Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"Wait! What are you doing?"

Ron Weasley watched in shock as the huge machine began to whirl and shimmer. The blue swirling gases in the huge hourglass quickened in intensity, moving faster and faster, a hypnotic whirling maelstrom. The machine thrummed and pulsed with magical energy.

"Getting your fucking girlfriend back...."

Within the dark space below the giant hourglass, Ron could see Snape's white face staring out at him, dark eyes glittering with malevolence.

"Mister Weasley, are you alright?"

The metal mechanism surrounding the machine suddenly jumped and shook into life, and Ron saw the great hourglass began slowly to descend into its heart. He saw Snape glance upwards for a moment, then return his baleful glare towards Ron, thin lips pulled back in a sneer of derision.

"Mister Weasley?" The Auror's voice had risen a notch in both tone and volume. "We're coming in!"

The shouted threat finally jolted Ron out of his stupor.

"No!" he shouted above the escalating noise in the Time Room, firing off a quick Impedimenta around the edge of the screen behind him. He heard the Aurors cursing and several scuffles out of sight.

Ron snapped his attention back to Snape and the machine. Snape was still staring at him with the same baleful expression on his face. The hourglass was slipping further down towards the hateful bastard.

He grabbed Peverell's arm. "Will he be able to find her?" he asked urgently.

An uncertain look settled across Peverell's narrow features. "Nothing is certain, Mister Weasley. The sands provide stability and some direction, and the bond between them should do the rest, but..." He shrugged helplessly.

Ron looked again at Snape, who stared mockingly back at him, bravely poised to rescue his girlfriend.

The bond between them, he thought. Right.

Well, bollocks to that.

He leapt forward, racing towards the base of the machine as the deep blue swirling mist of the time vortex lowered itself towards the base.

The last thing he remembered was the look of utter shock on Snape's face as he threw himself bodily at the older man inside the machine.

*^*

Hermione wasn't sure how long she had been in the tent. She could feel the adrenaline beginning to wear off, leaving her shuddering with shock and the after-effects of the time-shift.

It was cool and dark in the hut, and she had pulled herself back onto the low, blanket-covered couch, her knees drawn up to her chest. She was naked and wandless beneath the scratchy linen sheet that was wrapped tightly around her.

Her memories were returning to her slowly, forming in her mind as a combination of unsettling emotion and vivid images. She remembered her childhood and early life, before she and her parents could put a name to her strange behaviour and abilities... She remembered her teenage years – supporting her friends and finding her place in the magical world... the experience of war and its associated privations and losses....

Books and cleverness, she remembered, thinking of her time as a student. Eager to please... keen to learn. Hands in the air with earnest desperation... fearful of failure but determined to prove herself. A researcher, not a do-er... hanging back, out of the action, or drawn along by the actions of her friends. An image sprang into her mind: Harry and Ron shivering and soaked, hauling themselves out of a nameless Scottish loch, high on adrenaline and sheer relief at their own survival, reaching backwards to pull her out of the freezing water after them, their fingers warm on her wrists, digging in to her skin, vital and alive as they hauled her onto the pebbled beach. Laughing through chattering teeth, Harry's grin lighting his pale and bruised face, green eyes dancing behind his glasses. Ron's flushed cheeks clashing horribly with his hair which stuck up in matted, weed-soaked clumps from his head.

Hermione could feel a slow tear track its way along her cheek and sniffed self-consciously, dashing her hand across her face to smear it aside.

What on earth were you thinking, doing this on your own? she berated herself, but then felt an answering wash of guilt course through her body sending her shivering again, making her pull the rough fabric closer to her body.

She took a few deep breaths, ashamed of her fearfulness.

"You didn't have a choice." The sound of her own voice, low and scratchy, but unwavering, steadied her a bit. She cleared her throat quietly.

"You didn't," she repeated, with more determination.

