Harry Potter and the Holy Spear

What contented men desire

Rating: PG
Genres: Action & Adventure
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 27/01/2008
Last Updated: 01/12/2008
Status: in_progress

Challenge fic courtesy of LeoLupin. Hermione Granger has lived her entire life without the knowledge that she is a witch. When a chance encounter with Harry Potter sends her on the treasure hunt of a lifetime, can she overcome these new obstacles just to stay alive?

Chapters

1. Chapter 1

2. Chapter 2

3. Chapter 3

4. Chapter 4

5. Chapter 5

6. Chapter 6

1. Chapter 1

LeoLupin’s challenge: Hermione is the daughter of two famous wealthy Archeologist. Hermione travels with them as they move from ancient tomb to tomb only ever returning to England every once and a while, thus never receiving a Hogwarts letter.

So years later while exploring a newly found temple in Egypt, (this temple was a Egyptian Wizard King’s tomb) and runs into none other then Harry Potter, (Who has become this sort of Wizarding Indiana Jones Adventurer/Tomb Raider/Curse Braker/Archeologist).

So Harry is searching for a obscure relic with untold power that Voldemort also wants. Harry, Hermione, and Harry’s faithful side-kick Ron team up to find the Relic. At first Harry and Ron don’t tell Hermione about magic, but she figures it out after their attacked by Deatheaters.

The innards of the tombs have to be booby trapped as all good tombs are.

Bonus points if Harry wares a Fedora and carries a bull-whip/Hermione having Lora Croft like acrobatic skills.

I do not own Harry Potter, or anything of the sort blah blah blah you get the idea.

Chapter 1

Hermione Granger, eighteen, was wary for traps as she navigated the ancient tomb. Diggers in Egypt had recently uncovered the lost tomb of Prince Neferkaptah, believed to be the resting place of the infamous Book of Thoth. The Egyptian government had contacted her parents, Jonathan and Alexandra Granger, to enter the tomb and recover the artefact. The Granger’s had been recognized as the world authority on archaeology for many years now, though some of their detractors called them little more than grave robbers. Their daughter had been raised moving from one tomb to the next, and never had a real home though she claimed British citizenship.

When they had arrived at the tomb, they had found that it split into three channels. Jonathan took one, Alexandra took another, and they decided that Hermione was capable enough to take the third on her own. And so, here she was. The average-height woman had her long brown hair pulled back to keep it out of her equally brown eyes. She wore a dark polo shirt, tight-fitting (but not to the point of suggestive) brown pants, black boots and a black vest that hung open. She clambered warily from the large tunnel she had been crawling through, into a small antechamber with another three possible paths. Weary, Hermione stopped for a drink.

While she rehydrated herself, she couldn’t help but reflect on her life. She had been born in England, but since that time she had only been back to her native soil three times. Though abnormally intelligent, her education had mostly occurred in the backs of trucks and airplanes. Her parents had all but forced her into a life of treasure hunting. Not that she resented them for it, she loved the life and the trade, but sometimes she had to wonder what life would have been like if she hadn’t been moving around the globe for most of the past two decades. Her wishful thinking was interrupted by a loud crashing sound from deep in one of the tunnels before her. Curiously she peeked her head in, only to whip it out of the way as a human figure streaked past. It had been moving so fast Hermione hadn’t managed to get more than a glimpse of it, but she saw it was carrying a shotgun and had red hair under its hat.

A rhythmic crunching, and then another figure. This one was undoubtedly a man, but again Hermione could catch little of him. As he passed her, he heard him shout out a single word. “RUN!” Her interest piqued, Hermione glanced back into the darkness for a fraction of a moment, and then she too began to run. The sight she had seen terrified her beyond all belief: an enormous stone sphere, rolling down the passageway of its own accord. She quickly caught up with the second man, the first being too far ahead. She could see that this one was about her age, though he looked much older. His emerald green eyes had a haunted look about them, and his face was much more heavily lined than it had any right to be. Round glasses and several days’ worth of unshaved beard completed the package. He was wearing what could most readily be described as dirt. His shirt had the impression that it was once starched and white, but had become encrusted with grime and wrinkles. He had a leather jacket on, which was also heavily worn and beginning to fray at the seams. The only other thing Hermione was able to notice was the brown fedora perched precariously on the man’s messy black hair.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why the hell are you here?” she asked the interloper, understandably angry. It was little short of a miracle that her voice was so even, considering that she was running flat out.

Her new friend was not so fortunate. “I would…be delight…ed to…tell you…when we are…’nt in…danger of being crushed!” he shouted back at her, voice broken by heavy pants.

Up ahead, the other man called out an instruction. “Hard right!” Hermione vaguely remembered that that was the tunnel her mother had taken. But she had little more time to think, as they made a sharp turn down the middle of the three original passageways. Unfortunately the tomb seemed to have been designed in such a way, and the ball continued to follow them. In the distant gloom Hermione could just barely make out the glow of the other man’s red hair vanish.

“RON!” the man running beside her bellowed, then sped up and cut in front of her. Had he not be a very fast runner she would have been highly irritated with him. “Woah!” Hermione heard him cry out in surprise, and then she discovered why. The wide path turned into an immensely thin beam, which was slicked with an unknown substance. Hermione tried her best to stop, but the force of her momentum carried her forward. The only good thing that came of the change in events was that the ball fell into the chasm beneath their feet, taking some of the pathway with it. Fortunately it operated like a cantilever, and no one was launched off. A foot or so ahead of her she heard thinly veiled profanity, followed by an instruction to “Jump!” she did so, and was glad she did when a thin ledge passed under her feet.

For a minute or two the duo sped along with relative ease, which afforded Hermione a chance to finish her examination of the man in front of her. A leather bag was slung over one shoulder, hanging at his hip next to a coiled bullwhip. On his other hip the butt of a revolver was visible from a buttoned holster. The overall effect was rather striking. Dimly she heard him gasp in shock, and his hand strayed to the catch holding the whip to his belt. “Grab my shoulders, and hold on.” He called back to her over his shoulder. Not figuring she had anything to lose by doing so, she complied. A crack, a flick of his wrist, and they were sailing through the air. Hermione looked up to see the end of the whip coiled around an outcropping. She looked down to see a bottomless pool of black.

They were only airborne for a moment, but it felt like an age. After a fleeting eternity they burst through a hole in the wall of the tomb, which just so happened to lead to the bottom of a sand dune. The red headed man was already present, splayed out on the sand. The dark-haired one followed suit, and they both promptly ignored Hermione.

“Well, did you get it Harry?” the redhead, whose name was apparently Ron, asked his partner. Harry opened his bag, and removed a tightly wrapped scroll. He clutched it like it was his anchor to the mortal plane as he looked at it. Hermione reached to take it, but it vanished from her view.

“Sorry, can’t let you have that.” Harry told her. Though his tone was condescending, his voice was pleasant enough. “We got here first, so it’s ours.”

Hermione was less than pleased. “I am Hermione Granger, my family is under contract by the Egyptian government to retrieve that scroll.” She spat angrily at the insolent man, and made a grab towards his bag.

Harry rolled out of her reach. “Did you say Granger?” he asked, sharing a look with Ron. “As in Jonathan and Alexandra Granger?” Hermione nodded, Harry seemed impressed. “Maybe I underestimated you. Harry Potter, freelance treasure hunter.” He extended his hand, which she gave a cursory shake. “And my partner, Ron Weasley.” The redhead extended his own hand. He had ice blue eyes, and his fiery red hair was mostly covered by a Tilley hat. He wore tan coveralls and black jump boots. A Winchester 1897 model shotgun lay on the sand next to him. His own chin was equally hairy as his friend’s. Hermione took the proffered hand even more briefly.

