allegiances far more deftly than anyone expected.
You were the only one who gave us a chance when the rest of the world wished us to rot away in Azkaban for life. For that, we shall be in your debt, always, but I do not only speak for myself in saying that getting to know you has been a gift I do not intend to squander. Your graciousness in allowing Draco to become your first contact at St Mungos has done much to assist his career but is also healing his troubled heart—something we could not do for him ourselves as his parents.
I never thought my son would one day be a healer. I am glad to see his true calling has taken him so far from my expectations. I am very proud of him, and I have taken your advice and told him so. I think—he finally believes me.
I can only thank you for that as well, Miss Granger.
Please give my regards to the grumpy old man. Tell him that Narcissa has forgiven him for not showing up for her birthday celebrations. I know he would never miss it under normal circumstances, but we both understand why he feels it is better if the rest of the world believes him dead.
Sincerely,
Lucius Malfoy
Seal of the House of Malfoy
P.S. I'm not sure what was in that phial that you made me drink, old man, but those miserable aches from the Dark Lord's Cruciatus are finally gone. How did you know that I still suffered from them?
Lucius,
Magic.
S.
Severus had finally stopped having a panic attack every time Hermione was accosted by young and exuberant sandworms, but he had to admit that something that large should not have been as stealthy as they were. Sandworms were, admittedly, perfectly adapted to life in the sandy desert, and they made everything else that tried to brave life in the heat and sand look like toddlers attempting to brew Polyjuice.
The worms had begun to recognise him—not on the same level as they did Hafsa—at least to the point where when they were travelling together, they didn't attempt to seize him by the legs and drag him under the sand anymore.
The first few times had been mortifyingly emasculating.
He started to think that the one who had brainstormed the old Muggle movie, Tremors, had probably run across a hungry young sandworm at least once in their life—only, thankfully, they didn't stink like their movie counterpart and have different life cycles that put them into the air and shoot fire out of their arses.
Thank the gods for that.
Thankfully, some ideas were so bloody out there that even those who saw sandworms every day couldn't possibly take it seriously.
It was good, he reasoned. It was better that people believed sandworms to be a myth, and thanks to Hafsa's work, the worms were far more aware of the traps poachers set in the hopes of snagging "the motherlode."
He was beginning to get used to the surface travel over the sand, and he had great respect for Hafsa's nimbleness over the dunes. While he realised part of it was due to her bond with the worms, she was definitely not a slouch. Her muscles were well developed, and her body hardy. Her feet had changed slightly—spreading out her weight across a larger surface to make it easier to walk across the dunes. She never seemed to complain about the heat of the sand or the sun, and even her lashes had grown long and thick, as if to help shield her from the sun and sand. Her skin, while much darker than what he remembered, remained the sandy colour of the sandworms, and if she wore the lighter colour robes, she could almost blend into the sand.
Much to his surprise, she had welcomed him into a partnership with her Sand Lion Apothecary, and she hadn't even tried to make some asinine percentage of 70/40 or other rot. She welcomed him in 50/50 with the only stipulation that the business could never leave the desert, and the ingredients and formulae they developed would remain secret, even if he decided to leave.
He found, however, that the idea of leaving troubled him.
There was a peace living in the desert with Hafsa that was unlike anything he'd ever experienced before in his life. There was quiet time when he wished it, conversation when he desired, and he didn't have to worry about the likes of Rita Skeeter getting in his business.
Hafsa had given him one of the caverns to detail as he wished, and he'd made it into a comfortable living space. He realised that the "breathing" of the Makers cycled air through the underground as effectively as breezes above, and the underground gardens did the rest. The temperature was always comfortable, not too chilled or too hot—a relief for his war-weary bones.
But, living conditions aside, he found that he'd miss this witch of the desert, Hafsa. She was so different from the one who had been Hermione Granger in all the ways that made for a mature, talented individual. She'd shed her people-pleasing obsession for the protection of the desert and the sandworms, and the resulting confidence suited her much better than the hand-waving drive to always be right.
While he had no doubt that she still had the intelligence to be right in most arguments, she no longer strived to prove it like in her younger and admittedly more annoying years.
