When Sphinxes Speak

Abby Ebon

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Disclaimer; I do not own the rights to "Harry Potter" or "The Mummy". Even the idea was gifted to me by L'autre Monde.

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A Step Through Desert Time

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Faced with that doorway, where before there had been nothing but sand made into something like stone, Harry felt keenly the weight of the gifts he had been given by the ancient gods and goddess. It had not escaped his notice that what he knew as the "Deathly Hallows" had indeed belonged to the ancient death gods and goddess. Even Horus, for all that he had been most unlike the others, was the son of the death god Osiris.

'I can not just take these along with me.' The Lance of Horus seemed to gleam in agreement within his hand, though the Shroud of Seth pressed about his shoulders, as if to cling to him. It gave him the chills, remembering the regard in those ancient eyes. It was Nephthys' gift, which he had felt fully the pain of; he could not think to leave behind. Perhaps it was because of how she had reminded him of his mother, with that flash of green among the depths of night blackness.

Harry did not dwell on that thought, for he did not like to think of what he might be if he was not, as Harmakhis-Khepri-Atum-Ra plainly believed, mortal. It was with some relief he parted with the Shroud of Seth, which he couldn't quite fold properly as a bit of it always seemed to rumple in an effort to stay in contract with his skin. It was simply improbable to keep the Shroud about him when he was in the desert, it would be far too hot. The fact that he felt chilled when it touched him, as if he were in the middle of a mountain winter, he chose not to dwell upon.

From the Lance of Horus, he felt something like acceptance and the ancient wisdom in patience. There was something of intelligence about the Lance, as if though it had chosen him, as Horus had claimed, it knew he was not quite ready to be chosen. He only did not like that it seemed to know him better then he knew himself.

Of the Ribbon of Nephthys, Harry did not even bother to remove. It had been painful to put on, and it would prove itself useful, the last thing Harry wanted was questions about his 'scar'. So of the three 'gifts', Harry kept only Nephthys' though as the golden sarcophagus closed he wondered if he had made the right choices. Then he set his mind only to the task which Horus had given him.

To findthe Crown of Isis, the Goblet of Thoth, and the Instrument of Hathor; he wondered at the wording, for it seemed familiar. The answer seemed as if was at the tip of his tongue before it was snatched away. Harry shook his head, the shaggy mess of black hair getting into his eyes and falling over his shoulders. He regretted now not asking Hermione for a trim, though it had seemed silly at the time.

He put his hand onto the rim of the door frame; it was the one without the gift of Nephthys to hide his scar. Though he did not worry over that, he wondered what the people would make of him. A pale skinned stranger strutting into their homeland with pale eyes, and the odd dress of a wizard.

He dared not remove his robes, for his clothes were a too large shirt and perhaps too baggy pants. He didn't know if he could transform his clothing without doing something silly like unraveling the stitches that kept them whole or giving the cloth more magic then it ought to be able to hold, that could result in random color changes, glowing, or keeping the cloth too tidy and clean. Being a "stitch witch" as Ron had called it, wasn't something taught in school because it ran in families and it was rare and hard to master.

Harry rather not risk his clothes turning a glowing purple in the middle of any sort of conversation. Harry felt a sick drop in his throat, as he might not be able to have any sort of proper conversation. Hand gestures, and signals of agreement - or disagreement changed over time - and he was being misplaced in time some two millennia.

He had already taken two steps out the door, though he wondered a moment if he had taken them (for he surely didn't remember doing so) or if Harmakhis-Khepri-Atum-Ra itself had moved in such a way that he would be out of the temple. The doorway wavered like an illusion before his eyes; Harry didn't think it was entirely his imagination when Harmakhis seemed to wink at him.

'Damned statue.' Harry cursed inwardly, sure that Harmakhis would indeed get the message. Harry glanced around; surprisingly (for he hadn't thought he'd been inside Harnakhis for this long) the sun was just beginning to rise. Then he remembered promptly his misstep bytwo millennia.

