Chapter 8 – Theory and Practice

"Well, that worked. Now I just have to figure out why." Harry prodded at the little stone with the tip of his wand. The little object spun lazily on its axis, moving away through the air as if time itself had gone sluggish around it. It was floating there on its own, apparently completely unbothered by gravity. Harry carefully waved at it a little with his empty hand and the air displacement sent the stone wobbling off for a short distance, but it still didn't fall.

"Professor Flitwick might just fall off his chair if he saw this," Harry said to himself as he picked up another stone off the ground, keeping an eye on the first. He'd been toying with Wingardium Leviosa for a while to get his mind off things, after a long day with the prisoners and Wosret, and then he just stumbled onto this little trick. He tapped the second stone, focusing on his wand movements; a counterclockwise twirl at the end, and an additional flick – and little mental prodding to get it going. It felt like it meant something, but he didn't know what it could be.

Harry had long acknowledged that his approach to figuring out magic was incredibly inefficient. He knew for sure that Hermione would have gotten far further than a few basic variations on the spells she already knew, especially after a few years. She'd probably be inventing whole new ones with fancy Latin names, like Snape had been doing in Hogwarts. Harry was just experimenting away without much forethought, beyond figuring out some new and handy uses for his spells. The most vital ones that he might need – apparition, clean water, duplication of objects, repairing – were all already things he knew how to do, thankfully.

He had been writing his findings down, which at least allowed him to keep track of what he had tried, but he was essentially groping in the dark with little to no theoretical basis for how any of it was actually supposed to work. He regretted never paying too much attention to that side of magic when he still had access to libraries full of magical tomes; in school he'd either been too nervous about passing the next test to care much for extracurricular learning, and the Voldemort situation hadn't helped. He felt rather oafish now, playing the role of a court wizard who didn't even know how to put a proper curse on something.

At least, Harry wryly considered, he wasn't starting from false assumptions. All he really knew was half a dozen things that magic wasn't supposed to be capable of: Bringing back the dead (as anything more than a ghost or shade, anyway), making food, gold, a few other similar things. He had already taken advantage of the fact that you could duplicate and enlarge portions of food, which he felt was sort of cheating the system already. Conjuring living things was possible, so why wouldn't you be able to slaughter whatever you made and have food that way? Would it just vanish into thin air after a while? It happened to some transfigured things, but as far as he was aware it depended on who was doing the casting, and a bunch of other things. Dumbledore was a master of transfiguration, Harry wouldn't be surprised if the things he transfigured would outlast everyone.

Really, Harry realized now, he had lost quite a bit of the awe he had for magic over the years. Back in his own time, he'd just seen it as something he used in daily life, a tool. With so many people astounded by the feats one could perform with spells, this time period had fired up his curiosity, and his intent to get better at controlling it; as probably the only trained wizard around, he could at least make a difference, even if he couldn't go back home. Perhaps, in time, he'd regain that feeling he got when first seeing the tall towers and spires of Hogwarts, the lake stretching out before him, a thin layer of mist hovering over the water as he made his way to the little boats.

Reminiscing did nothing to help him right now, though. He considered the floating stones again, and what they told him. Normally he had to keep focusing on the floating object to keep it aloft. Now, though, the little stone just kept doing it, even when he moved to do something else. Something in the change of wand motions had altered the spell. If this variation existed in his own time, though, why had he only ever learned the one that required constant attention? Wouldn't a more persistent version be far more valuable?

Harry tried to replicate his wand movements from before, and the second stone rose off his hand as well. This one, too, remained stationary in the air even after he lowered his wand to glance back at the first. Then the first, quite suddenly, fell. There had been no wobbling – no warning at all. It had hung there for a few minutes, then it dropped.

"Well, that explains why nobody uses it." The second also fell, and far more quickly than the first. Harry tried the spell again; this time both stones rose into the air simultaneously, though one fell again almost immediately.

"Unreliable duration – that must be the reason it's not used. But why would it just stop...?"

Harry mused on his temperamental spell and hardly noticed that Mot stepped into the clearing, staring at the half dozen little rocks that Harry had now suspended in mid-air before him. He looked up after a moment, and smiled as he noticed the eleven-year old.

"They are... flying!" Mot said, enraptured, as he approached.

"Technically it's floating, but yes," Harry agreed, as he caught one of the stones as it fell. "Just thirteen seconds, and then this one went for thirty-four. Weird."

Mot looked on curiously as Harry studied the stones before him with a focused expression. He sat down next to the older wizard, and Harry smiled encouragingly – that look was very familiar to him. Perhaps he couldn't recapture that moment of awe when first seeing the scope of magic, but there were other wizards around, ones who hadn't seen half of what he had. If even this could amaze, he didn't dare imagine what Expecto Patronum might mean to them.

"Perhaps you can help me untangle this little mystery," Harry said after a moment. "The stones remain up for very specific durations, sometimes multiple at a time, but I'm not seeing any pattern. It doesn't seem like it's got anything to do with my wand movements, either."

The boy didn't say anything, and Harry felt a little foolish. Mot barely knew about wands, let alone any of the rest of it. Maybe he should get Wosret to give his opinion, though the man would probably be annoyed at his frivolous use of divine gifts. Harry looked down after a while, letting the last stones fall. "Never mind that, wizardly thoughts. Have you thought about my proposal?"

