A/N : I actually own some of the characters of this fic. Thomas Mattews, for instance. Care to trade him in exchange for Rommel ?
December 1943, Africa, in the desert
"Well ?"
"We are getting closer. Did not anyone ever teach you patience is a virtue ?"
Feldmarschall Erwin Rommel checked once again the red arrow hanging above the car's dashboard. They had been looking for quite some time now, and they still had not found the wizard known as Albus Dumbledore. What made the matter worse was they were running short on fuel, and they had just enough in the jerrycans for two hundred kilometers or so. Which was not enough to get back to camp. And Rommel was more and more feeling like they were making circles.
"You know", his British companion said thoughtfully, "I think..."
"Oh, you do, now ?" Rommel asked tartly.
Searching around the whole day had done nothing to improve his mood.
"Why, yes, my very dear uncle", Tom said sweetly - which infuriated the german even more.
"Well, go ahead !" he finally said, no patience left.
"If I know Dumbledore, he will have thought of that nice spell you are currently using. I'd bet he's been muddling up his magical signature so we can't find him."
"Oh, that is just great ! And you could not have told me that before we looked all around the place uselessly."
"Hey, I just thought about it. Don't blame me if your trick didn't work !"
Tom wiped the sweat on his forehead and went for the water-bottle. he felt awfully thirsty, and he definitely hated Africa. That was a boring place, with only sand everywhere, and, with enough luck, a tree or some stones here and there. No interest at all in that country - what was its name ? Ah, yes, Libya. Rommel had told him before he liked the place, but he had been there for years. Stunning, what too much sun could do to a man. Enough to make him actually like the place. For his part, Tom would have liked it better with some more clouds. He just couldn't get used to the sultriness.
Awww, come on, you have been here for barely a day. Give yourself some more time.
The only thing was he didn't want to get used to it. He wanted to forget it all about that whole "saving Dumbledore" nonsense, and get back to England as soon as possible. A pity he couldn't.
Unsuspecting these rebellious thoughts, Rommel had stopped the car - no point in moving on if he did not know where to.
"You know", the german finally said, "I am starting to share your opinion."
"That is to say ?" Riddle asked, cocking an eyebrow.
"That Dumbledore fellow can rot in hell for all I care."
"No need to go to hell to rot. This place is warm enough", the British teen muttered.
"You will get used to it", Rommel smirked. "In a few months time, you will feel like you have always lived here."
"Merlin save me ! I certainly hope not. Speaking of rotting, isn't it what's going to happen to us if we don't start moving ?"
"Certainly", Rommel said politely. "Care to give me directions ?"
"You are the one supposed to save Dumbledore", Tom pointed out with a mischievous smile.
"And you are supposed to assist me", the blond german retorted.
"Well, truth to be told, I do have a few ideas", Riddle smirked, "but you won't like them so it's no use.."
"Do tell anyway."
"You could take that fancy wand of yours and write up in the sky, with very big and bold letters, in red or something flashy, "we are here to save you Dumbledore"."
"Right", Rommel snarled. "And we could say hello to some nice german soldiers of mine too."
"Told you you wouldn't like it. It's the quickest way."
"The quickest that you can think of", the Feldmarschal corrected him.
With a sigh, he got out of the car, soon imitated by the British teen. Above them, the sun was shining and beaming - it was around four in the afternoon. A glance toward Riddle told Rommel the teen's bare chest was already hoisting a redder shade. He would soon enough regret he had not listened to Rommel. But you can't make a donkey drink if he's not thirsty.
He cast a look over their surroundings. Nothing seemed to move, apart from them. No place to hide, either. No water. So what ? They could not have just disappeared ! Well, Dumbledore could have, but not in front of his men. Besides, had he done so, forsaking the soldiers under his command, Rommel would have felt the utmost contempt toward him.
That was the problem, when war involved both wizards and muggles ; it was just so much more difficult to hide one's nature...
"Hands up !" a voice barked behind him, bringing him back to reality rather brutally.
In other circumstances, he might have tried something foolish. But, he had no cover, the man probably had a gun, and Riddle was with him, and he could not abandon the teen. Besides, he did not like all that much muggle guns. It hurt like hell, though it was often less dangerous than a wand. So, he raised his hands as ordered.
"Turn round", the same harsh voice commanded.
He obeyed, and found himself face to face with a British sergeant, holding a gun aimed at him point-blank. Impassived, he stared at the man. The British was not alone ; soon enough, a dozen other men rose from the sand, uncovering the holes they had been hiding into. They had buried themselves in the sand... weren't they the clever ones.