“Charmed.” She was nothing of the sort. The two men were odorous, filthy, and generally gave no care to personal hygiene. “Are you aware that I could easily obtain a court order demanding that you give me that scroll?” she inquired in a sickly sweet voice that never led to anything good.

Harry and Ron shared another look, and Harry sighed. “Frankly, me dear, I don’t give a damn.” he shot back. Hermione had no response for that, which Harry seemed to have been expecting. He rose to his feet and coiled up his whip. “A pleasure to meet you Ms Granger.” Maybe she had misjudged him; he could certainly be polite when the situation called for it. Ron followed him as he trudged up the dune, and when he spun around and dropped. “Shit. Death Eaters.” She could hear him curse. He looked down towards her, and motioned for her to join them. She climbed tentatively. “Take a look, but don’t make a noise unless you really don’t want to live anymore.” He didn’t say it as a threat, he simply said it.

She peeked over, and was hard-pressed not to scream and leap out from behind cover. Her parents were kneeling in the sand, surrounded by a circle of black-robed figures. They were all pointing wooden sticks of varying lengths and materials at their captives. Hermione could see several bloody wounds on her parents’ faces and bodies. She had to strain to make out the leader, but she could.

“Where is it? Where is the Book of Thoth?” the leader asked angrily. It was a male, even though Hermione could see long blond hair peeking from the man’s hood. She couldn’t hear her parents’ replies, but it obviously wasn’t what the man wanted to hear. “Lies!” he swept his stick at her father, who screamed in pain. The robed man turned his back towards the captives for a moment, seemingly contemplating. Then he turned back, brandishing the stick again. “AVADA KEDAVRA!” he screeched. A green light, and her parents were dead. This time only Harry’s entire strength on her body kept her from running out and attacking the men who had murdered her parents. She only vaguely heard the leader giving the order for the bodies to be burnt, and barely smelt the stench of burning flesh as she wept into the sand, and then into Harry’s chest when he finally released her.

“Sssshh, it’s going to be okay.” He soothed, rubbing the back of her head instinctively in the awkward embrace they found themselves in. They held each other gingerly until Hermione finally composed herself.

She pulled back and turned away, hiding her read tear-streaked face. “I’m an orphan.” Her voice was no longer sad; it was dead. It was the voice of someone whose life has lost all meaning. “And I have no where to go.”

Harry was shocked by that. “You don’t have a home?” he asked incredulously.

Hermione shook her head violently, the sadness creeping back in. “We never stayed in one place very long.” The tears were coming back, and she found herself with a red silk handkerchief held out to her. She took it gratefully, and didn’t see the momentary glance that passed between two old friends.

“Well I don’t know about the first one, but I think we can fix the second.” Harry told her, his voice tinged with warmth. Ron let out a low string of obscenities. Hermione turned to look at Harry. She saw nothing but honesty in his emerald eyes, and for the first time in a long time she felt safe. She nodded slowly, still too far gone for words. Harry cracked a smile. It made him look almost a decade younger. “Excellent. I hope you like England Ms Granger.”

***

Harry Potter watched with dry amusement as his new friend and roommate, Hermione Granger, buried her nose into a thick book that had come from the duffel bag containing all her worldly belongings, and a few mementos of her parents. Ron was currently up front, flying the small cargo plane, which left him free to examine their passenger without fear of Ron going on and on about it. She was quite pretty, in a business-like sort of way. If she let her hair down, he noted, she would look even better. He shook himself before he could analyze any further; he did not need that sort of awkwardness. “You should get some sleep.” He told her, noting the nice colour of her eyes when they flicked upwards to meet his. “We’re a long way from home.” She turned back to her book, seemingly ignoring him. Considering it safe enough anyway, Harry got up and slowly walked to the door separating the cockpit from the cabin. A minute flick of his wrist shot a stick of holly, slightly less than a foot long, into his wand. An imperceptible wave and the door latch gave. Another flick of the wrist and it was gone. Harry entered the cockpit and closed the door behind him.

Ron was sitting in the pilot’s seat, but he wasn’t flying the plane. His legs were propped up on the dashboard and he was perusing a newspaper called the Daily Prophet. The only things unusual about this scenario: (1) The pictures on the front page of the newspaper were moving, and (2) the plane was flying itself. The redhead looked up to regard his friend. “So, how is she?” he asked, a rare note of concern in his voice.

Harry shrugged. “As well as can be expected, really.” His hand reached up to absently trace the jagged scar above his eyebrow, which had been mostly covered by his hair until now. “She’s hiding her emotions behind a wall, which isn’t good. Hopefully we’ll be able to open her up.” Harry’s experience with hiding emotions was all too personal. He had done exactly the same thing when his godfather died, two years ago, and again when his mentor had followed, a year later. He was only now repairing the damage from the first emotional blow.

Ron’s eyebrows flitted up. He knew exactly what his oldest friend was talking about. “What about the…other thing we noticed?” he subconsciously lowered his voice, as though afraid that their passenger could hear them. She couldn’t, of course, but these two had learned the hard way the cost of not practicing constant vigilance.

Harry didn’t answer for a while. He was debating the ethics of answering the question. Ultimately he decided that the decision was not his to make. “She has the talent. It’s untrained, but she’s managed to keep it under control somehow. But I don’t want to train her before we give her an option.”

Ron was flabbergasted. He never had understood people all that well. “What do you mean, give her the option? Who wouldn’t want unlimited power? It’s an offer she couldn’t possibly refuse.” Harry gave him a tense glance.

“Careful Ron, that’s the kind of thing that keeps us from becoming like Tom.” He sighed, and Ron nodded in acquiescence. “But, who wouldn’t want to be able to use this gift? Someone who was scared of the unexpected, who has settled comfortably into a life and doesn’t want to leave it.”

“You think Granger is one of these people?” Ron seemed truly flummoxed that such a person would be in their trade. Then again, Ron was flummoxed about an exorbitantly large number of things.

Harry had to think, which was appropriate since all his evidence was based on defending a person he had known for less than two hours. “I think she tries not to be, she tries to be brave, but in her heart she is.” The conversation was closed, and Harry left Ron to his ‘piloting.’ On the other side of the door he saw that Hermione had fallen asleep reading. Her book was lying open on what Harry suddenly noticed was an ample bosom. He picked it up tenderly, careful not to lose her page, and marked it with a bookmark he found next to her. She fidgeted slightly, but stayed asleep. Slowly, doing his utmost not to make a sound, Harry removed his jacket and draped it over her sleeping form. The added weight caused her brow to furrow, but she just rolled onto her side and drew up the makeshift covering.

Harry lay down on a stack of crates across the cabin and adjusted his fedora so it blocked the lights. Home was a long way from Cairo, and Harry needed his rest for the challenges to come.

2. Chapter 2

I do not own Harry potter, or anything of the sort blah blah blah etc etc

Chapter 2

“Home, sweet home.” Harry commented sarcastically, pushing open the door to the two-bedroom apartment he and Ron shared. The small home had the distinct look of being inhabited by two people with radically different lifestyles. The apartment consisted of a living room, a kitchen/dining area combination separated by a half-wall, and a short hallway leading to two bedrooms and a bathroom. The living area, which contained a couch and a fireplace, was coated with a thick layer of empty pizza boxes, sports magazines, and a few items that made Hermione’s face burn. On the walls she noticed several pictures of people with flaming red hair, presumably Ron’s family. Harry appeared in many of them.