Hermione placed a tea in front of him, the swirl of camel milk just the way he liked it diffused into a golden colour. She gave him a small smile, knowing that he preferred to read in silence. The strength of that simple consideration shook him to the core. It wasn't like Albus that invited him to tea only to request something of him shortly after.
His hand reached out to touch hers, and he stared at her, struggling for words that did not make him sound like the socially inept idiots that Lucius always spared no expense to make fun of back in darker times.
"Thank you," he said softly, awkwardly. Why was it so easy to debate on journals and the efficacy of potions than simple kindness?
She smiled at him. "You're welcome, Severus."
He swallowed hard and winced, fairly certain that he looked like he'd swallowed a hedgehog.
"Are you alright, Severus?" Hermione asked.
Just his name— said with concern. Not Sev. Not Snivellus. Not patronising—
"Sit with me?" he whispered.
Her smile was as radiant as the sun over the dunes. It blinded him to everything else. Every coherent thought went plunging off into the vast expanse of space.
She nestled in beside him, opening her book to read as he himself read.
He hoped she couldn't hear his heart thudding not-so-quietly in his chest as it attempted to make its way out from the rib cage and into the world.
She lay her head against his shoulder and tucked into her book.
He carefully, almost as if he were afraid she'd bolt like a startled rabbit across the desert sand, put his arm around her and pulled her against him.
To his relief, she snuggled in closer with a content sigh and continued reading.
And that big, bitter, snarly part of Severus Snape blew away in the desert storm.
Hermione lay on her back as the early morning sun peeked over the desert. The morning rituals always brought her to the surface to bask in the morning sun before it became truly oppressive, and while she no longer feared it as she once did, she did have to intermingle with families and traders, nomads and the like while travelling the sands. The great desert or deep desert was hardly barren of life, but most of the people she met were nomadic, with the permanent settlements restricted to the outer fringes of what she considered the "deep desert."
There were a number of nomadic families that she parlayed with, and she would exchange water and dates for dried goat cheese, camel milk, bread, and even prepared foods. Of all of the foods, the sand bread was her favourite, and the families seemed more than happy to compensate her for water and desert-harvested foods. A fresh-laid ostrich egg was a major find (especially without an ostrich protecting it), palms, cactus, and desert fruits of all types were cherished. Herbs like thyme, cumin, pepper, turmeric, saffron, and ginger were valued at any camp, and it wasn't uncommon for her to be hosted for a good meal by a nomadic family after a trade gone well.
Many of the nomads travelled upwards of two hours or more just to fetch water, and Hermione had learned to purchase a large quantity of water jugs or skins both for her own use but also for use in trade. Families, saved from having to travel further across the desert, appreciated her in a way that made her heart warm. Her language skills in Arabic, Bedouin, and Berber dialects were steadily getting better, and she was making fewer social faux pas with regard to the unique culture of the nomadic people. Being female and independent made her a bit of an anomaly in the markets, but her reputation as the Lioness had also given her somewhat of a favourable acceptance as being fierce.
Sometimes, she and Severus would travel together, and he seemed to be picking up the languages with only a little difficulty. Some of the nomadic families seemed relieved that she wasn't travelling alone in the desert. She couldn't very well tell them why her ability to survive was better than most, so she left that part out of the conversation. There were some places where Severus fit in the market better than she did, simply because there were more Bedouins in the area, and their womenfolk did not go to the markets.
Time passed quickly, and before she knew it their routine had spanned years. Their joint business was flourishing greatly, and they had come up with a wide variety of new products that had taken the world by owl-storm.
And they were soon joined by a rather eclectic group of animals that had either come to them by happenstance or by trade. She had an Egyptian vulture named Moke, who loved to deliver parcels. They'd gained two camels named Hafid and Basma, who were probably the most bombproof, sandworm-safe camels on the planet—and probably the most spoiled too. And then—
They had a baby camel, which Severus wanted to name Dunderhead, but instead became known as "Eashwayiyin", the Arabic word for random.
Random because the rather affectionate baby camel wanted snuggles at the most random of times, and he chose Severus almost every time.
Keeping a straight face at the sight was nigh impossible, and Hermione was never so glad to be wearing a veil.