"The apprenticeship, you mean?" Mot glanced away, biting his lip. "I must have this magic for a reason, but you told me that the time I harmed that man in my escape, I used it. If that is how I apply the gifts of the gods, should I want to be better at using that?"

"That was a natural reaction to the stress you were under," Harry noted lightly. "Magic's not inherently good or evil, I'd argue, even if some people would yell at me for thinking that. Sure, there's some spells that probably don't really have a justification, but most magic spells are just tools. They're like a hammer; you can use it to build tall buildings, or you can hit someone over the head, but the one who decides is not the hammer. The wizard is the one who wields the hammer, he directs its blows. If you don't want to hurt anyone, then don't."

"You said that it was like evil magic, though," Mot said, frowning. "That it was of darkness."

"Yes, I mentioned dark magic," Harry said, regretting bringing it up at all. "Really, I'm mostly speaking about three spells there. I never cared to learn much about that particular kind of wizardry, and I'd rather forget most of it. I try not to use them too easily, but sometimes..." He looked aside tiredly. "I can teach you many other spells, when I figure out how to get you a wand. Many of them could be used to hurt or kill someone just as well as with 'dark' magic, but that's the case with many things. Whether or not you do is up to you."

"You wouldn't kill someone with magic, Heru?" Mot looked up nervously. "Right?"

"Some would say I already did that before," Harry admitted softly. "That particular person killed himself, really, but I knew it was going to happen that way, and let it." He shook his head. "Come on, let's not talk about stuff like that. I'm not even sure how an apprenticeship would go, right now. Without a wand..."

Harry looked at his Phoenix-feather focus uncertainly. It was one of a kind, right now – he was fairly certain that nobody was making wands in this time, and without this one he'd be effectively powerless. Making another would be complex, probably, since he only really knew some basics of how a wand worked. He couldn't sacrifice his own to figure it out, either. He had a source of Phoenix feathers, at least – he could get them easily enough, if he went out to find the firebirds. He could also obtain scales or venom from a three-headed Runespoor back in the palace. As for wand woods, well, the royal garden had a variety of trees and shrubs, most of which he could probably use. Holly was definitely among them, so perhaps he could craft a new wand that fit him as well as the other. And then, of course, there was the Thunderbird feather he'd obtained.

Actually, now that he thought about it, wands had been invented in Egypt in the first place, and spread outwards from there. He glanced speculatively at Mot. What if his experiments in making wands – with a little insider information, if you will – led to the very wizarding culture he'd been a part of? Mot would be the first to use a wand, beyond himself that is, and he would probably teach whatever he knew of making wands to others, and it could snowball from there. It was a crazy idea, but time travel was like that.

"When I figure out this wands business, I'm opening a shop," Harry said at last. "There are probably not many wizards or witches in the city, but perhaps I can advertise that all who want to try and use the wands can come by, and I could pass by the smaller towns as well. I believe those who have already experienced accidental bursts of magic might realize that I'm talking about them."

"So, there are others?" Mot inquired. "Like ... us?"

"I'm sure there are some, though I don't know how many. I should at least go and see if they're all fine; accidental magic can be pretty nasty, especially without anyone to reverse the possible damage." He couldn't imagine what would have happened if Aunt Marge had stayed as she had, bloated and floating. Perhaps in this time she'd have ended up dead from the experience. He looked down at Mot and tried to smile encouragingly. "I'm curious as to why there doesn't seem to be anyone who's figured out at least the basics, honestly."

Voldemort had learned how to manipulate magic from an early age – wandless magic, even. Controlled accidental magic in a sense, but he figured it was probably the kind that preceded the invention of a focus. Most magical people would never really figure out that they were so in this age, Harry reckoned.

"How did you learn this – magic, yourself? Did you have a teacher?" Mot wondered.

"Of course I did," Harry responded off-handedly. "I had many teachers, for all of the different things I learned. I even had a mentor, sort of. He taught me important things that I needed to know, though not all of it was really about magic." He smiled warmly. "I suppose he was a bit like a grandfather. His name was Albus Dumbledore."

"Such a weird name..."

"I'm not from Egypt, you know." Harry said dryly. "What kind of name is Mot, anyway? Sounds kind of odd, don't you think? Reminds me of mutt, really, or a moth."

"It's a perfectly good name," the boy responded with his arms crossed, sticking out his tongue. "So, this... alb-oss..."

"Albus," Harry corrected. "He was already a very old man when I first met him. I was a kid – about your age, actually. He was kind, but pretty strict. There were times when we had great disagreements, but I learned a lot from him."

Mot looked down. "He is dead?"

"Yes, unfortunately," Harry said, not wanting to complicate matters. The fact that the Headmaster hadn't yet been born would just make things terribly hard to explain.

"I'm sorry."

Harry shrugged. "He loved teaching, and I believe he'd enjoy knowing that I have to learn all sorts of new things. He'd probably think it kept things interesting." He glanced at his young charge. "You'll probably not get the best reception at the palace, since you're not a noble. I'm not sure how they'll receive me after the mess that this diplomatic meeting turned out to be. But, I promise you, I will teach you what I can."