How he remembered was simple, though there was a good distance (at least a two hour hike in which anyone who cared to look would see him straggling along) between Harmakhis and the proper part of…whatever one called this place, be it "town" or "city"…Harry had the uncomfortable feeling he was playing the part of a modern "park sleeper".

Only this was not only a protected park, so to speak, it was at least the equivalent of the Temple Square in Jerusalem. In other words he was very likely in deep…crap, though he didn't see anyone, that didn't mean that he wasn't being watched.

It didn't seem Harmakhis was going to be letting him into the temple any time soon, either, if the mirage-like wavering of the place was any clue. Left with little choice, and feeling very much as if he had been set up and someone somewhere (likely a God – or Goddess) was laughing at his misfortune, Harry decided to risk dehydration and heat exhaustion to get to…wherever the people were in the distance.

'Thank whatever-god-or-goddess for trees.' Sometime later, that was Harry's only thought. Indeed, there were sparse trees, and Harry had crept along their shadows since the sun had risen to the point where Harry was panting for breath every fifth step. Even the fittest runner was not stupid enough to run in a desert in black robes with oversized clothing.

Harry was not any sort of runner, though he had his fair share of being chased (mind you, that had been by fat idiots who bullied him, or black robed and white skulled masks freaks who wanted to kill him, and bring about the end of a non magical people who outnumbered them some thousand to one) he was learning this did not mean a damn when he had set out for what he had thought to be a two hour hike. He had only covered half the distance he thought he would, and the sun was only getting higher and hotter.

He didn't want to know how long it would be till noon, and he didn't think it would cool off by then either. He thought he heard something then, like a laugh, and paused, glancing around the scattering of trees in his confusion. He wondered if he had heard some bird, or someone (the gods and goddesses of the ancient world were, indeed, to be held in suspect) was playing a trick upon him.

'I must be hearing things,' Harry decided after a moment, his mouth twisted pensively downward, 'I wonder how long it will be before I see things that aren't here…'

Harry took a step, knowing he could do nothing while he was alone, and hoping only that someone who he would encounter would have pity on him enough to give him a place to rest and water. A shadow seemed to sprint between the trees ahead, for Harry saw it out of the corner of his eyes. He kept his head down, though his shoulders were tensed with wary alertness. He knew in that moment that this was real. He was being hunted.

Harry – though an ordinary person would not have seen anything obvious – was slowly gathering his power. He knew he had a lot of it to spare, though how long it would be that his body – tired and drained as it was – would deal well with his magic he did not know. He did not have time to figure it further.

A child slim and tawny skinned, with dark hair and darker eyes, stepped suddenly in front of him. Harry trembled, sweat stinging in his eyes. Magic and the power to wield it swiftly and destructively came easily to Harry. Less easy was letting it fade back into his core without flinging some of it about. Harry had been trained to do battle, to be a weapon with his magic his tool, as a soldier might be startled – so could he, though the effects were deadlier – Harry knew he could not bare to be a child murderer.

Harry let himself fall onto the ground, before the child's feet, his hand touched the warm sand, his fingers spread as he let the power find the natural path outward from where it came. His fingers shook with a spasm, as Harry let the power – his magic – go without a fight. His shoulders slumped and Nephthys' gift felt icy cold against his skin. He felt as if something of his magic had been torn from him, but the soil took the magic easily. The only hint the child had ever been in danger was a sudden burst of desert flowers that sprung from the earth surrounding wizard and child in the bounty of their life.

The child clapped, laughing in joy, as if it had been some great trick, never aware of his own danger. Harry watched with some relief as the child danced about in circles around him, finally settling down all smiles, touching Harry on the shoulder with one small hand to gain his attention.