The kitchen, on the other hand, was unnaturally clean. Everything gleamed white, except for where rust coated the ancient appliances. Not a single item was out of place; even the month-old copies of Metro were folded neatly and stacked in a corner of the table. Hermione felt as though she had stepped into the world of The Odd Couple. Harry tossed his hat from the door to the coat rack, and pumped a fist in triumph when it landed neatly on its hook. “Ron, why don’t you go and see Remus. I’m sure he’s been waiting anxiously for this.” He pressed his beg into the redhead’s hands and all but pushed him out the door.

“Remus? An odd name.” Hermione commented, starved for conversation. She was shifting her weight nervously, unsure about what to do in a stranger’s home.

Harry picked up on it immediately. “Just kick your boots over there and hang your vest on the coat rack.” He had already done the same. “And it isn’t really that odd. Roman mythology is no more unusual than, say, a Shakespearian play.” Obviously he was not as dim witted as she had made him out to be. Hermione inwardly berated herself for judging a book by its cover. Harry took her silence as a victory to him, which it was. “Anyway, you’ll be taking my room. First door on the left, if you want to put your stuff in there.”

Hermione was taken aback by his courtesy. Most men she had met would have offered her his friend’s quarters, given the opportunity when the friend could not disagree. She said as much. “If I may, why aren’t you putting me in your friend’s room? I would think you’d rather put someone else in an awkward position.”

Harry smiled, something she had only seen him do once before. It wasn’t as warm as the last time. “Call him Ron. And believe me, if my roommate was anyone but Ron Weasley you would have his room so fast your head would spin. Ron’s room isn’t exactly fit for human habitation.” Hermione decided she didn’t want to know.

“Where should I put my stuff?” Harry seemed confused by her question, so she elaborated. “Your drawers will be filled with your clothes, so what should I do with mine?” she gathered that she had considerably more clothing than he had. Even living a nomadic existence she would easily have at least twice as much underwear.

Harry inclined his head slightly. “As a matter of fact, almost everything I own is currently on my person. Everything else amounts to the plane and this apartment, which I co-own with Ron, a few pictures that are on my nightstand, and a few valuables in a safe deposit box.” Hermione was rather shocked, but she gathered quickly that this was an extremely odd person.

“Alright then, where will you sleep? If Ron’s room is that toxic I doubt you’ll be bunking with him.” Harry nodded, with a third smile to add to the list.

He indicated the lumpy looking couch. “Right there. Ron hasn’t managed to pollute this room, yet.” Hermione chuckled, and left to put her things in Harry’s room. Her first impression was that is was clean. Her second, more accurate, impression was that it was empty. Just as Harry had said, nothing of his was in the room but three pictures on the nightstand. The first was of a raven-haired man in glasses dancing in a snowstorm with a red haired, green-eyed woman. Hermione presumed that they were Harry’s parents. The second was of five people. Harry’s parents were there, along with an attractive man with long black hair, an intelligent-looking man with sapphire eyes and short brown hair, and a shorter man with watery blue eyes and a rat-like appearance. They were standing before a large castle, wearing what looked like traditional English boarding-school uniforms with one difference. Over top of grey sweaters were ankle-length, open black robes. The final picture was of Harry, Ron, a redheaded girl who was probably Ron’s sister, and a girl with blonde hair and a vacant expression. They were standing in front of the same castle, wearing the same uniforms. The only difference was, where the five in the one photo and three in the second were wearing red accents, the blonde had blue. She heard a tap at the door and looked up from where she had been absently studying the face of a younger Harry.

The older version was standing in the doorway, looking at her with an expression she couldn’t place. He had his hat and jacket back on. “I just heard from Ron, and Remus wants to meet the daughter of the most famous archaeologists in British history.” His eyebrows were raised, and her vest was outstretched to her.

***

Harry drove her up to where Remus lived in a tired old Ford pickup that was more rust than actual metal. As he explained on the trip, Remus was a professor at the boarding school he and Ron had attended: Hogwarts Academy. She had to admit, the castle was impressive. As it was July the school was devoid of students, so the trip to Remus’ third floor office was quiet and uneventful. Before they entered he pulled her aside. “I have to warn you, Remus is highly susceptible to illness and he’s sensitive about it. So if he looks a bit under the weather, don’t mention it. And definitely don’t stare.” She nodded solemnly, and they entered.

Remus’ office was neat, Like Harry’s parts of the apartment, but it was neat in a cluttered way. There were books everywhere, but they were all in neat stacks. Remus himself was sitting behind a wide desk. His deep blue eyes were starting to pale, his skin was lined like old leather, and his light brown hair was streaked liberally with grey, but he was undoubtedly one of the men from the picture. Like a gentleman he rose when she entered. Ron, who was seated in one of three chairs in front of the desk, did not. “You must be Hermione Granger. I’ve heard a lot about your parents, and I am deeply sorry for their loss.” He spoke with the voice of a man who has seen too much in a short life, like an old man who half wants to lay down his head and sleep for eternity and half wants to raise his sword and fight for what he loves. “Please, sit. Can I offer you a drink?” Hermione noticed a small home bar behind the desk.

“No, nothing for me thanks.” He mixed a martini and filled a glass with bourbon. The bourbon went to Harry. He kept the martini. “Did you know my parents?” she asked, surprised by how easily she could speak about them.

Remus settled in his chair and shook his head. “Not personally. I read a great deal of your mother’s work.” He gestured to a particular stack of books, where Hermione could see the name of Alexandra Granger on several spines. “Actually, that’s why I wanted you here.” Hermione looked at him oddly. Harry did the same. “You see, your mother wrote about how she and your father went after the Seal of Solomon. I worked the timing, and you would have been thirteen.” Hermione nodded. “She went on about the fiendish level of the traps they faced along the way. Now Harry and Ron, for all their talents, do not have much experience when it comes to those things. So I want you to accompany them on their next excursion.”

Harry interrupted. “Speaking of which Remus, what is the next target?” he asked. To Hermione, it sounded like he was dreading the answer.

Remus didn’t answer for a moment, but he shuffled for something in his desk. He produced a charcoal drawing of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. He indicated the Roman soldier piercing the side of the Saviour with a spear. “That. The Lance of Longinus, sometimes called the Spear of Destiny. It is the weapon that pierced the side of Christ. I did some research while you were in Egypt, and I’ve concluded that it is most likely in the Nuremberg Castle in Nuremberg, Germany.” He produced three plane tickets. “You leave tomorrow.” The trio rose to leave, but Remus had one more thing to say. “Harry, could you hang back for a moment. I’d like to have a private word with you.”

“Of course Remus. Hermione, you can go home with Ron of wait for me. Your choice.” His gaze was devoid of emotion, but Hermione detected a hint of possessiveness in his voice. It was nice to feel wanted. She stayed.

***

“I see what Ron meant.” Remus commented upon locking the door and silencing the room. “She certainly has potential, but when are you going to tell her?”

Harry sighed, raising his hat to wipe at his brow. “Never, if I can avoid it.” Remus looked shocked. “She doesn’t need the burden, not after seeing Death Eaters murder her parents. I can’t, in good conscience, add to that.”

Remus nodded slowly. “You mean well, I know that. But they say that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. And there’s no way you’ll be able to hide it from her forever. I do hope you realize why I’m sending you out so early.” Harry shook his head. “Come on Harry, it’s the Spear of Destiny. Voldemort would do anything in his power, which you have to admit is considerable, to possess the spear which makes an army invincible.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. “Do you have any ideas on who specifically might be after it?” he asked, worriedly.