The exact circumstances of her time-shift were still hazy, mere shadows compared to earlier memories. She could remember the compulsion to take the immediate jump back to ancient Alexandria. She could remember the detailed diagrams of the city, the archaeological records. Hours spent pouring over the earliest histories of that timeframe, learning the names of the different districts, the biographies of those in power... even as much Coptic Greek and Latin as she could, in case her translation charms failed. She remembered her research into the Serapium itself, the extraordinary lost library of Alexandria. Part Graeco-Roman temple, part Socratic university... the resting place for thousands of priceless scrolls containing the wisdom of generations... and beneath it.

Beneath it.

The Bibliotheca Veneficia.

She rubbed her chest awkwardly. Her heart rate was calming, but she still felt an odd sense of emptiness tugging at her, as if the adrenaline had hidden a peculiar loss of some sort. It felt very strange... not quite a pain, but something uncomfortable, lodged inside her body.

"Some disorientation is to be expected," she murmured, as if reading from a page.

"Remain calm and in control of your emotions." It was a technique that she had read about somewhere. She frowned as she cudgelled the memory back. An American Muggle psychiatrist whose book she had read some time after she'd started to work at the Ministry had suggested that certain memories of trauma could be overcome by simply talking out loud to oneself. Ron had scoffed at the self-talk idea (as she had expected him to), but Hermione had found the technique helpful at those times when her thoughts began to race away from her and she needed to find a deeper focus.

"First things first," she murmured, shifting a little on the couch and taking a deep breath. "Affect the things you can affect...."

"Accio wand," she called, stretching out her hand in front of her, picturing the pale, smooth wood firmly in her mind's eye.

Nothing.

She held her breath and pushed outwards with her senses, calling to it again.

After a few seconds, she let her breath out, frustrated. Her magic felt... off, somehow... strangely ineffectual, fluttering tentatively through her.

What if it isn't... what if I can't...?

She looked about herself again, and her eyes alighted on the oil lamp near the foot of her cot. She stared at it for a moment, heart pounding.

"Lucerna inflamare," she whispered concentrating all her attention on the blackened wick and praying that her intent was focused enough to be able to enact the spell without her wand.

Eventually... after several heart-stopping lifetimes had passed, the lamp sputtered... choked... and a small blue flame guttered into life.

She collapsed backwards, sagging in relief into the rough cushions into life. "Okay... okay... okay...," she muttered to herself, blinking upwards at the ceiling, grinning like a fool at the shadows dancing around the interior of the tent.

"Okay. Right. No wand, but still got magic," she said. "Still got magic. That's good... that's good...."

She looked at the lamp again, her brows furrowed at the tiny scale of the magical flame she had conjured.

"Still got some magic," she amended, ruefully.

Her stomach fluttered again with that odd sensation of loss. She rubbed her fingers over her torso in small circles, then rubbed the tips together. With no wand, she would have to rely on wandless magic, never her strong suit. Perhaps her wand had been lost in the time-shift, along with her clothes?

"Don't be a prat," she muttered out loud. Losing her wand by accident was as far fetched as spontaneous nudity. And there was the matter of the warded tent doorway. She rubbed her chest again, wondering how long it would be until her captors returned to check on her.

A prisoner.

She rubbed at her goose-bumped arms self-consciously, staring at the tiny, yet defiant flame burning atop the ancient lamp. She had been a prisoner before, of course. The memory of how Bellatrix Lestrange had carved hatred into her skin burned through her. The letters of the scar on her forearm were flat and pale, faintly greasy to the touch.

Hermione looked at it briefly, then turned her attention back to the lamp.

She had been not much more than a child in those days, near-starving and unable to resist her capture... but she had learned so much more since then. She felt a pulse of energy from her core, and the light flared a little more brightly.

"Not again," she whispered, and the tiny flame flickered even more strongly than before.

She started at a sudden noise as the tent flap on the doorway was pulled swiftly aside and recoiled instinctively as the bright light from the desert illuminated her darkened hut. An accompanying hot blast of air brought the smell of acrid burning and a gout of sand and dust along with it.