Harry heard the boy child's words, pitched softly in awe, all at once musical and alien. Harry saw the child frown when Harry did not make any comment, again came the words, flowing and quick. Harry only shook his head, pointing to his throat and ear, frowning as if he could not understand sound, and so could not speak. The boy shrugged, grabbed firmly onto Harry's hand, and tugged with a smile and an insisted word, in a tone almost like command.

Harry knew the child wanted him to follow, and what other choice did he have but to do so? Weak as he was, he knew he wouldn't survive this place without the help this child could provide, by merely taking him to others. Harry shakily got to his feet, and if the child noticed his shakes, he paid no heed to them as somewhat like a trot and a skip, the child led him swiftly from shadow to shadow.

Harry lost track of time, for him there had only been one step after another, if only to keep pace with a child who seemed quicker then most could manage with twice his height. One moment their had been two great sand dunes raising up to either side of him, and in the next he felt power – magic or god like – tighten his skin and raise goose bumps along his neck for all that he was too hot to think he could be so chilled.

If he had blinked, he was sure he would have missed the moment when sand dunes changed to walls, and the path was revealed to lead to a gate guarded by two men dressed in somber black, though wearing less then Harry thought they ought to be in this heat.

The men glared suspiciously at Harry, though with quick words the child seemed to put them somewhat at ease – if only to appear so to the little one - though they were still obviously wary. Harry glanced behind himself, barely keeping his mouth from dropping open, the sand dunes had become walls too high to see anything but sky beyond.

Around him life in all its bustling and noisy glory was achingly familiar and welcome. Though he did not understand the words said by those who had something to sell or bargain for, tone and attitude reminded him of things he had not known to look for in this alien familiarity.

What happened next occurred with dizzying suddenness which took him days to sort out just what it was that had set it all off.

A woman's voice cried out, and the child jerked toward it as if stung, with rising tones of one setting out to scold or punish – or cry – the woman struggled through the crowd toward them. Once the people connected the woman with the child, they parted easily, some hovering to see this confrontation through, others ignoring the outburst and going about what they had set out to do. The child was shaken by the woman's presence and her open fear – he spoke haltingly then with swiftness, his hand tightened about Harry's own and he nodded toward Harry.

Who at that point, looking into the fiercely protective and afraid eyes – wished he were still struggling through the desert. The woman spoke her words sharp and directed toward Harry. He was, for once, glad he didn't understand – he felt awkward and frightened enough as it was – the woman seemed to realize her words weren't getting through. The boy muttered something almost too soft to catch, but catch it the woman did. She shouted out, gesturing to Harry, he did not need to understand words to know she had been badly startled and was taking it out on Harry.

Those black clad guards came in sight, lean and moving like predators, they flanked Harry who knew then and there he was helpless, he had no where he could go. His magic had been summoned and dispelled in a way that still left him reeling with the backlash, even if he could get to the temple with magic (which he didn't think he could) he wouldn't be awake to know where he had gotten to when he fled.

With the danger of bits and parts of himself being left behind between places a very real possibility, and no Healer in sight, he knew it was safer – whatever these people might do to him – to stick this out. More rapid words were exchanged between the woman and guards, when one of the men addressed him all he could do was to shrug, feeing utterly helpless. He couldn't understand. It was better to make that plain.

The woman jerked the child from his hand, holding him to her chest and flinching away from Harry when he moved toward them instinctively. His hand fell to his side, he felt very keenly like dirt.

What he was not prepared for was the sudden struck by one of the black clad guards that landed him on his back; it was painful to draw in air. It stung along his throat, the words of the child were pleading and mournful, the reply sharp as any words could be. Harry felt himself pulled to a place where he would feel no pain, and let himself reluctantly drift toward it, knowing he would rather painless darkness then this uselessness.

He was unaware that his movement into the city had been watched by others then those who guarded it. A shapely shadow moved between buildings, into the slim alleyway. For some reason the shadow paused, and glanced behind to Harry once more. Eyes caught on the hand encased with Nephthys' gift, and the odd plant-like barbed wire scar that encircled his wrist. Those same eyes flared silver before they turned away.