“Not for sure, though I have a feeling the Malfoy males will need to be doing something to curry favour after June.” Remus didn’t mention June of what year, but Harry understood. It was a date that was engraved in his memory. “I’d be on the lookout for Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange as well. We haven’t heard from them in some time. Oh, and Harry.” The treasure hunter turned back from where he was going to exit the office. “Be careful.”

Harry flashed a lopsided grin he had learned from his godfather, Sirius Black. “Hey, it’s me.” That was the last Remus would hear from him until he returned from Germany.

“That’s what I was afraid you’d say.” Remus commented sadly to the empty room.

***

“So what’s the rush with this spear?” Hermione asked the next morning, when she Harry and Ron had been crammed into a 747 economy cabin. Harry had explained on the trip to the airport that they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves on this trip, and an international flight was the perfect place to get lost in a crowd. He closed his eyes and let out a breath. That was the question he’d been hoping to avoid.

“It’s rumoured that any person that carries the spear will win every battle the enter. There’s a group of terrorists based in England who want it too, or so Remus thinks.” He responded, hoping to satiate her curiosity.

He did not. “You mean like that Sirius Black fellow that escaped from prison a few years ago?” she hadn’t actually been in England at the time, but she had found out in a few years of newspaper backlog.

Harry tensed. Even though she couldn’t possibly know better, he did not like people slighting his godfather. He was innocent, even if no one believed it. “Yes.” He lied. It was painful. “Like him.” He fell silent, pretending to sleep. He dimly heard her question Ron, on his other side, for a moment before she herself fell asleep. He perked up immediately. A surreptitious wave of his hand made the area around the ‘archaeologists’ devoid of all sound, as far as anyone else knew. “Notice anyone?” he asked I a low voice. Even silencing charms were not foolproof.

Ron nodded his head. “Travers is on the flight. He’s a few rows ahead, next to the guy with the shining hair.” Harry looked up. He saw the man Ron had meant, slicked-back black hair looking sleek as an otter, and the greying blackness of Travers beside him. “A few more suspicious characters scattered about, but no one I recognize.” Harry had to agree. Either they were paranoid or Voldemort was recruiting. Or both.

Harry turned to Ron again. “Alright as soon as they let us off, run.” It was the best they had.

3. Chapter 3

You know what I’m going to say here, but I guess I have to do it anyway. HP is not mine. Germany is certainly not mine. Nothing else is mine.

Chapter 3

The teenaged trio purposefully exited the plane and headed towards the nearest bank of lockers in the Franz Josef Strauss International Airport in Munich, Germany. Their destination had been recorded on a scrap of paper that Hermione had memorized, and then destroyed, prior to their departure from London Heathrow. Inside the locker, opened by a key that had been hanging from Ron’s neck since meeting with Remus, was a single envelope. Harry took it, and led the way to the Europcar rent-a-car desk. From there they picked up the Volkswagen Crafter that was waiting for them, under assumed names. On the hour and twenty-minute drive between Munich and Nuremberg, Hermione found herself questioning Harry on the security measures they had enacted. Ron, being the only one of the group who understood German, was driving.

“I don’t think I really want to know, but what’s with all the security?” Call her old-fashioned, but prearranged vehicles and fake identities inside airport lockers did not strike her as the best way to start an expedition.

Harry’s eyebrows rose, and Ron’s head tilted almost imperceptibly towards them. “Between the two of us, well we’ve made a lot of enemies. This is the only way we can guarantee safety, for you and for ourselves.” Harry was quite pleased with his explanation. It may not have been entirely truthful, but it was pretty close and it kept their inquisitive friend satiated for the remainder of the drive.

About an hour later the three archaeologists entered their apartment in the Lette’m Sleep hostel in Nuremberg. It was a simple enough place; two bedroom, one bath, kitchen facilities, and a rather comfortable great room. On the coffee table were three manila folders. Three standard-sized suitcases stood around the table. Harry picked up the folders and dispersed them, according to their labels.

Each one contained a falsified identity. Included were birth certificates, British passports, driver’s licences, credit cards, and a short document explaining the history of the new identity. Harry, for example, was now Professor David Warner, a respected professor of English literature. Hermione, demonstrating Remus’ clear sense of humour, was Abigail Warner, David’s long time wife and museum curator. Ron was simply Lord Henry Wyth, Professor Warner’s wealthy friend. In each of the suitcases they found clothing, personal belongings appropriate to their new personalities, and a disguise kit. In Harry and Hermione’s cases, they also found wedding rings and a marriage certificate annotated in the year 1942. They split up to change, and reassembled an hour or two later.

Harry’s black hair was sprinkled with grey, and beginning to recede. Greying mutton shops were sprouting from his jaw and upper lip. He wore a white Oxford shirt with a spread collar, a charcoal single-breasted suit coat, and khaki trousers. Coloured contact lenses eliminated his glasses and turned his noticeable green eyes to a more subtle brown. When he drummed his fingers on the table, as he was doing now while he and Ron waited for Hermione, you could see faint ink stains on the pads of his fingers and the side of his right hand. His back was slightly bent when he sat, and the dark circles under his eyes needed little accentuation.

While Harry looked the part of a world-weary professor, Ron was the complete opposite. His hair, which had been dyed black, was slicked back to expose his forehead. A short full beard disguised his chin, and coloured contacts turned his blue eyes hazel. He was wearing a black dinner jacket suit and a velvety grape-coloured waistcoat. A scarlet tie, black boots and white gloves completed the regal ensemble. His hands were clasped behind his comfortably straight back, aristocratically thin eyebrows furrowed slightly. The clicking his boots made on the hardwood floor as he paced back and forth was beginning to wear on Harry’s nerves.

Hermione examined all of this in the blink of an eye that followed her opening the door to the washroom, and preceded her stepping into the great room. Two sets of eyes were immediately trained on her when she did so, which in turn finally stopped the irritating clicking. Her hair had been bleached to a pale blonde, tamed (Hermione could scarcely believe this. For eight years she had searched futilely for something that work half as well as that), and pulled back in a long ponytail. She was wearing a short-sleeved blouse the colour of almonds. A pair of comfortable denim jeans covered her legs, which Harry in particular noticed were rather long and shapely. Her eyes, once deep brown pools, were now blue and piercing. She flushed slightly when she noticed a golden band on Harry’s left ring finger, a nearly identical model on her own. Ron, not missing a beat, drew a small key from his pocket and used it to unlock a wardrobe standing innocuously in the corner. Hermione peered around him.

It was filled with guns. Handguns, shotguns, semi-automatics, automatics, and machine guns. Muzzle-loaders, percussion caps and everything in between. He withdrew a Lupara-style shotgun, which went under his jacket, and passed a Webley Mark VI revolver to Harry. Hermione took a very hard look at the Uzi submachine gun that was handed towards her next. She had never in her life fired a weapon, and was not keen to start. “Take it.” Harry advised, seeing her inner conflict. “We don’t know what may be waiting, and better safe than sorry.” She saw the logic in that statement and, slowly, took the weapon. The firearms concealed remarkably well, almost like magic. Mentally striking another task off the list, the trio sat down at the table to discuss strategy. Harry spread a map of the area, and Ron poured over it for a moment.

“Right, this is our location,” he indicated a small building, “And this is the castle.” Rather unnecessarily he indicated the large block that signified Nuremberg Castle. “Here’s the breakdown: We have reasonable evidence to suggest that the target is within the castle, but we don’t know for sure. We face an unknown number of hostiles between here and there, and possibly within the structure itself. None of our weapons are permitted under the German Weapons Law, so they must remain concealed. This also means that we will have limited ammunition. Because the castle is such a tourist attraction, we will have from 1800 hours tonight until 0900 hours tomorrow morning to find and extract the spear.” His summary did not sound very hopeful to Hermione, but Harry was looking rather relieved. Ron glanced at his watch. “It is 1542 hours right now, so we have a little over two hours to kill.”