Their underground sanctuary had plenty of fresh water and forage to feed even the hungriest of camel herds, so they wanted for nothing. The camels, in turn, both served as a more "accepted" way of transportation in the desert when meeting nomads than just walking out of the dunes like some movie hero.
The sandworms seemed perfectly okay with adding three camels, a snarky potions master, a vulture, and her ever-dutiful owl on the "do not eat" list, and for that Hermione could only be grateful. The guilt of having been given the two precious camels only to have them eaten by sandworms would have been a horrible end for a generous gift.
The desert "jewels" created by the sandworm "ectoplasm" had certain potion properties that Severus was enjoying researching. He'd made several new tonics, salves, and even a hair-taming product that made Hermione's hair look less like an African lion had somehow mated with a winter camel and then wove in a few beaded dreads to complete the style.
She had to admit, however, that the desert had changed her in a number of ways, and her hair was, at least, the most obvious and kept people from seeing the more subtle changes that would be much harder to explain.
Like her soft padded feet that functioned supremely well on desert sand but were not very happy to be stuffed into a shoe.
Or her thicker, longer lashes that helped keep sand and sun out of her eyes.
Thankfully, most of the changes were easily concealed with the same clothing that protected her head and face from the harsh sun and blowing sand, so it was never out of place. And she and Severus made their home in the deepest desert where the sand made herding goats and donkeys very difficult for the nomadic tribes. They would sometimes see a traveller making their way from one point to another, but it was never to stay.
For those travellers, Hermione shared water in exchange for news, and it wasn't long before such travellers hoped they would run across her for a welcome respite from the sun, water, and food. Hermione had learned quickly that hospitality amongst the nomads were not just stories, and she had done her best to offer it to those she met. She learned how to make the common dishes, tea, and to greet a visitor with camel milk. Severus, depending on the traveller, served tea to male guests while she made the food, and they segregated the tent to offer shelter to the guests whose culture expected it.
It had all been terribly complicated for someone with her very English upbringing, but she was starting to respect such older traditions more once she realised the deep roots of the cultures that eked their way through the desert with a nomadic lifestyle. She found she wanted not to fit in but be respectful to the ways the people she met lived. They knew she was an outsider in many ways, but she was also Hafsa, the desert lioness. She'd earned her name, and to many of the nomadic cultures, the woman was the master of the tent and home. She had to try at least not to insult them in the lands of their ancestors.
And many of the nomads seemed to realise there was a danger in the deep desert that they couldn't exactly explain. The deepest of the sands held the unknown. While they'd never seen a sandworm themselves, they did have stories of people and things disappearing without a trace—like the ghost stories one would tell around a campfire. They knew better than to tempt fate, which was probably why they thought she had either the ultimate bravery or else a fathomless stupidity.
A young sandworm popped up out of the sand and started to drag Severus beneath, its mind projecting the ultimate mischief.
Snape yelled and batted at the tentacle tongues playfully, shooing the young worm away from his legs.
Hafsa laughed and smiled at them both before turning pensive. "The worms seem unusually restless. I would say it was likely hunger, but it feels a bit different today. Something is off but I cannot say what it is as of yet. I don't believe that the worms themselves know—only that something is brewing."
Severus frowned. "Shall we postpone our regular rounds?"
Hermione sighed, scanning the dunes. "The drought is hitting the west more strongly than usual and the nomads are already starting to lose livestock. I don't want them to go without water any longer than necessary. We can make a new well with the help of the smaller worms and set it up for them near the edge of where the dunes give way to dirt. It will keep the worms from going after them, but it will help them. The younger worms can tunnel through dirt if they really want to. The Makers prefer to stay in the sand."
"Thank Merlin for that," Snape said with feeling. "Can you imagine one of them picking up the beat from some random young Muggle blaring bass music?"
Hermione snorted. "The movies make the worms out to be serial killers, but maybe they just have better taste in music."
Snape sputtered. He closed his eyes to hide the fact his eyes were rolling deep into his skull. "As you say."
Hafsa placed a hand on his shoulder. "Let's go create that well. We can at least do our part to ensure that the people on the surface can survive the drought."
Severus nodded. "I truly look forward to witnessing a sandworm-crafted water well," he said.