The lamp's blue flame doused in a moment and Hermione coughed, surprised by the swiftness of the interruption and squinting into the dazzling light.

There was a deep shout, a harsh rattle of language and a scuffle of feet outside the hut, before a tall, dark man in rich, impressive robes swept imperiously through the doorway.

*^*

Severus Snape came to consciousness with a face full of burningly hot sand and a tremendous headache. His body felt curiously unresponsive, as if he were emerging from heavy sedation, and his mind was similarly sluggish and dull.

He lay entirely still for a few seconds, noting with detached interest that he was, beyond all possible expectations, breathing... and that he was, therefore, actually still alive.

He paused again to allow that extraordinary thought to repeat itself more clearly in his mind.

Severus lifted his head and blinked against the glare from the fading sun. His head throbbed painfully, and his tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth.

He could not see much beyond the low dune that he had, for want of a better word, landed on. Severus shifted again, and the dislodged sand ran down into the neck of his shirt, chafing against his sweaty skin.

He supposed that the desert sands he was lying on were the sands of ancient bloody Alexandria... but, he reminded himself sternly, that would be an assumption. He would need to scout out his surroundings properly.

If he was to see more, he would have to stand up.

Right. He gathered his strength.

But found that he was unable to move his legs.

For a moment, he panicked, thinking that he had splinched himself in some terrible way... but as he twitched and wriggled his body, he realised that a heavy weight was preventing free movement of his lower limbs. He felt about blindly behind him, with hands that did not feel quite responsive enough to his command, and discovered a mop of sweaty hair, a burly shoulder...

He swivelled his head around and looked down.

Weasley.

Unconscious.

Severus groaned, allowing his head to fall back to rest on his forearm.

He had not been mistaken. In the last moments before the vortex had enveloped him, he had thought that the ginger idiot had broken free from his gormless immobility and...

... and now he had another burden to consider.

Bollocks.

Letting out a series of hissed expletives, each more inventive than the last, Severus rolled and shoved at Weasley until he could wriggle his legs free and push himself away from the ginger menace.

He scrambled backwards in the hot sands up the slope behind him and felt inside his jacket pocket for his wand and Granger's notebook. He relaxed slightly when his fingers closed on both objects and he pulled his wand out of the pocket.

His head throbbed again. Dehydration, he thought. You're dehydrated.

He cleared his dry throat. "Aguamenti," he croaked, flicking his fingers in a well-practiced movement.

A thin stream of water issued sluggishly from the tip of the wand. Careful to keep the tip from touching his mouth, Severus allowed the blessedly cool liquid to splash onto his tongue and drank greedily.

After a few minutes, his thirst was assuaged and his headache abating. He spared a glance at the unconscious man lower down the dune's slope at his feet. Weasley did not stir. Snape stared at him for a moment before cancelling the water charm.

He took a deep breath and struggled slowly to his feet, watching carefully for any dangers, his heart thundering in his chest. He wobbled slightly, the sands unpredictable beneath him, then stared about himself.

Perhaps he had been expecting pyramids, or something....

Severus narrowed his eyes against the glare from the sun and spun slowly around, taking in the rolling sea of featureless sand dunes around them extending towards the horizon.

He had certainly been expecting to see Granger.

At the thought of the maddening woman, his wand hand itched. Oh, yes – he was definitely looking forward to seeing Granger again.... He rubbed his stomach reflexively too, but realised with some surprise that the terrible cramping pain that had debilitated him so badly back in the Time Room had virtually gone; there was only a pale echo of it left. Perhaps Peverell had been right – there was some form of bond tying the two of them together. Now that he was closer to her, the bond had relaxed somewhat – just as the constraints of the Vow relaxed when not placed under strain....

He grunted and looked around him again. Where is the bloody woman?