“I for one would like to take my lovely wife out for a quiet dinner.” Harry suggested, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Ron chuckled right along with him. Under any other circumstances Hermione would have been highly irritated by him. Of course she did realize that they had to play the part of a married couple, which meant spending quality time in public locations, but there was something about this man. She knew so few people her own age at all, let alone males, but this specimen felt different. He felt like someone she could be comfortable around, and that made the prospect of pretending to be his wife rather pleasant.

“Oh please David,” she sighed dramatically, getting into the part. “You know airplanes always make you tired, and I’ve been wanting to see Courtroom 600 for quite some time.” If Ron’s approving grin was anything to go by, she had done well.

Harry shot her a pleading look. “Come now Abby, it’s been far too long since we’ve done anything together. And Henry doesn’t mind, do you?” Ron shook his head solemnly, indicating with a simple gesture of his hand that they should go enjoy themselves. “Then it’s settled. Come on, I know a place with excellent sausages. And a magnificent view to boot.” Conceding that her ‘husband’ was not going to relent, Hermione allowed her feet to carry her after his slightly hunched frame.

***

Harry had been right: the sausages at the Heilig Geist Spital had been exquisite, as had the view of the river Pengnitz. They had enjoyed a meal of Saure Zipfel, sausages in vinegar-onion sauce with horseradish and bread, followed up by a couple of glasses of a truly excellent Trockenbeerenauslese wine. Not too much, of course. Actually Hermione was surprised to find such a high quality of beverage. From what little she actually knew about wine, she was sure that TBA wines were extremely rare and expensive. She had just plucked up the courage to comment on their luck, when he suggested they go and meet ‘Henry.’ They arrived back at the hostel with a quarter hour to spare, enough time for the old couple to take a walk around town with their old friend. That they happened to pass by Nuremberg Castle just a few minutes after closing time was naturally just a coincidence, right?

As soon as they were successfully inside, there was no further need for the disguises. Contacts were removed, facial hair was pulled off, and clothing was dumped in a closet. Ron had been wearing his coveralls underneath his tuxedo, and Harry had turned his blazer inside out to reveal the more familiar leather jacket. “Alright, let’s go.” Harry decided after unfurling his fedora. He led them casually down the hallway.

Maybe it was just Hermione’s imagination, but the castle seemed several degrees colder than the town had been. Her education had been sparse over the years, but the one thing no one could avoid were the Nazis. In retrospect the entire town had felt colder than it had any right to at this time of the year. Maybe it was just her unease at being at the site of the infamous Nuremberg Rallies, or the location of the signing of the Nuremberg laws, or even the location of part of the Flossenbürg concentration camp. It was as though she could feel the evil in this place, even though it sounded absurd to her.

Anxious feelings aside, the castle was actually a mythical treasure hunter’s dream. They encountered no traps, just a large maze in the basement. Ron decided they should try it, though Hermione had no idea how he knew that. Fortunately she knew the trick to mazes, though it was unnecessary in this case. The structure seemed to follow the principles of a turf maze, and they crossed no junctions. The most curious thing about the construction was that it seemed quite a bit larger than the castle had appeared from the outside. She put the thought out of her mind, attributing it to a trick of the shadows, until a high-pitched welsh voice called out from behind them. “Hey there, don’t you know it’s rude to show a lady your back?” it taunted.

They turned, Harry and Ron very slowly, and encountered a trio of figures. If there sizes were anything to go by they were full grown, but each of them wore a full black robe and hood. Their faces were hidden behind black masks. The robes were loose, but one of them was obviously a woman. Her black hair was barely contained by her mask. One of the others was tall and broad, and the third was tall but slender. Each of them was holding a wooden stick, varying in wood type and length. Hermione did not fail to notice that both her companions were eyeing the wood carefully.

“Easy now Travers, no need to make a scene.” Harry placated. His hand was straying towards his belt, hopefully going unnoticed.

The slim one, who was apparently called Travers, cackled. Quite literally, he cackled. It was not a pleasant sound. “Absolutely right, maybe we’ll just kill you quickly. After all, we don’t want to stain these hallowed walls.” The woman whimpered slightly. “Easy Bellatrix, I promise we’ll get some nice muggles for you to play with later.” He soothed. Hermione had no idea what a muggle was, but it seemed to keep ‘Bellatrix’ happy. All three sticks rose, and the beginnings of a word began at the back of three throats. Harry chose that moment to act.

With a practiced flick his whip came sailing through the air, snapping neatly on Travers’ wrist. He released his ‘weapon’ with a howl of pain. Harry screamed out to Ron and Hermione to “Shoot,” and they both did. The shotgun shell, and the couple dozen .45 SCP rounds that burst forth from Hermione’s Uzi, vanished in midair. They were never seen again on this earth. Not even waiting for an order, Ron fired his shotgun into the air ad dropped a sizeable portion of the ceiling down between the archaeologists and their attackers. Acting with a single mind, all three of them turned and sprinted off in the opposite direction. They had no idea how far they had left to go and no way to determine that information, so they were left with no option but to run until they were killed or reached the center. Hermione fervently hoped for the latter.

Every so often another black robes figure would materialize nearby them, and every time all three of them would fire several rounds back. Ron ran out of ammo first, and Harry second. Each of them pulled out a length of wood similar to those used by their assailants, which in turn had been almost non-stop firing bolts of brightly coloured light at them. Each bolt caused a small explosion to occur in the stonework where it hit. When Hermione herself ran out of ammunition, Harry tossed back a stick. It was polished mahogany, about three-quarters of a foot long. It felt warm in her hands. “Point that behind you, and yell ‘Reducto.’” Harry instructed, sensing rather than seeing her confused look. She tried it, and heard a scream of pain as one of their aggressors fell. “Good job.” Harry tossed back, approving.

***

After far too long of running and dodging strange lights, they were finally granted a reprieve. The air felt warmer here, so Hermione could only assume that they were nearing their objective. After she had caught her breath, and before her friends had caught theirs, she assaulted them with the most obvious and all-encompassing question she could think of. “What in the name of Hell’s Eighth level is going on here?” she asked, more than slightly furious at being left out of such a large thing. And she was supposed to trust these two.

Harry smiled. “Eighth circle? That’s good, the fraudulent. Sorcerers are encased in the fourth sub-level, am I correct?” he chuckled, but the sound faded with another determined look from Hermione. He sighed. “Okay, you’d better sit down. As you have apparently guessed, Ron and I are wizards. Those people chasing us are called Death Eaters, they’re the minions of an evil wizard named Voldemort.” He leaned back as though that explained everything. It didn’t, but it was a good start.

“And what does this ‘Voldemort’ want exactly?” she asked apprehensively. She was not yet entirely convinced of these men’s sanities, but it was rather hard to doubt them.

Ron shrugged. “What do all men with power want: more power. In this case, he wants to rule the world.” He gave a helpless gesture with his hands. “A bit of a cliché, but what’re you going to do?”

Harry’s startlingly green eyes flickered open again. “I get the feeling you don’t believe us. Permit me to demonstrate.” He drew his own rod, which Hermione guessed she should now be calling a wand, and waved it at the floor. In no time flat she was sinking into cement-coloured quicksand. She pulled herself out, onto the stable ground to her back, and the sinkhole was gone as soon as it had come. There was only Harry, looking rather triumphant. “Bottom line, and the reason we’re telling you this rather than making you forget about the entire incident, is that you have to potential to become a very powerful witch.” Her eyes widened. With that much power, she could avenge her parents.