Mot looked dubious. Harry was doubtful himself. He did not know much in the way of wandless magic – it was supposed to be very difficult – and he certainly had no clue how to go about teaching it. He would need to improvise.

"Say, Mot," Harry said after a while. "You were taken from your home, I understand. Did you live there with your parents? Might they still be there?"

Mot looked away nervously. "I do not know my parents. I think they died when I was younger."

"Ah." Harry nodded in understanding. An orphan, something he could relate to. "Where did you live, before you were taken?"

Mot shrugged, but did not respond.

"Mot?"

"I do not know either," Mot admitted finally. "It was a small village, and it was nice, but I forgot its name years ago. I was captured for so long that day and night ran together. All I have left is my language, and memories of the temple that I used to go to. It was pretty."

Harry noticed that the boy looked curiously at the papyrus that he'd borrowed from Wadjet, and the messy scrawl on it. "You didn't learn how to read, I assume?" Harry asked suddenly. At the boy's sullen expression, Harry smiled. "Hey, I can't read Egyptian stuff either, you know. The spoken part was hard enough to figure out, honestly."

"Really?" Mot asked, blinking in surprise. "You...?"

"I'm a foreigner," Harry responded. "When I came here, I didn't even speak Egyptian of any sort, and it took me months to even gain a basic idea of what you were all talking about. I have some advantages for learning a language, perhaps, but even then it wasn't easy. You already know two languages, so I think we could team up on this one. Perhaps that could be part of the apprenticeship? We could figure out those weird scribbles together?"

Mot smiled. "I would like that."

"Then that's what we'll do. We'll get you properly taught so that even if this wand thing doesn't pan out, you can still work and be employed at the palace. I'm sure you wouldn't mind the luxury." Harry smirked at the boy's eager look. "Just don't get a big head over it."

"What?"

"Stay humble, I mean," Harry said at length. Whatever he was going to say next was interrupted rather harshly by a sudden surge of heat as a flame burst into being in mid-air, vanishing almost as quickly. Mot toppled backwards with a cry, his hands over his face; Harry had only flinched, and stared at the puff of smoke with some confusion. It took him a moment to realize that a scroll had been dropped at his feet.

"A Phoenix," Harry breathed in understanding. It had come to deliver a message, like Fawkes used to do. Yet – who knew that a message could be sent that way? Khnurn perhaps, who came from the future as well? He quickly opened the scroll, stretching it out.

"Huh."

"What does it say?" Mot asked, eagerly.

"I have no idea, I can't read it," Harry said dryly. "I wasn't lying, you know. I suppose we should go find Wosret." He groaned suddenly. "Great, now he's going to find out I'm effectively illiterate. He won't stop harping on that for a week!"

Nebit looked after the vanishing bird as it burst into flames, though no ash was left behind. The Bennu had been hard to find; hopefully the message he'd brought would reach Heru quickly to make up for the lost time.

Things had gone from bad to worse since the attack; the palace had three times as many guards on duty, and the Pharaoh already sent out many more to try and track those who had entered the palace; thus far, they had found nothing. Ahaneith was still missing, and quite possibly dead.

Nebit forced himself to keep going, not to think of the worst-case scenario. It was possible she was dead, yes, but he could grieve when he was certain of that. He grasped at his necklace, bidding the gods for her safe return. Ahaneith had been wearing one as well, one that Heru had left her with.

There wasn't much he could do, he admitted to himself. He was only a guest of the Advisor, tolerated in the palace because of his connection with Ahaneith who, it seemed, was generally assumed to be Heru's future wife. With her gone, people would soon realize that her brother no longer had a place in the halls and turn him away. He did not truly care for his new home, but if he was turned away he might just lose track of the search for Ahaneith altogether.

He was almost two hours from the walls of the city, and utterly exhausted.

Then, he was jumped.

There were three men, and Nebit saw them coming only a moment before they were upon him. He whipped out his crude knife; it was a length of metal he had forged into shape himself, and its serrated edges gleamed dangerously.

The first attacker threw a spear in his direction with a powerful swing, not saying a word. Nebit was able to avoid getting skewered by only an inch, and didn't wait for the man to collect his weapon again. His blade slashed out, fast and vicious, cutting neatly across the man's arm and opening a wide gash that gushed blood. The wounded man cried in pain and fell back as the second passed by him, wielding a spear as a mid-range weapon, stabbing at his prey.

Nebit didn't hesitate before moving in; one solid kick to the knee and Nebit had the man staggering, but it left Nebit wide open for the third man's attack, who slammed something heavy and rough onto his back, rattling his very bones.

As the first two took a step back, Nebit's knife founds its way to the third attacker, and through sheer chance it cut through the man's skin, slid between two ribs, and lodged inside a lung. His victim stared in surprise for a few moments, eyes wide, before he shuddered, staggering to the ground with blood-flecked lips. Maybe a little more than a lung. Nebit pulled his blade free viciously, cutting the man up further. One down.

He whirled around as he swung at the other two, aware that they'd warily backed off already, clearly unprepared for a skilled defense. Several years as a town guard paid off at last, even if the few times he'd fought for real were distant memories.