Hafsa smiled broadly. "The young ones love making them! I'm pretty sure that's how most oases start in the desert. Just a bunch of young sandworms frolicking underground and playing in the water table. At least they don't drown like the ones in the books."
Severus chuckled. "Let's go. You're practically vibrating."
She grinned at him as they gave their camels water before getting on. Random frolicked around his parents, eager to get moving.
"Bloody Gryffindor," Snape muttered, shaking his head at the playful baby camel.
Hafsa laughed as she patted the camel's side, and they took off over the dunes towards the shallow desert.
Severus couldn't help but laugh when the young sandworm popped out of the ground like a groundhog, pushing the harder dirt up to make the shaft that would allow the water to flow upward and be accessible by people. Its tentacle tongues were waving playfully, and it was obvious that the worm was in good spirits as it was messing with Hafsa as she attempted to build the stone enclosure and water bucket for travellers to know there was a well nearby.
Hafsa patted the young worm on the side and rubbed inside its mouth, swatting at the tentacles with amusement as the worm tried to flop her over in the sand and drag her into its mouth.
Snape had long since stopped panicking when the worms did so, having first thought they were trying to eat her, but Hafsa assured him that if they had wanted to eat her, they'd have done so years ago when she was fatter and much chewier from a more sedentary lifestyle.
While he wasn't sure her comparison was at all fair, as he knew the war hadn't exactly made her "fat" he wasn't about to get into a conversation with a witch about her weight. That was something akin to bringing up religion or politics at a Ministry meeting.
No thank you.
The desert had made them both stronger in a lot of ways, but he'd found himself in the rather strange predicament of being quite well fed—something he hadn't ever been in the entirety of his life. He'd begun to respect the concentrated nutrition of rich camel milk, freshly-picked dates, and other edible desert jewels, but even more so the variety of ethnic foods that peppered the region such as chicken tagine, fragrant with spices, olives, and preserved lemon, harira, a rich chickpea and lentil soup, or delectable ghoriba bahla, a kind of Moroccan shortbread biscuit studded with almonds and toasted sesame seeds. He was positively addicted to them and knew that Minerva was too, the Scottish witch eagerly looking forward to the treats in the parcels they sent her on a regular basis.
He'd never really branched out, food-wise, as growing up in Cokeworth hadn't exactly given him a great opportunity for experiencing much variety.
While they were always very careful not to step on toes when entertaining guests while camped in the desert, when they were not being watched, they shared chores and tasks equally. He had learned how to make tea the way nomads did rather than the British way, and he found it rather cathartic.
Wood was collected from deadfall when tradition demanded, but they had done a little tinkering to make a more efficient "gas" heater-stove that was powered on magic when the guests were not so picky. He'd learned that loose black tea leaves of good quality were something they easily agreed on. Sometimes, he added a bit of mint, sage, or thyme, a little cardamom, or cinnamon depending on how plucky he was feeling. He'd soon learned to add sugar while the water was cold because the taste was noticeably different—enough that his first guest had looked at him very strangely when he handed him sugar to put in his own tea.
Lesson learned.
Thankfully, the Bedouin man had, after drinking the tea as a proper guest, discreetly shown him the "proper" way to make tea.
Remedial tea-brewing, indeed.
He had to admit, whether it was the desert or the fact that the tea did taste better, he couldn't fault his guest for having looked at him like he was a total heathen.
The phrase "tashrab shay" had become so commonplace, that he found himself saying that instead of offering Hafsa her morning, afternoon, evening, and whatever-time cuppa. It was worth the smile she gave him, however. Every one was like the first glorious sunrise after a cold, dark winter.
He smiled when he thought of how different things were from back in the UK. Sometimes, Hermione would tell him that it would probably be good to start brewing coffee in case they had guests while camping above ground and, sure enough, someone would soon come wandering by. It had given him quite a shock when Hafsa had invited them in like family, offering rose water to wash the guests hands, Arabic coffee sweetened with dates, and food. She never asked any questions of any guests unless their stay lasted for longer than three days.
Then, and only then, she could inquire as to their name and ask what she could do to help them on their journey.