The idea didn’t seem so appealing, in retrospect. Now that she had witnessed first-hand the kind of person wanton killing could create, she wasn’t sure she wanted to bear the burden. “Why didn’t you tell me before?” she asked, sounding a little overwhelmed.

Ron looked downcast. “We didn’t figure you needed the burden. You just lost your parents, we didn’t want you to have to deal with this too.” Hermione did not respond, just rolled onto her side to try and get some much-needed rest. As such she didn’t notice Harry’s hand extend towards her shoulder, falter, and retreat.

Ain’t Remus so evil? Lol

Everything about Germany is accurate, I believe. The TBA is the highest classification of wine in Germany or Austria. They are extremely rare, and are almost never seen outside of private wine auctions. Needless to say Hermione provides a small hint at their origin.

Finally, anyone who has no idea what Harry and Hermione are talking about with the ‘eighth circle of hell’ stuff are directed towards the work of Dante Alighieri. Specifically the Divine Comedy.

4. Chapter 4

Whatever this is, it remains not mine. Any questions? Good.

Chapter 4

She tried to stay mad at them, honestly she did. She didn’t know what it was, but she could just not stay mad at Harry Potter. It was rather irritating, actually. One way or another they awoke at roughly the same time a few hours later, and headed further into the maze. The march was silent, each person reflecting on something or other. Hermione, for example, was wondering just why it had hurt so much when she found out that Harry had been keeping things from her. She was used to falsehoods and misdirection, she had been surrounded by them growing up, so this shouldn’t bother her so much. So why did it?

Ron’s thoughts mostly revolved around the next meal and the wonderful girl he had left at home. Luna was such a dear to put up with him leaving the country often, sometimes with only a few hours notice. He was fingering the simple golden ring in one of the pockets of his coveralls with a smile. He had picked it up when ‘David’ and ‘Abigail’ had been out to dinner, and it was going to make two people very happy when the team got back to England.

Harry’s thoughts were, appropriately, very much in tune with Hermione’s. He had been keeping secrets and telling lies for almost a decade now, and it had never bothered him before. Even keeping things from Ginny, his supposed girlfriend, hadn’t bothered him nearly as much as keeping things from Hermione. What did that say about him? Was he simply a terrible person? Of course his relationship with Ginny was over, everyone knew it except for Ginny herself and her mother. She had only ever wanted to be with him to share his limelight, which was actually not something he begrudged her. She had lived all her life under the shadow of six older brothers, five of who were very successful in their own fields (even if one of them was a bit of a slime). She deserved some attention of her own, but he thought that she was more than capable of getting it as something more than the mother of Harry Potter’s children. He had actually meant to break it off when they got back from Egypt, but he hadn’t got to see her at all thanks to Remus’ surprise assignment. Who knows, maybe she had gotten tired of the long waits and broken it off? Not bloody likely.

And so they marched, stopping only briefly for a bite now and then. During one of these infrequent breaks Hermione noticed Harry sitting a bit further away, looking at a dog-eared photograph. She walked over and, when he didn’t protest or make any other movement, sat down beside him. The picture was over a beautiful young woman, not much younger than Hermione herself. She was small and lithe, with long red hair was big brown eyes. She was smiling and laughing at the camera, every so often throwing her hair over her shoulder. Hermione had never seen a moving picture before; it must have been a magical thing. “Her name’s Ginny.” Harry’s soft voice cut through the stillness of her thoughts. He was still looking only at the picture.

“Your sister?” she asked hesitantly. She knew it was a stupid question, but for some reason she couldn’t bring herself to say the more likely possibility.

Harry snorted. “His sister.” He nodded towards Ron, who was systematically devouring a bowl of hash. “More like my girlfriend.” He seemed very sad saying this, and Hermione asked him about it. He chuckled slightly. “Funny story. See, there’s this very evil wizard named Voldemort who’s been trying to kill me almost all my life. When I was a year old I killed him, thanks to my mother and some ancient magic that nobody really understands. So now I’m a celebrity in the Wizarding World, which means women want me and men want to be me.” He looked at the picture for another moment or two. “Ginny was always been one of the worst. It didn’t help that I saved her life when she was eleven, but being my girlfriend has been her dream since preschool. I broke up with her last year, but she didn’t take the hint.” He chuckled a bit more, still considering it a funny story. His laughter sounded empty to her ears.

“That’s not a funny story.” She commented sadly. Exactly why it wounded her so much that he had a girlfriend back home she didn’t quite know.

His weak laughter died out instantaneously. “No, I guess it isn’t.” He hunched over a little more, and Hermione didn’t think he had ever looked more vulnerable or alone. Subconsciously she slid one hand over his shoulder and held him, nothing more. One of his hands closed gently around her arm. Their faces turned in to face one another, inching forward ever so slowly. She could feel her lips part, with just a fraction of an inch to go, when…

“Sweet mother of Merlin!” Ron’s curse split the two of them faster than anything else could have. “Harry, Hermione, you’d better take a look at this!” They came over quickly, and saw an inscription on the stone glow with fire. It read:

όπως υγεία όπως θάνατος;
έναs ίδρυμα του αυστηρός,
μόλιs όπως αντωνυμία ευλογώ.
είναι όλος αυτό είναι όλο καλός,
ακόμα με έναs μοχθηρός χαντάκι;
όπως αυτό ξεκίνησα πράγμα,
μπορεί επίσηs τέλοs.

“Can you translate it?” Harry asked his red haired friend gingerly. Hermione gathered, with an apparently high degree of success, that Ron was the master of languages in the group.

Aforementioned master was busy scribbling down the markings before they faded, which they soon did. When he was finished he gave Harry a patronising look. “Of course I can translate it, you didn’t bring me along for my charming personality.” He studied the message carefully, ignoring Harry’s muttered comment. “Looks like Greek, shouldn’t be hard. Ah! Here we go!” He took a deep breath, and began to recite

“As destructive as life,
As healing as death;
An institutioner of strife,
Just as prone to bless.
It is all that is good,
Yet with an evil trend;
As it is the beginning of things,
It can also be the end.”

“It’s a riddle!” Hermione remarked, amid nods and muttered agreement. “I wonder what the answer is?” They didn’t need to worry about it, because the wall suddenly developed a large crack. Right down the middle. The two halves separated slowly, revealing a flat stretch of stone. The wall was engraved with another inscription:

hidla chennych a fi erioed ymddangos at bwyso
dwi made at pawb chreaduresau,
namyn ond 'ch deipio all hymrysonfa 'r enilla

The other two looked expectantly at Ron, who was doing some rearranging on a scrap of paper. “Welsh.” He told them, not looking up. “Give me a minute to work it out.” Harry and Hermione passed the short span of time by packing up their makeshift camp. A quick sweep to make sure they didn’t forget anything, and they were back at Ron’s side. Moments later, coincidentally, he finished whatever it was he was doing.

“I run with you and I never seem to rest
I am made by all creatures,
But only your type can match the best.”

Not a one of them could figure out what it meant, beyond the obvious fact that it was a riddle. The brilliant epiphany came when Hermione declared that the answer to the riddle was probably the means to get through the wall. Harry in particular did little beyond stare at the Welsh inscription, sitting amid the grime on the floor. Hermione wanted to go talk to him, but Ron stopped her.

“Don’t. He doesn’t like to be disturbed when he gets like this.” He explained. She decided to just trust him, since the two men had known each other far longer than Hermione had.