Near Rommel, Riddle had also his hands raised, glowering at their captors. The german hoped his companion would not try anything stupid. But no... the teen was anything but stupid, and he was not suicidal either.
The british soldier who had spoken gestured for his friends to search their new prisonners, and the Feldmarschal stiffened slightly. His Deceptive charm was good enough, but it would not hold if they searched him thoroughly. If that happened, he would hav to draw his wand, no matter what.
But, fortunately, one of the brits merely felt his clothes, and seized the gun Rommel was wearing on his belt. The dummkopf did not even find his wand. Well, good for him and Riddle. Whom they did not even bother to search, as his chest was bare.
Time for some talk, now. Diplomacy might get them out of this annoying situation.
"I don't understand", Rommel said in his best english. "We are Allied soldiers, just like you. No need to be so harsh."
When he really tried, he managed to speak almost without a foreign accent.
"Don't bother, you Kraut", the sergeant who seemed to be their leader sneered. "We heard you talk with that fancy german accent of yours."
Riddle cast him a glare that clearly meant "told you so", and Rommel pointedly ignored him. Right, now was the time to pull out some nice lie.
"I'm Dutch", he argued. "Ah, it's always the same thing", he cast the man an annoyed look. "Just because I've got a foreign accent doesn't mean I'm german."
Some uncertainty was now wavering in the man's eyes. The Feldmarschal did not give him the time to ponder over this assertion.
"What are you doing around here anyway ? I thought there were only Krauts in that part of Libya... Be that as it may, that's a fluke we met. You are alone ?"
He made a mistake asking the last question, for it seemed to arouse suspicion amongst the British soldiers.
"Why would you care ?" the leader asked with open hostility. "We won't take any chances", he added for his men's benefit. "Our orders are to take you to our leader. You won't get hurt if you behave. Don't try to escape. What are your names ?"
Hum. That one, he should have expected it.
"I am major Erwan Romester", he lied. "And this is Tom Riddle."
"That's not a Dutch name", the soldier said dubiously.
"My father was a Scot, but after he married my mother he asked for the Dutch nationality, and he lived there with her and myself."
That was just indredible enough to make the British soldier believe him. He nodded curtly.
"If I may, what is your name ?" Rommel inquired.
"Sergeant Thomas Matthews", the man replied.
He didn't add "sir", and the unsaid title hung between them for a short while.
Then, he turned away, and the blond german tensed slightly ; that may be his chance. But he refrained from doing anything. The other British soldiers kept their weapons carefully aimed at him and Riddle. No, they would not drop their guard for the time being.
"McFerson", he called, "is the car intact ?"
"Yes sir", answered a bald man with a scottish accent. "And there is even loads of fuel."
"Good ! How many can fit inside ?"
"No more than six or eight, and only if we squeeze up a little bit", came McFerson's answer.
"Fine. Take it back to camp, we'll bring the prisonners on foot", Matthews ordered.
Rommel cast a sidelong glance at Riddle.
"Up for a little walk ?" he asked, deadpan.
"Humph", the British teen mumbled in answer. "I knew we should not have stopped the car."
Seeing his companion in a foul mood, the german shrugged and did not insist. At Matthews' command, they started walking, the British soldiers behind them. Undoubtedly, if they tried running, they would be immediately shot. They had no choice but come along and pray these soldiers were Dumbledore's men. Because otherwise, Rommel would have to escape at all cost, and that probably meant kill a lot of them. Because he could not bring them along, and stupefying them to let them rot on the ground would mean condemn them to a slow and excruciating death.
The walk lasted for half an hour, during which neither Rommel nor Tom spoke. The British talked quietly among themselves, not quite loud enough for the two prisonners to hear.
Soon enough, they approached the camp, which was more like a few tents pitched together than an actual military settlement. The sand-coloured tents made a good camouflage, and no one would probably notice it unless they came very close, and even more so since it was set in a small pit. There must be about a hundred people or so in this place... impressive enough. Their car stood nearby.
Matthews led them towards one of the tents, at the end of the camp, drawing the other men's interest. They kept their eyes on the two prisonners as they went through the settlement. Finally, he stopped in front of the tent.
"Captain, sergeant Matthews reporting. We brought the prisonners."
"Come in", the man inside the tent replied.
Matthews put away the folding screen, and the two prisonners entered the tent, both holding their breath.