One of the attackers was limping heavily, probably from the kick to his knee. The other shivered as he held the wound on his arm closed; he was incredibly pale. Nebit knew the man wouldn't survive like this; he'd need to bind the wound and hope it would not begin to fester. Most likely he'd succumb to the rotting sickness within the week.

It was only then that Nebit realized that he, too, was bleeding. A thin stream ran down his leg from a shallow wound, a nick from the second man's spear. Whatever had hit his back had been sharp enough to cut the skin as well. None of his wounds were serious enough to tend to immediately. It was as if the weapons had glanced off his skin where they should have kept going.

"Who are you?" Nebit asked sharply, as the man beside him gave a last rattling breath and lay still. "Robbers, out in the wild? What do you hope to find?" He kneeled by his last attacker, keeping an eye on the other two who were still looking on warily. "What foolishness was it to attack me unprovoked, one who does not carry any riches?"

The man was, unsurprisingly, quite dead. He wore a lot of thick clothes around his waist with little pockets all over them; a small bag with coins poked out of one, a scroll of papyrus out of another. Nebit pulled out the latter, and his breath hitched. He couldn't read, but he recognized the fact that it was closed with wax – wax stained red. He'd heard of these, though he'd never seen them before.

"Hired killers," Nebit said slowly, rising from the dead man's side as he slipped the scroll into his pocket. "Were you sent to murder me? What could I have possibly done to warrant such aggression?"

He didn't get a response. The two attackers seemed to hold a silent conversation with each other just by looks, then they backed off, the limping man constantly keeping his spear ready to prevent Nebit from getting any closer.

Slowly his breath returned to normal. The attackers were gone, and they wouldn't get another shot at a surprise attack. There was only one reason someone might have paid assassins to take him down, even if they were amateurs. His connection to Ahaneith and Heru.

Someone was trying to finish the job.

SIX HOURS LATER

Harry appeared almost three feet off the ground. He let out a sudden panicked yell as he stumbled painfully to the floor, only barely keeping upright; one hand was still clutched around the little ceramic cup he'd enchanted. He rubbed his chin as he stared accusingly at the Portkey.

"Well, at least I didn't hit a wall this time," Harry finally said to himself as he dropped the cup. "Baby steps."

He quickly recognized where he'd ended up: This was the lowest level of the palace, mostly used for storage. It was remarkably cool, and the darkness around him was barely lifted by the point of light on his wand, as Harry made his way towards the stairs. Spiders crawled around on the walls and the floor, though Harry wasn't really bothered by them. After the giant versions in the Forbidden Forest, these were just a bit pitiful.

He wasn't quite where he'd meant to go, the gate to the city, but this would do. Wiping away webs and trying to ignore the rather awful stench that permeated the air, Harry ascended a ramp on the far end of the room, heading towards the Pharaoh's chambers.

Ahaneith had been taken. Harry wasn't what exactly had happened, since the message he'd received had been short and ominous, but he knew that he wasn't going to stand for bloody kidnapping. The moment that Wosret had told him the message, Harry had set about duplicating as many supplies as he could, enough for everyone to reach Egypt. Then he had made himself a Portkey. Despite his misgivings about leaving him alone, Harry was forced to tell Mot go with the others, to travel to the capital without him. Harry really couldn't risk bringing another person along on a crazy Portkey ride, especially across a large distance. He was lucky he hadn't turned up inside a wall, really.

Harry walked into the long hallway that crossed clear accross the palace, and he saw the first guards since his arrival. His sudden appearance was noted by them, and several gaped at him in surprise. Well, that wasn't too shocking, really. Harry raised his hand to motion them aside, trying to look collected.

"Advisor," one of the men stammered. "You are back in the city? I heard-"

"I returned as swiftly as I could, when I heard news of what happened here," Harry said quickly. "Are the Pharaoh and Queen at the palace?"

"The Pharaoh is not, but the Queen is inside," the guard responded. "Should I send out a messenger?"

"I will speak to the Queen, first." Harry gestured, and the guards let him pass without another word. The beautifully decorated room with carved pillars and remarkably detailed wall sculptures had become rather familar to him, and it felt a bit like home after a few months on the road. The Queen was already present, taking in Harry's traveling clothes. Nebit was also present, pacing nervously.

"By the gods!" Nebit exclaimed, eyes widening. He quickly rushed over. "So quickly!"

Harry dropped the scroll he'd received on the table. "It's good to see you again, and I'm sure we'll have plenty of time to catch up later. What happened to Ahaneith? That's what I need to know, right now."

Nebit stammered, trying to arrange his thougths. The Queen spoke first. "It happened only two days ago, in this very Lady Ahaneith was taken by a small group of trained soldiers – we do not know who sent them, as of yet. They took her away, and hired local thugs to kill several palace guards to cover their departure. There were others who were hired to take out loose ends, if you will.."

"Including me," Nebit said nervously. He glanced at the Queen. "Three men tried to slay me in the wilds – they carried an order for my demise, though the name of the one who offered his money is not upon the scroll."

The Queen nodded sagely. "Several other hired killers were apprehended when they attempted to kill palace guards and servants in the wake of the attacks. All of these people were at one time assigned to you, personally."