Harry, meanwhile, was no closer to an answer than he had been an hour and a half ago. He was beginning to lose hope that the riddle was even solvable, when a rather large rat scurried down the passageway. Desperate for something else to occupy his time, Harry extended his hand towards the rodent. It, however, had other plans. Plans that did not involve entertaining melancholy wizards apparently, since it bit him soundly on the finger. He gasped in pain, and sealed the small wound quickly with his wand. However one drop had managed to leak out onto his finger and, before he could wipe it away, it fell on the stones before the wall. Both Ron and Hermione, who had been summoned by his noise, were gaping at the wall. A single, indescribably thin crack had opened on the formerly unblemished stretch of stone.

“Blood!” Hermione exclaimed excitedly. “The answer to the riddle! It’s blood!” She seemed very pleased with herself, which in itself was a miracle, so Harry neglected to tell her that he had reached that conclusion a moment or two ago. He held the tip of his wand to his palm, steeled himself, and, before his companions could voice their objections, caused a small gash to appear in the flesh. It was bleeding profusely, and he wiped it on the stone before sealing it again. This time there was no indication that he had ever been injured, except for the red smear on the wall that was rapidly being absorbed into the stone. The single crack expanded, becoming a veritable spider web criss-crossing the exposed ‘door,’ until the shards simply dropped and became a layer of dust on the floor.

Beyond it was a long passageway and, in the distance, what looked like a rather large pit. They collected the few belongings they had with them and set off. About halfway between the exit and what was, by now, unmistakeably a hole cut in the floor, Ron stopped suddenly. Harry and Hermione shot him questioning looks, to which he responded: “I feel like someone just walked on my grave.” He and Harry were rather worried about it, but Hermione rationalized that the entire situation was dangerous. Who knew what kind of fiendish traps they would encounter as they penetrated deeper into the ancient castle.

“What’s the big deal about Ron being a little nervous?” she asked Harry when they started moving again. He gave her an odd look. “I just don’t see the cause for making such a to-do about a hunch.”

Harry shrugged. “His hunches are good.” If that was answer enough for him, it was certainly not enough for her. However she never got to explore the subject further, because they had arrived at the pit. It was further across than any man could jump, and there were small holes about the diameter of a one-pound coin dotting the walls. Harry pulled another coin out of his pocket, a single Deutsche Mark, and turned to Ron. “Call it.” He requested of his friend before flipping the coin into the air. Ron declared tails, but when the coin landed it was displaying the legend of ‘1 Deutsche Mark.’ Ron hung his head, and Harry punched the air triumphantly. Hermione watched with mild amusement as the victor walked over to the pit, looked down, went rigid, and backed up. She was by his side immediately.

“What’s wrong?” she asked worriedly. There wasn’t an ounce of blood visible in his face. He was afraid, even though he tried not to show it.

He mumbled something to himself, and she leaned in to hear it. “Snakes. Why did it have to be snakes?” She looked over the edge and did indeed see that the bottom of the pit was covered with a writhing serpentine mass.

“What’s so bad about snakes?” she asked curiously. Sure they weren’t exactly cuddly, but it could have been much worse. Spiders, for instance, which could often be poisonous.

Harry continued to stare as far down the pit as he could from his angle. “Second year, had a nasty experience with a fifty-foot long snake that can kill with a look.” He stated simply. Oddly enough it explained everything, and she didn’t once feel the need to ask if he was joking. He took a deep breath and stood up. “Alright, we’ve got to get this over with. I’ll go first.” He didn’t brook any protest as he unhooked his whip and looked for a place to swing off of. The torch sconce on the wall seemed to do nicely. A flick of his arm, and he was flying through the air on the leather cord. He was so engrossed in not falling into the pit of snakes that he failed to realize precisely what those smaller holes in the wall were. Hermione shrieked a warning when she heard the unmistakeable sounds, but it was already too late. Harry’s forward momentum carried him clear to the other side where he lay, motionless, with over a dozen thin darts protruding from his side.

“Well, well, look what we have here.” An annoyingly high-pitched Welsh voice declared. Hermione spun around, but she and Ron were already securely fastened. More of the damnable magic. It seemed that Travers had caught up with them. While Hermione could not see his face, she had little doubt that he was looking very smug. “I’m so sad that we parted on such bad terms last time, so I’m going to make it up to you.” Even to Hermione’s naïve ears that sounded bad. It was confirmed when the two found themselves staring down the end of a wand. Travers’ wand. “You are going to be my guests at a little party my Lord is throwing together in your honour.” The last thing she saw was a jet of red light, then blackness.

***

When she came to she was still bound, but also gagged and sitting on the floor between her new friends. They were in the center of an enormous crowd of people, all dressed in the same robes Travers and Bellatrix had been wearing. Some were tall, some were short, some were fat, tin, male, female, an entire complement of people of all shapes and sizes and ages. They were all laughing, jeering, and pointing at the bound trio. Hermione caught the word ‘mudblood’ several times, and it didn’t sound friendly. “Enough.” The voice that echoed around the chamber caused a shiver to go down her spine. The sounds immediately stopped, and the crowd parted along a narrow path. At the far end, on a massive black throne, was the single most frightening thing Hermione Granger had ever seen. He was tall and thin, as pale of skin as anything, with a serpentine nose. There was not even a single wayward strand of hair on his head. His eyes, which were red as fresh blood, had vertical pupils like a cat. He was wearing a long, billowing black robe and fingering a foot-long shaft of yew. “Good morning, Harry Potter.”

Hermione glanced over, and Harry was looking at this man in disgust. “Hello Tom.” He replied in an even, if slightly curt voice. He was not gagged, she noticed.

Whatever it was, being called tome threw this man into a furious rage. “That name means nothing to me anymore! I am Lord Voldemort!” Hermione would have chuckled, had she not been rather effectively prevented from doing so. Voldemort, vol de mort, flight from death. The name he had obviously given himself spoke volumes about his character.

“The why do you react so strongly to it?” Harry asked innocently. While she admired his aplomb, she had to wonder I it was wise to bait someone who could kill them with barely a moment’s thought.

Voldemort took several deep, calming breaths. “I had hoped you would see reason, see that I beat you at every turn, and join me. I see now that I misjudged you.”

“Next time you’ll know better.” Ron interjected seamlessly. He wasn’t gagged either. Hermione was beginning to wonder why she was the only one unable to speak.

Voldemort’s eyes flashed dangerously, but he otherwise ignored the outburst. “Very well. Lock them up, and continue the search. We will make an example of these three when I possess the Spear.” He motioned dismissively with his hand, an a small group of robed figures picked the trio up bodily and hurried them away.

Sorry for the cliffy, but I couldn’t resist.

Got the riddles from a Google search. You’re welcome to guess the answer to the first one, but I thought it was kind of obvious.

I hope my grammar was right with the translations. I just got the from an online translator, so forgive me if my Greek and Welsh aren’t great.

5. Chapter 5

None of this is mine. Harry Potter belongs to JKR and Bloomsbury, and Indiana Jones belongs to George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, and Paramount.

Chapter 5

The amateur treasure-hunters were dropped unceremoniously into a cell in the dungeons. That in itself was proof that they had not been taken out of the castle, which was an encouraging thought. Their bonds had not been removed, nor had Hermione’s gag, and they were stripped of all equipment. She was more that mildly disgusted when one of their jailors frisked her for any concealed weapons; obviously these ‘Death Eaters’ lacked the common decency to have a female do the deed and this man, while quick and efficient about it, sent shivers of revulsion rushing down her spine. Although she could not have known it, Harry was watching her closely and the muscles in his arms relaxed only when the man had left. Her attention was instead focused on the fellow running his hands along her body, who smelt of very strong liquor; most likely bourbon. She considered herself a good judge of character, and this man was very disgusted by something. He obviously had very strong objections to touching her in any way, and this was counterbalanced by his alcohol-heightened lust. Disgusting.