Peverell's words rang in his ears, "The sands will help to stabilise the transfer; your spelled bond will do the rest...!"

Well, so much for that. Snape spat in the sand at his feet. He could see for miles, and there was no sign at all of interfering bloody know-it-alls....

A stiff, hot breeze blew across him, and he heard the sand on the slope above shift and fall behind him with a sharp, hissing noise. He froze and turned. What if...?

It was about forty-five feet further up to the top of the dune that he and Weasley were on. There would certainly be more to see on the other side of the ridge. Perhaps she was just there? The slope was manageable, he supposed, but he had no idea what he would find once he reached the top. He glanced down once again at the prone man below him. Weasley was still out cold, but breathing steadily. Would it be better to wake him before exploring further?

Probably.

He slithered down carefully beside the other man and regarded him for a moment. Weasley's face was turned towards him, pillowed on one of his arms. His hair was full of sand and matted on one side. Snape noticed a faint hex burn on the younger man's cheekbone underneath the freckles and deep shadows under his eyes. He looked carefully around Weasley for his wand but could not see any sign of it.

"Wake up, Weasley," he whispered in a low voice. When the young man did not stir, Severus leaned forward reluctantly and prodded him hard in the shoulder with a bony finger.

Weasley writhed a little and his eyelids fluttered. He moaned softly and clutched at his forehead.

"It lives," Snape muttered to himself, then, more loudly, "Get up, you bloody fool."

"Nnnngh... head hurts...." Weasley's voice was a cracked whisper, his eyes tightly screwed shut.

Snape scowled, muttered and flicked his wrist, splashing some water from his wand on Weasley's face.

"Snape? What the...eurgh, my head!"

"Ssssssh," Severus hissed. "Keep your voice down, idiot!"

Weasley's eyes immediately sprang fully open and focused with almost comic intensity on the wand tip that was about four inches from his nose, water dripping sluggishly from it onto the sand in front of him.

"Drink it," Snape ordered shortly in a rough whisper. "It will ease your headache."

"Whu...? How?" Weasley stammered.

Snape rolled his eyes. Even more impaired than usual. "It's a simple enough charm," he snapped. "Open up – you need the moisture."

Weasley scowled. "It wasn't the water, you...," he began, but didn't finish the sentence, instead snagging hold of Snape's wrist as he began to pull away in irritation and directing the thin stream of water into his mouth.

He drank noisily and with some coughing, much to Snape's fastidious displeasure, then splashed some of the liquid onto his face, and lay back down on the sand, scrubbing at his forehead with his fingers. Weasley bit his nails to the quick, Snape noted.

"Thank you," the younger man said eventually, waving his hand at Snape's wand. "That helped a bit. I think."

Snape frowned impatiently. "I do not know as yet if we are truly alone here, Mister Weasley. I suggest you draw your wand, if you still have it, and join me in reconnoitring the area."

Weasley coughed again and rubbed his face. "Ummm," he said, his voice faintly muffled in his fingers. "Right. Okay... hang on a second. Just getting my head together."

Severus exhaled in irritation. "If you are experiencing any slowness in your thought processes, you may attribute it, in part, to the temporal shock your body may have experienced..."

Before he could add a further, waspish comment, Weasley took his hand away from his face and smiled at him in a crooked way. "Nah. I always feel this way," he said. "Can't tell any difference, thanks."

Snape cleared his throat, somewhat disconcerted. "Well then"...he swept his arm around in a wide arc, indicating the desert vista spread out before them, and rose once again to his feet on legs that felt a little more secure than they had done a few minutes ago..."here we are."

Weasley coughed and pushed himself upright. He clambered slowly to his feet, weaving slightly. Snape looked at him with suspicion, but Weasley ignored him, his body shaking and yet remaining irritatingly upright as he revolved slowly on the spot, looking out at the endless sea of sand dunes, their flanks fiery orange and red in the declining sunlight.