Harry cursed, running a hand through his hair. "So, it's an attempt to sever the connection between me and the palace," he concluded. "They hope that all that death would lead to my dismissal, as people fear for their safety when associated with me?"

"I believe so. An aggressive move on their part, and I do not understand their motives." She frowned. "There are not many who would have anything to gain, here. If they were able to intrude so easily into the palace, an attack on the Pharaoh or myself would have been far more devastating than on the retinue of an advisor, especially while he was absent."

"They don't want to face what I can do," Harry concluded. "They know I'd stop them before they even got close to me, and they don't want to have to face that kind of threat." He grimaced, eyes burning like coals. "A stupid mistake. Attacking me will do far less to make me mad than attacking other people, especially friends."

The Queen looked on warily. "What will you do?"

"What would happen to these kidnappers, if they were caught?" Harry said, though he already knew the answer. "No, don't answer it. I know what it is." Death. "I'm going after her, to bring her back. The attackers didn't kill her on the spot, which means she's probably kept as leverage against me. They'll keep her alive, imagining her to be bargaining chip."

"Several guards were killed in their attack upon the palace, and three assassinations were successful," the Queen said after a while, looking troubled. "Four of the attackers were already killed, but all of them were thugs, not the ones who took her. They are trained killers, Heru. Do not run in foolishly."

Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes. "I will take care of them, my Queen."

"I will help you," Nebit announced immediately.

Harry shook his head forcefully. "You won't. If these people are good enough to get into the palace and out again without getting killed, then they're professionals. Southerners, perhaps, but more likely it's rebels who reject the Pharaoh's rule." He narrowed his eyes. "If they touched even a hair on her body –"

"I can fight," Nebit insisted. "I fought with three of them, and slew one with my blade!"

"I don't even need a blade," Harry said slowly. "You've known me for years, Nebit. You know what I can do, and I don't want to put you in needless danger."

"We do not know where she was taken," the Queen said after a moment. "My husband has sent out as many trackers as he could, but the enemy must be well-hidden."

"Probably," Harry agreed. "But Ahaneith is carrying something of mine – a necklace. I can find that." He reached for his own, dangling loosely around his neck. "It'll take a while, but with no interference, I should be able to do it."

"How?"

"Scrying –" He paused. "I'll be damned, Divination is good for something." He turned to Nebit. "Find me a map of the region, would you? Just the city and surrounding area is fine. Doesn't have to be terribly accurate either."

"The storage room should have several," the Queen said. Nebit nodded and left. She turned back to Harry with a pensive expression. "Heru – tales are spreading of what happened, and of your sudden return, even with our attempts to contain the rumours. Within a few hours..."

"I'm sure that the guards outside will tell everyone that I've returned, yes," Harry agreed. "We can deal with the problems that causes later." He cleared the table, drawing his wand.

Scrying was an antiquated method of finding things which had only been treated briefly in Trelawney's class, since she had favoured tea leaves and crystal balls before such methods. The reason that it had fallen out of favour was that it became less and less reliable. Due to the concentration of magic in specific places, it became progressively less helpful for finding much of anything. After the Statute of Secrecy, the technique became completely unworkable, as magical populations large centred on a few locations, and the spell was not nearly specific enough to sift through that.

The stated result of Scrying was, at its simplest, the ability to see visions of the past, present, or allegedly even the future, or to channel them into physical manifestations. It was generally thought that only those with the Sight would be able to the first or last, but everyone could see the present. Fairly simple for even a moderately powerful wizard of witch, the practice was common enough to seep into Muggle folklore over the years. Harry tried to remember what Trelawney had mentioned about it.

Nebit returned with a map a few minutes later; itwas crude and rather inaccurate, but it would probably work. Harry held his wand a little above the map as he stretched it out on the table, skipping all the incense and candles and pentacles that Trelawney had used. He tapped the wand against his necklace, then pointed at the map.

"Reperio Monilis," he whispered under his breath, and brought his wand down.

For a brief instant, Harry saw a point of light flare up brightly on the map. Then the table caught on fire.

The Queen and Nebit flinched back as the fire billowed suddenly outward and upward, and Harry vanished the map entirely before the sudden flames could spread beyond it. A large charred area in the middle of the table remained behind, a few tiny flames flickering out now that their easy source of fuel was gone.

"That was very violent," Nebit said needlessly, eyes wide. "Was that intentional?"

"Well..." Harry responded after a moment. "I think the word was Monile, not Monilis, after all. It's been a while since I learned any of this, give me a break." He shook his hand, which had been uncomfortably close to the fire. He repaired the table as he thought about what he'd seen, even in the brief moment the spell had worked. "I know where she is. I will leave immediately."

"To where?"

Harry looked at Nebit neutrally. "She's at least twenty miles away, and in a direction I've never gone before. I'll grab some transportation and go; I can catch up before they get any further. You stay here."

"Heru..." the Queen said. "These people clearly wish for you to come to them. I know you must be aware of that. Is it wise to fulfill their request?"

"They want me to come," Harry agreed. "That's what this is all about, I suspect. But they don't know what they're asking for. I'll be fine."