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"Oh, child, if I could only spare you in your wakening…" The words were soft however much they were burned into his mind. That, Harry knew in that moment, was the difference between what was mortal and immortal. Those that were immortal could never forget there own words, could never recall words with anything less or more then what they were in that moment they were spoken. The words were cut crisply into his memory, burned there, so if he looked back he would recall them with perfect clarity. They would never be forgotten; perhaps, he wondered then, not even in death.

"Who are you?" Harry's own voice was roughened and sore.

"I am Hathor, wife of Horus; and you, child, are in more danger then you know." Harry bothered to open his eyes then, turning to where he had heard the voice originate from. It was, as he had guessed, a female, though her appearance somewhat surprised him. She was plump, one hand holding her rounded chin, the other held some manner of instrument.

Framed with metal, and woven with smaller bits that looped around the frame, he had no doubt it would clang and clatter merrily if movement stirred it – he was glad it was still for the moment – his head ached horribly; her hair was a wave of black that seemed to have a will of its own and could not be tamed with its curls and stray bits drifting in a breeze that was not there. It reminded him of his own hair.

Power was about her, more then Harry even wanted to think of, she wore it like she wore her weight, with dignity and pride. Calm dark brown eyes regarded him with open kindness, though there was mischief there.

"I'm supposed to find your Instrument." Harry told her feeling detached, his head muddled and thoughts passing about which he could not catch. She smiled, reassuring and patient, not at all like the others who had come and gone too quickly. She would speak to him, and not only to pass on her message, whatever it was.

"Yes, though this is not what you seek." Hathor tilted the bits of metal, and though Harry had braced himself for unpleasant racket, he found himself surprised when it rang out pleasant and reassuring, his head even felt less muffled by thoughts and pain.

"It isn't?" Harry did not hide his confusion; his vulnerability was plain, though he did not mean it to be.

"No, they did not make it clear to you what it is you seek, though they told you the names of the items, and a name is a sort of power among us – sometimes they can forget we are not all alike with our thoughts – I am younger, I remember what it was like." Hathor paused, seeming to realize Harry had only grown more confused, she laughed and it was so alike the chiming of the metal instrument that it surprised Harry.

"Forgive me, I take it in my mind to explain these things to you and I only seem to make it worse. Firstly, my Instrument will likely be the easiest of the items for you to find, it is among those black clad men who brought you to this…place." Hathor sneered then, her lip curling, for the first time her expression was unpleasant and for a moment Harry felt a thrill of unreasonable fear. Her shadow seemed to swirl, and he glimpsed horns that sprouted from her skull. For the first time he realized that she, despite the present manners and kindness, was a goddess – just as fierce and deadly as the death gods.

Harry found himself stirring, sitting up to look elsewhere then at Hathor. He was in a cave; it was his first thought, though it was wrong, he was atop a mound of earth, above him was likely where they had dropped him in, a barred cage of metal. He had room to stand, if he could, for the ceiling was likely twice as high as he. At least it was cooler in this place then in the outside, though there wasn't much else to say about it.

"How could I get it from them?" Harry asked, feeling quite helpless as he was trapped in this place, and it seemed to him he would never be able to get free without alerting these people to his nature. If they had some measure of finding out his magical origins – and likely, after the child's pleased reaction of his magic, they did – they might be smart enough to put something to dampen, or keep him self and his magic in this place alone. It could be done, he knew, for not even wizards could overcome such things.

"Fear not, the High Priest comes, he is on good terms with us. He will know you for what you are. As for my Instrument, it is not a danger to others in this time and place as much as the Crown of Isis or the Goblet of Thoth will be." Hathor was suddenly beside him, and patted his thigh good naturedly. Harry remembered all too late what his thoughts had been racing about trying to tell him. He thought keenly of Hermione telling him of the Egyptian gods and goddesses, for even wizards and witches were not fool enough to ignore the ancient deities that slumbered. What slept awakened, and though they had magic that would be no protection from ignorance of what you faced.