"Where are we?" the younger man added softly and coughed again. "I thought you were supposed to go straight to her...."

"I have absolutely no bloody idea," Snape snapped, annoyed that Weasley was voicing the worry at the forefront of his mind. "We need to go higher, to see what is over the top of this line of dunes. Come on – and don't forget to keep your head down and be as quiet as possible." He turned and began to climb the dune, feet digging deeply into the soft sand. Soon his thighs began to burn with the effort of climbing up the steep incline.

After a few moments, he heard Weasley puffing behind him, and the two men reached the top of the dune at the same time. Before they crested the ridge, Snape grabbed Weasley's arm and pulled him down to his knees. He put his finger to his lips and stared pointedly at the redhead.

"Wands ready," he murmured, then counted silently down from three.

At one, both men poked their heads over the sharp ridge of sand on the crest of the dune.

"Oh, bloody Hell...," murmured Weasley.

*^*

The man standing before Hermione was tall and dark skinned. His robes were heavily embellished with rich embroidery in shades of dark browns and greens, and they swirled about him in flowing waves as he stalked into the room. His head was shaved for the most part, the exception being a thin circlet of longer hair that had been allowed to grow over his ears and across his forehead. About his neck hung a long silver chain, from which a Christian cross swung heavily against his belly.

The effect was both impressive and disconcerting.

He regarded her for a long moment and then swept into a deep bow, the tips of his long sleeve brushing the rush matting on the floor. As he straightened, he asked her a question in a deep, rumbling voice – or he appeared to anyway; Hermione could not determine the language he used.

"I-I'm sorry," she began, "but I...." She spread her hands widely to indicate her lack of understanding.

The man frowned and then waved his hand towards her in a complicated gesture.

Hermione noticed that he was wearing a beautiful jewelled ring on his forefinger as she felt the slick sensation of magic flow over her. She gasped and recoiled.

"You have awakened, I see," the man said again, and Hermione realised to her shock that she could understand him now.

"Good afternoon, madam," the man added, conversationally. "It is an honour to meet you at last. Have the Romans sent you to spy on us?"

*^*

The valley spread out before him in a confusing jumble of interlocking dunes and rocky outcrops. In places, the frozen waves of pure sand gave way to areas of sparse desert grass and sharp, sun-reddened rocks and stones.

Snape narrowed his eyes. In the distance, at the bottom of the shallow valley below them, as the desert gave way to rough scrubland, he could see a small, ancient town.

Water glinted in the desert sunlight. At the base of the valleys of dunes and desert scrubland were a series of small lakes, the water glinting brightly in the sunlight. Dark green trees and bushes sprang up around the water, and looking through the vegetation, Snape could see many squat, flat-roofed buildings clustered together. Behind the settlement, the desert stretched outwards again, dominated by a series of low hills, sand blasted into sharp relief against the blue sky.

"Oh, bloody Hell...," Weasley repeated again, and then he rounded on his old professor with a huge grin splitting his pale face. "That's brilliant!"

"What?"

"I know where we are! At least... I think I know, anyway! That's Siwa, that is. I've been here before... with Bill and the family when I was twelve or thirteen...."

Snape scowled, irritated by Weasley's enthusiasm and apparent knowledge. He ground his teeth together and reached inside his jacket pocket to pull out Granger's notebook again. It was unconscionable that the idiot boy should know more than him.

Weasley was still talking, "... Be able to get some food and maybe directions to Alexandria. The Egyptian and Arabic mages were awesome, Bill says..."

Snape ignored him, leafing through Granger's meticulous notes to the page with a hand drawn map of the region on it.

"... Something like one of those ancient cults, yeah? But full of really weird curse structures..."

He scanned the map, searching the desert region surrounding Alexandria for features that he would recognise. Siwa... Siwa... Ah, yes. He found the word encased in tiny curled brackets beneath another: Ammonium. He frowned at the map, then impulsively traced his finger over the cramped letters. To his surprise, the area he had brushed shimmered and enlarged on the page, providing a much more detailed map of the settlement, and more notes at the side.