Sometimes, Harry really wished he had his invisibility cloak with him. Even though he could use a Disillusionment spell, that wouldn't help too much when he was moving, since the sky itself would seem to flex and shimmer to any onlookers.

Sixteen people were gathered together around a small rocky outcrop, most of them wielding various spears or sharp knives, and at any one time at least six were keeping watch, which made approaching them very difficult. Quite a few also carried some kind of shield, apparently leathery, usually strapped to their back, though he had seen a few slip it onto their arm in a single movement.

Ahaneith was nowhere in sight.

He could take out one or two, Harry was sure, but that would bring everyone else right down on top of him. Even casting as quickly as he could, he didn't really have a spell that would keep him completely unharmed; one or two pokes, maybe, but not a proper spear aimed at his head. Even with his best spells, he'd probably only disarm or kill half before they all descended on him like a pack of wild dogs. Even that was manageable with the right combination of spells, but he couldn't afford that and protect Ahaneith. She had to be freed first.

He was momentarily disturbed by how easily he accepted the scenario in which all these men died. Death was cheap, in this age, and he'd almost gotten used to that fact of life, even if his modern-day view of things abhorred the idea of murder as a necessity. He supposed he'd been in this particular situation before: he'd been the one who ultimately killed Voldemort, even if it was indirectly. Many Death Eaters had died, too, and the only one he could remotely understand, even a little, was Professor Snape. All the rest were criminals, and he wouldn't shed a tear over the end of their murderous career.

Each of these men was already marked to be killed as well, and for much the same reasons as the Death Eaters had been. They murdered, kidnapped, stole, all of which had severe penalties both in this time and in the distant future. This was compounded by the fact that the target was the royal family, not just a minor village. This was treason, plain and simple, and the army would have been sent after the attackers if Harry hadn't taken the opportunity to go after them himself. If he let them go, here, they would most likely meet their end before the border; if they didn't, they would go to do this again, to kill and steal, he had no doubt about that.

Even as his stomach protested against the idea of throwing around the nasty stuff he knew that he couldn't afford to hold back. It was a frustrating realization, but he really didn't have the tools to easily defeat this many people, even if they were Muggles. Most of his spells were all about one-on-one duels, which were rather uncommon in these times, to say the least. Maybe he could apparate in, grab Ahaneith, and get back to the capital; he was close enough that the distance wouldn't matter much, and he'd done side-along before with Dumbledore.

One of the men stood up and glanced around with sharp eyes, passing over Harry's position without stopping. He set a few steps towards one of the crude tents along the rocks and said something in a language Harry didn't understand. He received a response from inside in the same language, then turned and walked to a crude campfire that had mostly burned out, kicking at it derisively.

"Where are you, Ahaneith?" Harry muttered to himself as he slowly circled the camp, glancing inside the tents whenever possible, keeping out of sight. Most of the tents were empty. It was clear that the group had no fear of being found by Egyptian guards – or if they were, they had plenty of weapons to defend themselves. They had to be a lure, Harry knew. A lure for him in particular. They probably expected him to arrive in full regalia, a small army behind him. That was not going to happen.

As Harry finally made his way around half the camp, he spotted Ahaneith. Tied up with a strip of cloth over her mouth, she hung from a pole in one of the hindmost tents, the very same that the bald man had visited only a short time ago. "Just sixteen people in the way," he murmured, scowling. "Figures."

The only way he could pull this off was with a distraction. He needed everyone far too busy to tend to the prisoner. Still, he knew distractions. You didn't spend years at the same school as the Weasley Twins without picking up a few ways to cause mayhem. He'd just have to be quick about it; really quick.

As he quickly sprinted sideways along the perimeter of the camp, the little bush that he had been hiding behind caught fire in a sudden intense blaze. Hot air rippled over the camp as it turned into a huge inferno, alighting the few dried-up trees in its vicinity as well. As the fire grew, a great thundering roar that resembled a lion's erupted from it. Half a dozen captors froze in fright; the rest ran for their lives from the spreading flames as the first tents caught fire from the embers spread by his distraction. Perfect.

Harry made a run for it. He passed two people who were simply staring at the conflagration, stunning a third as he came close; the man dropped on the spot. Spurts of colour began to ripple out of the flames, and sharp cracks resounded, like a dozen wizards apparating at once. As the chaos increased, Harry kept himself low to the ground and made it to Ahaneith's tent.

"There you are," Harry said softly as he slipped into the makeshift tent. Ahaneith was beaten up and blood covered at least half a dozen poorly healed wounds, but she was breathing. He let out a relieved breath he didn't know he was holding, slicing the primitive ropes used to tie her up with barely a gesture. She almost dropped to the ground without resistance before Harry caught her.

"H...Heru?"

"Don't worry. I came to rescue you," Harry said as he looked her over, smiling reassuringly. She wasn't in good shape – he had no idea what apparating would do to someone who was as cut up as she was, and he would prefer not to find out. Splinching wasn't too terrible in the future, but the kind of reconstructive surgery that mediwizards could pull off were far out of his reach. Portkeys were out too; that kind of rough ride was tough on a normal person, and with his poor aim, he had no idea where he'd end up. Harry turned to the outside with a gloomy expression as the fiery display slowly died down. "I'm going to get you out of here."