The unspoken rules of desert hospitality were far beyond anything he expected as a born and raised Brit—he could never imagine his mum or his da inviting a complete stranger into their home, asking no questions, and treating them like a cherished family member.
Mind, his tosser of a da didn't even treat his own family like they were cherished on a normal day, so his experience was admittedly a bit skewed.
It was a bit of a shock to him that Hermione would segregate herself away for him to entertain their male guests. At first, he'd thought she was purposely doing it to make him uncomfortable, but he realised that she was simply bowing to the cultural norm of the guest. He learned to offer them water to wash their hands before the meal, and then they would sit down (on the floor!) around a big communal plate.
He was pretty sure that he'd utterly botched "Bismillah al Rahman al Raheem" a few times, but the guests seemed happy that he was trying his best.
He'd become very good at eating with just his right hand whenever around company, and he'd learned that guests would always leave some food on the plate as a sign of respect no matter how hungry they were. An empty plate was an insult to him, and that was a bit backwards by the British-normal "clean your plate!" philosophy. It was considered rude to be the first one finished eating as a guest, and Severus realised that they were not eating slowly because they thought his food was horrible. The washing of hands happened after the main meal, but then the guest would return for tea, and he would continue pouring tea until their hand covered their glass.
Later, when the guests had left to continue on their journey, often with a parcel of dates, nuts, and travel-safe food and water, Hafsa would smile at him in a way that made all the stress of trying very hard not to insult his guests instantly fade away.
Now, he was starting to become a dab hand at entertaining guests when camping nomad-style above ground, and he found it more relaxing. Hafsa had become quite the accomplished chef in their time together, so much so that he was convinced some of their guests purposely tried to find her out on the sands simply for the opportunity to enjoy her cooking!
Hafsa seemed to be well-adapted to her new life, and he couldn't imagine her out of the desert any more than he could picture a dolphin swimming in the Sahara.
And what was really strange—
He found he couldn't imagine living his life without her in it.
A cluster of footsteps signalled approaching people, and the sandworm must have sensed them because it had already disappeared into the ground. It had already eaten an unwary gazelle earlier, so its focus was to remain unseen. That, at least, was a relief.
Nothing made a peace offering like a new well sour for someone quite like a hungry sandworm eating the nomads—
Hafsa had, wisely, already begun to fill the waterskins and left out a large pan of water for the camels to drink, and he couldn't help but think the very smell of water had drawn the group of nomads in their direction.
"As-aalaam alaikum!" many said. Peace be upon you. He'd come to expect the greeting, but it had taken him a while to realise that many people meant exactly what they said.
They greeted them with waves and excited yammerings, all of them convinced that one of the charity organisations had finally put the well in for them.
Severus smiled at the thought. Hafsa was, undoubtedly, a woman of charity in so much of what she did. She was already busy offering cups of cool, clean water to the new arrivals, knowing they had likely travelled a long way in the hopes of finding succour on their way to the larger city even further away.
This well, however, was just far enough away that no one had seen them building it and close enough that word of it would spread amongst the nomads like wildfire. It would allow those who trekked out in search of water to get back to their families far sooner—and hopefully, it would be enough to keep their precious livestock alive.
Hermione's offered water would always be a little extra special, unbeknownst to Muggles. She floated the desert moon lily in her water containers to ensure any impurities were filtered out. It would probably help them in ways they would easily dismiss—erasing aches and pains, and healing the effects of toxins on the body. At the end of the day, she would return them to their floating pools underground, where they would revive for whatever task she desired of them the next day.
She would rotate which pools she took them from, never asking too much of one plant, and thanks to her careful tending, there were probably more desert moon lilies populating their underground sanctuary than there were hiding out in the wilds.
While he wasn't normally a believer in sentient plants, he had to admit that the lilies seemed to do much better when Hafsa worked with them. He could patiently prune and separate them all day, and they would never visibly perk up like they did for her.
Maybe, it was all in his head.
Then again—he perked up whenever she smiled at him, so maybe those plants were onto something.
Ten out of ten sandworms couldn't be wrong, right?
When the people had settled around well in a semblance of order that Snape could only guess at, he and Hafsa took their leave. He could see the relief on everyone's face at the new source of water, and it was time for them to return home.