Siwa Oasis – ancient name Ammon / Ammonium – was established as an oracle for the Egyptian god Amun-Ra (Gk. Zeus Ammon). Herodotus: "Fountain of the Sun ran coldest at noon" Book 1: 46 passim.

Herodotus... an early magical historian that the Muggles believed to be the 'father of lies'... wrote concise history of the early magical world, with a focus on the ancient and near east....

"... Not sure what exactly we should be looking for, 'cos its obviously not the same now, but she might have left us some clues to follow..."

"Mister Weasley," Snape interrupted through gritted teeth, eyes still focussed on the map, but wand hand twitching. "If you don't mind...."

Weasley subsided into a sullen silence as Snape continued to skim through Granger's notes.

Poss. site for temp. black sands? Ref Herodotus 2:32. Meteorite impact?

"Hey!" Snape felt his arm jostled and then tugged sharply downwards. He opened his mouth to snap at Weasley, but stilled instantly as the younger man pressed an urgent finger to his lips.

"We've got company!" He gestured with his thumb below.

Snape swivelled sharply and looked over the rise that they were perched upon. Sure enough, a slowly moving caravan of brightly coloured camels and their riders was emerging from one of the low sand dunes to his right. The animals moved with sluggish grace, effortlessly moving over the shifting sands without breaking their strides.

Snape counted quickly. There were about twenty beasts in all and some seven riders.

He ducked back down, his mind racing. It would be a way for us to arrive in the city unremarkably.... He felt for his magic – would it be strong enough? he thought.

Time to see.

He turned to Weasley, who was still peeking over the ridge, staring at the approaching men with gormless anticipation.

"Come here!" he hissed.

Weasley slid down the slope towards him, mouth open to speak.

"Turn out your pockets and take of your clothes," he ordered brusquely and began to unbutton his shirt while shrugging out of his jacket.

"What? Why?" Weasley stammered. Severus spared him a glance as he unbuckled his trouser belt.

Weasley's eyes were boggling at him, and Snape sneered, delighted that he has regained the upper hand.

"It may have escaped your attention, Weasley, but you are wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and I am similarly ill attired. I need to transfigure your clothing... unless you are capable of doing it for yourself?"

A dark, dull flush spread slowly across Weasley's face.

Snape allowed a slight sneer to cross his features. Thought not. "Put them in a pile here and stand back," he said.

He turned deliberately away and took off his shirt and dropped it carefully on top of his jacket. He scrabbled in his trouser pockets, pulling out a handful of Muggle coins as well as a few Knuts and a Galleon. He tossed them gently onto the sand beside the shirt before tugging off his boots and socks.

Behind him, he could hear Weasley puffing and panting, the noise of zippers and the jangle of loose change.

Quashing any self consciousness he may have entertained at stripping to his smalls in front of one of the most annoying students he ever taught, Snape shimmied out of his trousers and threw them on his pile of clothing. Without pausing to give Weasley any chance at a smart aleck comment, he envisioned desert sandals, a black jellabiya with a long robe outer layer and a length of turban material. He pushed his magic outwards, grunting in satisfaction as the clothes rearranged themselves as ordered.

He could hear Weasley hissing through his teeth in irritation and took a certain degree of satisfaction in the time he took to settle his new clothing about himself, thus leaving Weasley near naked and exposed on the hillside.

Finally, he turned to face the younger man and regarded him quizzically.

Weasley's face was red with embarrassment. "Come on – get on with it, Snape!" he snapped, cupping both hands in front of his crotch, even though he had not removed his ridiculous bright orange underpants.

Severus paused, twirling his wand in his fingers, enjoying the moment.

"You do realise," he drawled," that your hair is going to be a problem?"