"No, leave this place!" Ahaneith said with difficulty. "Leave! It is –"

"A trap, I know," Harry responded easily. "I've got them distracted. Come on."

"No, you do not understand –" She coughed, and flecks of blood sprayed out. "They have someone like you. Someone with power."

Harry's eyes widened, and he glanced over his shoulder. A wizard? His little display would have certainly stood out to them even more so than to the Muggles. He had to get Ahaneith out of here; if a Muggle fight could have serious collateral damage, that was nothing compared to a serious wizard's duel. "Don't worry about that, that's my business. You just rest; I'll have you out of here in no time. Your brother misses you, you know."

Ahaneith smiled thinly, incapable of keeping herself upright. "Silly man." Harry wasn't sure if she was talking about her brother, or him. Either way, he had to get her out. Carefully he lifted her up, letting her lean heavily on his shoulder. He used his free hand to aim his wand as he got out of the tent. The first few of the attackers had noticed his presence and converged on him; the flames still flickered everywhere, but they were no longer spreading.

"Stay back!" Harry barked as a few of the men approached. With a strong sideways swipe of his wand he cut a shallow trench into the earth, between him and the invaders. "Stay there, or I will retaliate."

The first of the thrown spears glanced off his foot, the second only barely missed his thigh; Harry quickly knocked the next one out of the sky before it could arrive. They were fast – they'd been so swift that even with spells, he'd barely been able to dodge in time. Harry moved sideways towards the way he'd entered the camp, dragging Ahaneith along. She breathed heavily, blood seeping out of many smaller wounds that were ripped open by the movement.

"Hold on," Harry said softly, glaring at the attackers. He only had one free hand, and he couldn't move much without leaving Ahaneith alone. There was no choice.

Decision made, Harry's spells were vicious and merciless, slamming into the nearest opponents fast enough to bowl them over. Marked for death, Harry thought, as two of the attackers collapsed soundlessly to the ground. A third cried out in pain as, from nowhere, a wound suddenly appeared from hip to neck, spraying blood in a wide arc across his fellow criminals. Harry paused momentarily to stare in horror. Even though he'd intended it, throwing that kind of power around was disturbing, to say the least. He pushed past his revulsion and conjured a solid steel shield in front of him, protecting Ahaneith entirely from flying spears as he let her calm down for a moment.

"There's still a lot of them left, so stay down," Harry said, and his voice sounded surprisingly steady, more so than he'd expected. He'd just killed a few people – shouldn't he feel remorseful? Just then two heavy thuds hit the shield. "Just hold on, alright? I'll get you back home."

Ahaneith smiled slightly, holding her stomach, where blood seeped between her fingers. "I will..."

"Stop fighting, or you will both die!" one of the invaders yelled in Egyptian, his jagged spear and decorated knife far more elaborate than anyone else's was. It was the bald figure that Harry had seen earlier, and apparently he was what passed as a leader in these parts. "You are surrounded on all sides, false prophet!" the man spat, glowering.

Harry momentarily flinched when he realized there were two more men behind him, and several others were circling around as well. This was getting a little too hairy for his liking. His shield was effectively useless too; he couldn't make a round one without preventing his own escape entirely, and like this it would barely be enough for Ahaneith.

"False prophet, would-be god of these filthy Egyptians," the bald man said imperiously as he stepped forward, thudding the end of his staff on the ground. "You came to release your whore from bondage, didn't you? A pitiful deity you are, to come like a thief, not as a warrior. Dishonorable, that is what you are."

"Why did you take her?" Harry retorted immediately. "What the hell do you want with her, or with me?"

"Your death, to begin with," the man answered, his eyes roving across Ahaneith with a disturbing longing all too visible in his expression. "You wield a power that is beyond man's, one that only prophets may wield, and you do it for the enemy. We cannot let such slights continue!"

Great – prehistoric witch-burners. "I heard that one of you is magical too," Harry said immediately, narrowing his eyes. "Isn't that right? Did you bring one of these 'prophets' with you? Let me speak with them, rather than with you."

The bald man sneered as he glanced around himself. "Don't dare to compare yourself to your betters, changeling. You are not worthy of his presence." He stepped closer again. "Your woman was pliant enough while she was in our possession. She told us many things about the atrocities that you commit. You are the voice that whispers in the Pharaoh's ear, are you not? The one who decides that the borders of your land must be cleansed of us. You destroyed our livelihoods, maligned our countrymen."

"You're mistaken." Harry didn't know what he was talking about, truly; if this was some group that annoyed with his presence at the court, they had some awfully skewed perceptions of his role. More than likely it was this prophet, this wizard, that had put them up to this. A rival country or sect, unwilling to tolerate a competitor. "I've never met you before," he added after a while. "I don't even know who you are."

"A poor memory is a poor excuse."

The bald man glanced aside at the person who had spoken. "Prophet! You would let him look upon you?"

The prophet, Harry thought, looked completely ordinary. Shirtless, pudgy, and with a pronounced beard, he looked like much of the rest of the rowdy bunch. The only difference there was the pendant that hung on his forehead, in the shape of an eye – the third eye. He held a long and intricate staff in his hand with an end fitted with tassels of hair, and it was painted yellowish gold.