Hathor had touched him, Harry breathed out shakily feeling something that was not wholly his own response stir lazily, and it startled him, for it was as dangerous as the goddess beside him and just as unclear in its intentions. Hathor was, among other things, a goddess of desire – of lust. She was not the playful sprite of Cupid who flung arrows on a whim, or Aphrodite, whom had existed only to be adored. Hathor was deadly in her own right, and perhaps more so then any of the others, for one did not suspect her because of her nature.

"Let me go." Harry begged, not surprised to hear the plea in his own voice.

"Why?" She was honestly curious, though her hand had not moved from his clothed thigh; all the same, the contact filled him with a strange desire for warm flesh and pleasure that had only been hinted at before.

"I do not want it." He felt himself drifting, as that strange heat seem to surface within his skin, burning him till he wanted to do anything to relieve the hunger of it. Hathor chuckled, though it was darker, huskier, then what it had been before. He felt almost embarrassed by her when she spoke, for it seemed to touch him in a way he thought should only have been in a bedroom before, not in this man made cave of dirt.

"Often your kind does not know what they want." Harry could believe that, but he felt it was wrong somehow, to want her to touch him as she had. He realized then that her hand had crawled upward, he gasped shakily when her finger brushed his clothed groin. His skin felt too hot, and he made a soft pleading noise he didn't think was his till it passed his lips. There was wicked delight in Hathor'd dark brown eyes.

"Please - not this – not like this." Harry found himself begging, for though his body begged for this torture to continue – to perhaps become something more, another part of himself hated – loathed – every touch he received, and every noise he made in response. Harry didn't know what would happen if she continued, well – he sort of did – but he didn't know if he could face himself, helpless as he was, some part of him wanted this as much as other parts despised the want and need he felt. It was this odd duality that told him this – as much as he liked it – was wrong. It made him feel used, teased, mocked.

"I am sorry; it is for your own good. Be still, he comes." Hathor gave no other warning as she pressed her lips against his own, dipping her tongue into his mouth so he could not make a sound. As much as he knew he would hate himself for it later, in that moment he felt freedom - alike joy- a fierce joy welled up within him, stirring his heart and magic. In that moment he knew such a joyous release of the welled up desire could empower him to dance carelessly until the end of his life, or to kill without conscious or guilt. It was, he knew then, as close as he would come to the duel nature of the wine god Dionysus of the Greeks. It was something he could never forget dwelled within him.

Hathor smiled, pleased, when she released him. She did not speak as she faded from sight, leaving him trembling in her wake. A voice, masculine and melodious drifted down to him. Harry looked upward, not very surprised to see that the metal bars had been lifted and a man, bald though pleasantly dark with a firm jaw and serious black eyes looked down upon him. Harry felt his breath caught, and wondered if this awakened desire was his own or aroused by Hathor.

He decided, somewhat bemusedly, that it did not matter. A ladder dropped from above, and Harry felt his nerves sting with alarm; he crawled only a small distance until his back was to the wall. Harry could not help but wonder if he was about to be killed, and swallowed his fear, his magic gathering itself slowly, achingly so. It almost hurt to summon it forth with his will and force his battered flesh to take in the magic.

The man, dressed as he was in fine dark robe and something like a loincloth and sandals, caught Harry's eyes with his own. Slowly, the man smiled, it softened his stern features, and though Harry knew him to be dangerous, he knew also that this man meant him no harm.

"I did not think to meet you in such a way." Those were not his own thoughts, but they belonged to the man who held his gaze, of that Harry was sure. He nodded, solemn and with dignity, to Harry's wondering gaze. The man came closer, within his personal space, though Harry made no move to get away. There had been power in his thoughts, something like magic, though it was tied closely to the sense of heavy presence he felt among the gods and goddesses who had so far greeted him in this strange and ancient land.