As they trekked back out into the greater desert, Severus could only marvel at the niche the sandworm filled in the great desert—protecting the magic that incubated there, yes, but even more importantly, moving water about from the underground and even channelling it to places where it was needed.
With an epiphany settling in his stomach, he realised that it was the bond with the Makers that allowed it. Through Hafsa, the worms were connected to human intelligence and knowledge, and through her the health of the desert. Through the worms, Hafsa gained a greater sense of how the desert was doing magically and physically and relayed her perspective to the worms. It was a symbiosis she had taken part of willingly for a truly greater good.
He smiled as he thought of the great Albus Dumbledore being eaten by a sandworm for the greater good.
"What has you smiling so broadly?" Hafsa asked as she pulled her wrap over her head and adjusted it.
Severus smiled even wider. "Just thinking about what sandworms eat when they aren't chewing on vehicles."
Hafsa eyed him dubiously, but she chuckled. "Fine, keep your secrets," she said warmly as she patted Basma on the neck. The camel trotted faster across the dunes toward the deeper desert, knowing instinctively that they were headed back home.
Severus watched the "small" roll of sand near them as the camels trotted on. One of the sandworms was escorting them into the deep desert, happy, perhaps, that it was back in the softer and less cumbersome sand instead of burrowing through the harder dirt.
The sandworms were never too far away, and unlike when he had first encountered them, he took comfort in their presence.
Then his thoughts wandered to Hafsa's unease in the early morning and wondered what it was that she was picking up on. He hoped it was just thoughts of the drought and its effect on the people and animals, but—
He had also learned that Hafsa's "gut" was usually uncannily correct.
It was just a matter of what and when—
And all he could do was hope that he had his trousers on before whatever it was actually happened.
"You sure this is hers?" Neville said dubiously as he took the hair between his fingers.
"Yeah, mum had it stashed in a scrapbook for my future wife at the time," Ron said as he scratched his balls absently. "That didn't work out, obviously, but she didn't get rid of the book. I think she was saving it for some Prewett family magic to bless our marriage."
"Did she do that for Lavender?" Neville asked sceptically.
"We have seven kids, don't we?" Ron said with a snort.
Neville shrugged. "Way too many if you ask me."
"Look," Ron said with a sigh. "I know you want to find her and all, but what's done is done, mate. She's not ever going to forgive what we did to her. I'm not even sure why we did it. Why we weren't just honest with her—I barely even remember back then. It's all a ruddy haze. I honestly don't remember anything from the time I went for tea with my mum to tell her that Hermione and I were done to waking up in bed with a pregnant Lav and a new marriage band on my finger. But even I know that Hermione isn't going to forgive that. It was all over the papers and everything. There is no way she doesn't know. No way that she doesn't know your little cockamamie story was a bloody farce. If you think she's going to just hand over some miracle cure after that, then you don't know Hermione Granger at all."
"She went out there for my parents," Neville argued stubbornly. "If she found something, she owes them. She agreed!"
"What got you all riled up to find her now? A few years ago you were all guilt-ridden that you'd sent her off to her death," Ron said, narrowing his eyes.
Neville slapped a torn and wrinkled flyer down on the table.
Sand Lion Apothecary Releases Remarkable Nutrient Dense Wafers
Ron peered at the headline. "You stole this from the Department of Mysteries?"
"I took it from Harry's desk," Neville said, dismissing him. "That's not the point. Look! Sand Lion Apothecary? That has to be Hermione! I sent her into the desert! She's a Gryffindor! The mascot is a lion! Those seeds were meant to cure my parents!"
"You're bloody mental," Ron said with a snort. "And they said it was cleared for use by Mungo's. Why are you trying to find Hermione when you can just get the treatment there?"
"Sodding Malfoy is the healer for the Janus Thickey Ward," Neville said, visibly seething. "There's no way I'd let him touch my parents!"
"Why don't you just ask Harry—"
"I TRIED!" Neville ranted. "He told me those wafers were only allotted for hit wizards and witches and those on intensive stakeouts for dark magic users. They were being counted. He couldn't just give me some! He told me to go talk to Amelia Bones, and that bitch just ruddy laughed in my face!"