"Please tell me you're not another fake wizard riling up other Muggles," Harry complained, more to himself than to anyone else. He helped Ahaneith to her feet, ready to apparate out if it became necessary. Rather the risk of injuring her further than to face getting killed here, he figured.

"The man Heru, of the town of Per-Bastet, of the city of Tjenu, Advisor to the Pharoah," the man said, his voice low and carrying a pronounced accent, though Harry had no idea from where. "I am Mamre, prophet of the god Heru. You have defiled his name, taken it for your own!"

"I didn't name myself that," Harry spat back. "Do I have to go over this again? Is this why you're out here, kidnapping people? Because of my name?"

The man raised his hand, and with a deafening thud, Harry and Ahaneith were slammed back against the ground by a wave of force, of wind. Well, that answered one question.

"Definitely a wizard," Harry wheezed. He was up on his feet in an instant, his overpowered cutting curse still fresh in his mind. The groan of the spell as it tore into the ground, narrowly missing Mamre's position, drove everyone back. The so-called prophet held his staff in front of him, almost like you'd do with a wand. Wood and tassels of unidentified hair - Harry figured it was the closest equivalent to a wand that existed in this time. If he researched it, he figured he'd probably discover the hair was from some magical creature.

"Mamre – as you can see, I have this power just as you. I don't claim to be a god, as you say. Let us go." Harry said, gesturing to his wand. "We have no quarrel."

"No." The man slammed his hand forward again – this time Ahaneith was pulled across the sand at speed, bouncing across the soil with cries of pain as streaks of blood were left behind. Harry was at her position in an instant, grabbing her by the shoulder, and fired a concussive blast that threw half of Mamre's crew off their feet. "Now you've gone too damn far."

Harry's eyes met Mamre's, and for a split second they both knew exactly how far the other would go. The prophet's were pitiless depths. He wasn't a proper wizard – he was a conman and a crook who used his magic to control the people around him, to do his bidding. He was an archetypal Tom Riddle, without the ability to live up to world-domination aspirations. Harry's eyes, in turn, were as green as they ever were, but filled with anger and even a little pity. That was perhaps far more disturbing than emptiness. Mamre could only hesitate for a split second before Harry spoke.

"Crucio."

The scream was horrifying in its weakness, for that meant the spell worked better than it had ever done before. Mamre fell to his knees, his face displaying such an expression of suffering that Harry couldn't look at it. High-pitched shrieks escaped and Harry finally moved his wand away, looking down on his victim as he vomited up his last meal. He didn't flinch when his victim grasped for his staff to pull himself up, shuddering in pain.

"You're untrained," Harry said after a moment, the urge to end it right there almost overpowering him. "You've been abusing what control you have. This magic of yours, it's more like controlled accidents than actually channeling it into anything meaningful. You thought that I'd be harmless, just another phony, but it is you that's the fake." He shook his head. "Did your power overwhelm your common sense? If you're a prophet of Heru, as you say, why would you attack your own country, your own people?"

"This Egypt is not my country," Mamre snarled. "Unified? Hah!"

"Merlin, it's about politics," Harry muttered, glancing at Ahaneith. Politics or not, it had gone way beyond a little dispute. "You're from Upper Egypt, I take it. Lower Egypt is under Heru's protection, as you well know. Now that Lower and Upper egypt are unified, he's protector of all of Egypt. You should know that."

Mamre very slowly pulled himself up, trembling from the after-effects of Harry's curse. "Yet the southern cities starve, while the north thrives, and claims blessings from their mighty protector," he responded. "You are the parasite upon this kingship. Before you, the Pharaoh ruled with a strong hand, and struck down rebellion were it arose. After you came, he speaks of tolerance of heathens from beyond our borders, tolerance of the filthy southerners and those from the northern seas!" He faltered. "So easily you lay down your law on me, with force, to protect your own. But not for us, not for the south. Is the rivalry with Set still so great?"

"The negotiations with the south were for peace," Harry said, incredulous, eyes ablaze. "You came here to kill because you disagreed with the king's politics? That's treason."

"Treason? Hardly. Your presence has led to the destruction of many villages when the enemy 'peacefully' stole everything in sight. When the king's army looked away, they came. The foreigners listen only to power, and you will not wield it against them. But I will." He snapped his fingers with difficulty, and a puff of dust blew outward around him. "There are few things that I can do, alone. If I could take out the thorn in our side, the one who had destroyed our lives, I will have fulfilled my purpose. Or, if that is not possible, I will take from him that something just as precious as what we lost."

"Don't do anything stupid," Harry warned. He concentrated on Tjenu, on the palace. He was close enough, probably, to apparate there.

Harry's hand snapped forward at the same time as Mamre's. The latter's wandless blast was pitiful compared to the last. Harry's spell slashed through the shock wave like a knife through butter, its sickly red standing out sharply as it traveled. It impacted just before Harry vanished.

Mamre hit the ground hard, dead.

Harry barely caught himself as the intense twisting sensation of apparition made way for the terrace of the palace, and he sighed in relief. Then Ahaneith's knees buckled, and she fell out of his arms, unmoving.

Author's Note: New chapter for you all. :) Next chapter has the first larger timeskip at last. o