*^*

"Madam?" the man prompted her, his voice deep and reassuring, but his eyes watchful. Hermione noticed that he was balanced carefully on the balls of his feet, his hands close to his sides, as if poised for action.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asked carefully, glad that she was able to keep her voice level and calm, thankful for the translation spell that had obviously been cast over her.

"Are you feeling better, Lady?" the man asked, and Hermione noticed that his right hand – the one with the ring – moved in a small half circle by his side. She stiffened slightly, feeling the unmistakable brush of magic caress her mind.

She nodded, trying to keep her mind focused on her emotions, pushing her concern and confusion foremost, keeping all other thoughts deliberately swirling and amorphous.

After a few moments, the unfamiliar magic withdrew, and the man smiled again. If he was disappointed, his expression did not show it.

"You were found wandering deep in Siwan territory, speaking in strange tongues, such as that of the Romans," he said smoothly, then added, "You have been in a waking sleep for a long time... many days." He paused, clearly to give her time to respond, but Hermione said nothing, holding her breath and keeping her thoughts as clouded as she could.

He let out a soft exhalation. "You don't remember?" he asked, moving his hand gently as before.

Hermione saw the movement and swiftly looked down at her hands, breaking eye contact with him and trying to remember as much as she could about Legilimens practice. She felt his magic flicker about her and shivered involuntarily.

Did he create the wards on the door? she wondered with sudden insight.

It was as if he had heard her. "These are dangerous times, Madam," he said, and a ghost of amusement escaped his lips. "You should be more careful with your escorts. They clearly robbed you and left you to die in the sand sea."

The sand sea...? Hermione thought frantically, picturing notes on a page... references to ancient texts.... The area to the southwest of the city. What was I even doing there? She tried to think, but her recent past was indistinct and shadow-like. She clenched her fist. Why couldn't she bloody well remember?

"What... what makes you think that... I am a lady?" Hermione asked carefully.

The man smiled again, then shrugged. "You have no slave mark... your hands are soft and your flesh pale..."

Hermione shuddered a little; she did not like the way his voice lingered on the words "soft" and "pale"....

"No woman would find herself so utterly alone in the sand sea in such a condition unless she was in some way... unusual," the dark man concluded and smiled his wide, white-toothed smile once again.

Hermione could not shake the feeling that there was a significant undercurrent of understanding that was passing her by. She had to get away from this situation and into the city. She needed a plan quickly.

"The men who found you brought you with them to their camp, taking care to keep you safe. You spoke many words, some of which they knew and understood."

So she had been delirious... Had she said anything about her purpose in Alexandria? About the library? The circumstances of its destruction were well documented, after all. Did this... monk... know why she was there?

Hermione felt her pulse rate quicken. Her intentions to slip quietly into the city, to find and save what she needed, to disturb as little of the timelines as she could, were evaporating with frightening speed....

"When they neared the city," the man continued, "word was sent for me to come and... bear witness..."

He was watching her very closely, she could tell. The questing tendrils of his magic were once more circling her, searching for answers. He reached slowly into the depths of his robe. "The tribesmen believe you to be a spirit oracle... or a saint. After all – you had not died out in the deep desert."

His fingers withdrew a familiar length of polished, dark wood, and his eyes glinted with something like triumph when he saw her flash of unguarded recognition.

"After all," he concluded, twirling her wand between his fingers. "Only those with the power of God can survive in such circumstances... and such persons are of great interest to the Church."

Her heart thundering now in her chest, Hermione's eyes fixed on the heavy weight of the crucifix hanging from about his neck. He was still standing in the same position, lightly balanced on his feet, poised, but ready to act... cautious, but clearly intrigued.

She breathed out. "Well, If you believe that," she said, "then perhaps you should tell me your name and take me to the city to speak with your... master."

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^

A/N: Thank you to the wonderful nagandsev and Clairvoyant for all their help and advice! I do not own any character you recognise - this is the world that JKR made! Thank you to all who continue to follow this story despite the woefully long time between updates....