Ron frowned. "I think you need to give me that hair back, mate."
Neville snatched it away from Ron's fingers and scowled. "You're turning against me too now?"
"No, I think your quest is doomed to fail," Ron said bluntly. "If Hermione hasn't come back from the desert, she's either dead or she doesn't want to be found. You use that hair, and you could splinch yourself or walk into something no one but Hermione could be prepared for."
Ron sighed. "I made the bed I have, so I have to sleep in it, mate. I may not remember what happened back then, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm married, and I have to take care of my family now. And you have a family too. Don't throw it all away for some mad quest in the desert. If Hermione didn't come back, then there has to be a good reason for that."
"She's making money off my parents' cure!" Neville hissed angrily. "I'm going to find her and take the seeds she promised me!"
"Look, I'm going to send a Patronus to Hannah and we're going to ta—"
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Ron fell stiffly onto the floor.
"You don't know what it's like watching your parents act worse than your kids, Ron," Neville snapped. "If there is a cure to be had out there, then my parents deserve to have it! They gave everything they had to the war before we even knew how to hold a bloody wand!
Neville clutched his head as he stared down at Ron's paralyzed body. "Fuck. FUCK!"
He tore at his hair as he caught his breath. "You'll see. I'll grow those things with my special fertiliser, and they'll work with the restoration spell from gran's old grimoire. Then no one will be laughing at me anymore!"
When the vulture returned from delivering that latest batch of potions and nutrient wafers, Hermione laughed as the bird begged like a baby for treats from his "long" mission. She tossed a few "meatballs" to the hungry (though he believed he was starving to death) bird of preserved carrion and other nutrients that Severus had made for him—much like an owl nut but specifically for the ornery vulture.
"Moke, you are being such a goof," Hermione chided as the bird tried to entangle himself into her hair beads.
Moke playfully nipped at her beaded hair, making baby-like peeping noises.
She playfully tapped his beak and then stroked his breast feathers. "Go on, Moke. Go find your ostrich egg. Here's your favourite rock."
She handed the vulture his all-time favourite smashing rock, and the bird promptly leapt off to go search for his tasty prize, rock in beak.
She smiled as she heard the telltale thwack of rock against egg as the vulture threw his rock at the ostrich egg over and over until he got it just right.
"Get off my boots, you impossible creature!" Severus' voice bellowed from outside.
Moke came trotting in with the ostrich egg clutched in his beak, wings flapping as he attempted to escape Snape's wrath while also trying to eat the egg's precious contents.
Snape stormed into the chamber, brushing sand off his robes. "Miserable sodding bird."
"He loves you," Hafsa said with an amused laugh.
"He loves my boots, you mean," Snape muttered grumpily.
"Probably both," she replied.
"The latest shipment of wafers made it to Amelia, judging by the bird's lovemaking to my boots," Snape observed.
Hafsa smiled at him. "They are rather sexy boots."
Severus stiffened, and all his thoughts went tumbling out his ears like they were trying to escape the sinking Titanic.
"The one wearing them is even moreso, though," Hafsa added cheekily.
Snape blinked rapidly, his thoughts chasing his sanity across his face as words completely failed him.
"It's a compliment, Severus," Hafsa said with a warm smile. "I assure you, I am not lying. I am not delusional. I have not snorted sand into my brain, and I do not have sunstroke either."
He blinked again, taking in a deep ragged breath, and then he turned and walked out of the room without a single word.
Hafsa sighed softly, closing her eyes and taking in a deep breath. "Good job, Hermione. Just ruin every relationship you actually value like you always do."
Hermione awoke to find a cuddly baby camel snuffling her face.
"Pffft," she said, pushing Eashwayiyin's lippy mouth away from her face.
Something jingled when she did so, and it was distinctively not a normal baby camel sound.
The young camel made a grunting bellow then pegged her with his nose.
Jingle.
Hermione felt around the baby camel's head and neck as she attempted to find out what was jingling. As her hand touched something that was out of place, there was another jingle and a thump as a parcel landed on the bed.
Eashwayiyin chewed on her hair playfully and then trotted out of her bedroom, bellowing with gleeful camel mischief.