"I am High Priest, Imhotep. You are safe, green eyes. I will protect you…" Of this the man – Imhotep – was fiercely positive of. There was protection offered, and a place Harry could take beside Imhotep, one that no one would question. Imhotep gently reached to touch his hand, enclosed as it was with metal, ruined as it was by the thorn and barbed wire scar about his wrist with its clear and glowing green stones, Harry got the sense that this man saw it for what it was, and accepted it. Harry flinched slightly, for he was still over sensitive to touch after his encounter with Hathor. Something like possession tightened the slender fingers, smooth of any calluses, about his wrist. Harry felt his skin flush and knew by the quirk of Imhotep's the priest had seen it and knew it for what it was.

"Thank you." Harry murmured, still flushed, as he was pulled upward. He became aware then that had been the only word he had spoken not to a god or goddess of his ancient place. Imhotep, as if he understood the tone, if not the words themselves, only nodded, gesturing with a wave toward the wooden ladder, slightly unsteady and not only a little bit uneasy about the sturdiness of what he climbed, Harry was none the less relieved when he felt the skin warm his skin.

He saw a black clad guard beside the ladder, and feeling slightly sick, Harry waited for a reaction. The man studied him with pressed lips, then, finally, reached a hand out to help Harry get his footing. His companions chuckled when Harry understandably was visibly glad to be off the wooden ladder. Something like warmth settled within Harry, and he thought in that moment that he could get used to this place, that it was not so strange.

Imhotep spoke then, a sharp word not directed toward Harry, but to the men. They shuffled about uneasily, like scolded children, their eyes not meeting the priests. Imhotep curled his arm about Harry's weight, leading him to elsewhere, the black clad men following obediently after. Harry fell in step with Imhotep, and was not concerned with where they were going, for the safety he felt in that moment was worth not knowing a language, and being a stranger in a land that was not of his own time.

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Note; I don't like Hathor very much; I'm not sure why this is. Manipulations, touching my Harry, or if it's a mutual sort of dislike caused by the simple fact she knew I wanted Horus to do more to Harry then a mere brotherly snuggle….huh, that might be it…-snarls- still that witch kissed my Harry! ….Moving on before I hurt something…

In a funny-odd sort of way, there were a few times in this where I couldn't help but think of Harry as the Harry Dresden (I just finished up Tim Butcher's "White Night", alright? ) while writing this; we're just lucky that they both have the first name, no?

Also I have uncovered a longing to meld Mercedes Lackey's Valdemar with Harry Potter. Partly my own fault, for playing about in that world once more, then going on to write this chapter; if only to start to have a finish for the sequel of "Battle Song", called "One Good Turn"; which, hey, I do have a vague sort of ending in mind for…

God help me, Harry somehow being among the throng of Haven (or anywhere, really, I'm not that picky) makes the oddest kind of sense, if not very rational; though when have I ever been reasonable about what I write? I'm an odd duck, that I know, but I do hope even I have my limits. Ah, screw that – I'm fairly certain that if faced with something to do with writing that someone said couldn't be done – if it was a challenge; I'd gnaw on it till I had something feasible. Please don't test that theory; I've more then enough on my plate already.

Just as oddly –if in a normal sort of sense for me - somehow, "Ripple", as I've come to somewhat bemusedly call this story, has stirred up "Shades of Panic". Landing me with a lap full of a lusty Anubis, a squirming Harry, a glowering Ardeth, and something very like an end of this written out movie epic (if I finish it, there will be five movies entwined); if I squint I can see the point where Harry "retires" to the Immortal Planes, Death at his side, though I'm fairly certain a new Immortal might be added to the throng. Only natural as I decided to go ahead and commit myself to tying in to the Scorpion King movie(s), and mixing it with Mummy 3 gingerly.

I can only hope that that something - somewhere in my head - giggling in a dark corner, and muttering to itself, isn't what's left of my sanity.