Hermione sighed. Camels. Never had she ever dreamed that her adult life would be infested with sand, worms, or camels. Maybe, she figured, she'd seen herself with too many Kneazles, but even Kneazles stayed the heck out of the desert.
Sandworms could eat entire vehicles, so a Kneazle was just one more menu item. The rare "dumb" Kneazle had been weeded out when the desert was still young. She was quite certain of that.
Hermione stared at the box wrapped in palm leaf cord, her finger touching the piece of parchment tied to the box.
Hafsa was written in familiar handwriting.
She flipped it over.
I am a true idiot.
I am unaccustomed to—feeling so much.
Words utterly fail me just when I need them the most.
Allow this to say that which I cannot put into words.
Hermione eyed the box somewhat warily as one would a known jack-in-the-box. She carefully opened it, lifting the lid in readiness to slam it back down to prevent a spider apocalypse.
Instead, she stared at the contents in amazement.
Inside, nestled in a bed of shredded palm fibre, was a scrimshaw carved into a highly polished doum nut cutout formed into a beautiful egg-shaped pendant. The natural outer rind was polished away just enough to expose the shine of the inner white. On the surface, the highly detailed head of a lioness stared off into the distance, great dunes behind her, the sun's rays blazing across the sky with uncanny detail—only the lioness had a wild mane of hair adorned with beads that looked startlingly familiar. Written below the lioness in the intricate flowing script of Arabic was the name "Hafsa."
She flipped it over, and written on the back in Arabic was:
Aladhi la yaerif alssqr yashwih.
She smiled at the proverb "He who does not know the falcon, would grill it." While somewhat nonsensical to an English speaker, the closest equivalent was "Your value does not decrease due to someone's inability to know your worth."
Underneath the old proverb was written "Antee jameela."
You are beautiful.
A tear flowed down the side of her nose, and she sniffed, rubbing her face with her hand.
Severus hadn't said a word to her in over a week, and she'd thought she'd ruined the one human relationship she didn't want to see come to an end. She'd thought she'd insulted him or perhaps stupidly stepped over her boundaries of "getting to know" him, knowing full well that everyone thought he was hopelessly in love with a ghost.
But he had crafted her this—
His image of her as a beautiful lioness.
There was another piece of parchment in the box from which she had lifted the pendant.
I am a coward.
I would greet the sun with you every morning until there were no mornings left.
Please forgive me for needing time for reality to bite me squarely on the arse and remind me of that which I truly desire—that the one I wish to spend the rest of my life with—is you.
Yours in emotional torture, he who is probably sweating bullets even as you read this,
Severus
Hermione pulled the pendant over her head and scrambled to put on her clothes the right way and not inside-out and backwards. She used the loo, washed her face, brushed her teeth with furious zeal, and took a deep, cleansing breath.
Counting to ten in Arabic, she braved the walk out of her bed-chamber to confront the man who had struck terror into the hearts of every Hogwarts firstie for at least two decades.
…and promptly slammed face-first into a wall of black flowing robes.
Merlin, the man was tall! How had she not noticed how tall he was?
"Severus!" she breathed, her wind and words leaking away like water down the sand dunes.
His eyes went to the pendant and then to her face. His black eyes were fathomless, but she saw the crease between his eyes that signalled the stress he had predicted he was enduring even as he wrote his note to her.
"May I kiss you?" he whispered.
"Naeam—mmph!" Hermione managed to say in Arabic just before his lips descended upon hers in a searing desert-hot kiss.
And there was not much talking for quite some time after that.
Above ground, there were reports that the dunes were singing even without the sandstorms triggering their song. Only the sandworms knew the truth, and they certainly weren't telling anyone.
End of Chapter Two
A/N: The line "and there was not much talking for quite some time after that" was brain bunnied by one of IShouldBe's stories (might have been Autumnal Kisses) where our favourite pair basically fell on each other in a soul mate-heated frenzy of passion. If you read carefully between the sand dunes, you might get the feeling that much the same thing is going on here. Heh.
Praise the Dragon and the Rose for staying up well past her expiry pumpkin hour to beta this ever-growing sand dune.
It is now my bedtime, and I am going to sleep like a professional whose job is to sleep.