But he did leave, and the door to their cell was closed and locked, and Hermione did not have the faintest clue what to do now. Harry and/or Ron probably had a plan, but she could neither ask them nor turn her body enough to see them. Not having much better to do, she fell asleep.

When she awoke, the first thing she saw was Harry’s face hovering over hers. The next thing she noticed was that the foul taste in her mouth, which had been present ever since she had been gagged, was gone. This could mean only one thing: they were getting out. The question was, how?

She fielded her query once Harry had undone her hands, and set her to work on her feet. Ron answered by glancing around the room with a chuckle. “We’ve been in rougher situations than this.” He commented with a tone of amusement in his voice. He and Harry shared a private joke about a particular pyramid they had been trapped in during their search for Tezcatlipoca’s smoking mirror. The quiet chuckle was short lived, and Ron made his way over to a corner of the cell as Hermione found herself being led in the opposite direction.

She had to ask. “What is he doing over there?” She tried to look over her shoulder, but Harry tugged her chin around gently.

“You don’t want to know.” He responded gravely, before changing to a more tasteful subject. For the next few minutes they compared notes on the various exotic locations they had been to in their line of work. As it turns out, Egypt was not the only time they had almost overlapped. For example: Harry and Ron had been staying in the same Beijing hotel during their search for Rúyì Jīngū Bàng that the Grangers had been vacationing in after failing to find kusanagi-no-tsurugi; in fact, the two rooms had been stacked exactly on top of each other. They reminisced on places they had both visited, such as the Temple of Heaven and Tiananmen Square, until Ron caught up with them holding two objects. Upon closer inspection, they were a set of lock picks.

“Do I want to know where those things came from?” She asked Harry. He shook his head, and she trusted him. Some mysteries were better left unsolved. Ron had the door open in a matter of seconds, and the trio vacated the area quickly before their jailors decided to check up on them. The main problem: none of them knew enough about the castle to know where they were. This resulted in the small ensemble wandering aimlessly through the stone corridors. After a few minutes of this, they came to an open door. Hermione, well-trained at picking up sounds that could signify potentially dangerous traps, heard the hum muttered speech from within the room, and pushed her companions against the wall before they could walk past and give away their position. She pushed a finger to her lips and edged as close to the door as she dared, or rather until she could make out words.

“Has there been any progress in getting past?” one of the voices asked. It was silky and cold, and made her blood burn; it was the man who had killed her parents.

Another voice answered, this time almost a grunt. “No sir. It won’t budge.”

There was a pause, then a sigh from the first man. “Well get back down there Goyle, and remind them of the consequences of failing the Dark Lord. He advised most strenuously that we be in possession of the Spear by the time he returns tomorrow.” Another pause, and then footsteps coming towards her. She hurried back, pushing Harry and Ron with her. A heavyset man, obviously Goyle, exited the room and lumbered down the corridor away from them.

Hermione beckoned and, thanking God that Goyle had closed the door on his way out, followed the man from a distance with her new friends in tow. Several times they had to stop and cautiously pass an opened door or lit corridor, but by some miracle of chance they were never spotted. They followed Goyle through the castle, and through the labyrinth, until he unknowingly led them to the center. In the chamber that lay at the end of the maze stood a single megalith, made of what appeared to be highly polished volcanic glass; the black surface shone under the flickering firelight emitted by the torches that lined the wall, and had an eerily mystical quality. Other than that, there were three Death Eaters standing around it. One of them was obviously Goyle. The other two had their masks off and hoods pulled back; both were male. One was an older man who looked to be around sixty or seventy, and the other was younger with a pale and twisted face. The younger one was quite irate.

“Well, if He wants the damn thing so much, He can come down here and blast this thing apart for Himself.” He protested angrily. His voice had a hoarse and metallic quality, as though he had once screamed until his throat was raw and then had never spoken again.

The elder man shot him a scathing look. “Dolohov! Do not even think these things. Do you truly want to be here, without His prize, when He returns?” he enquired of his compatriot. The man named Dolohov looked at the stone floor and shook his head sullenly. “Good boy. You had best take over for Alecto on guard duty; you need time to clear your head of these thoughts before the Dark Lord returns.” The young man, still looking at the floor, obviously agreed; he turned to the path out of the room and walked along it dejectedly.

Hermione was so engrossed in the conversation she was overhearing, and in studying the strange standing stone, that she did not notice the man coming towards her until Harry had pulled her back into the shadows. Dolohov passed them, coming so close that she could have reached out a touched him (as if she would want to), and continued on his way. They were about to vacate their hiding place when footsteps, coming from the monolith room, forced them back. Goyle and the older man had apparently furthered the conversation in Dolohov’s absence and the lumbering man was now leaving to, at best guess, report the lack of progress to the man he had been speaking to earlier.

Now they crept out of the shadows towards the lit room. By some strange fortune, the man who remained in guarding the stone had turned his back to them in order to study it. Unfortunately, with their choices of footwear, there was no way they would be able to sneak up on him on the stone floor. Ron solved this problem most admirably, selecting a palm-sized rock from the ground and flinging it with deadly precision at the man’s head; he crumpled and fell with a muffled thud. The amateur archaeologists crept forward, not wanting to alert any Death Eaters who may have entered the maze since they followed Goyle to the centre. Harry set himself about searching the fallen body for anything useful while Ron and Hermione studied the statue.

It was a positively immense structure, standing well over six feet tall. The torchlight glistened off of its polished black surface, except for one section about five and a half feet from the base. Closer inspection revealed a symbol carved into the stone, a single line coiled into three interlocking spirals. She asked Ron about it, as he seemed to be an expert on such things. “It’s a triskele,” he replied, “A Celtic fertility symbol. The three spirals represent the three domains of existence: earth, air, and water.”

Harry interrupted at this point, extending a hand to each of them. In one sat Hermione’s vest and the submachine gun she had been lent, and the other held Ron’s hat, rifle and assorted pieces of equipment. He himself was once more wearing his revolver, whip, bag, and of course his hat; the older man Ron had felled had obviously been carrying their equipment. Talk about your lucky coincidences. Ron filled him in on the triskele, and then continued his narrative, explaining about a Druidic centering ritual connected to the symbol. He waved back his two friends and began it.

Ron stood erect, facing the triskele carving, with his eyes closed and arms relaxed at his sides. He inhaled for the count of three, held for one, and exhaled for the count of three, and held for one. This was repeated three times. He inhaled, again for three counts, but this time he raised his hands to cover his heart, one on top of the other, and held for one count. As he exhaled he descended smoothly onto one knee and placed his hands on the floor in front of him, and held for one. He rose to his feet in time with the next inhalation, moving his hands as far back as he comfortably could at waist height, and cupping his hands as though he were holding liquid. As he exhaled, his arms swung around him to meet at his front at about the height of his navel. He breathed in again, moving his hands back to and slightly away from his side with the palms facing forwards and fingers spread. He exhaled, bringing his arms above him in a smooth curve until he touched the tips of his thumbs and index fingers together. He inhaled for a final time, lowering his hands to again cover his heart.

As soon as he did that, more carvings began to appear on the stone. It was a verse, and read thusly:

You shall cross the barren desert, but you shall not die of thirst. You shall wander far in safety, though you do not know the way. You shall speak your words in foreign lands and all will be understood. You shall see the face of God and live. If you pass through the raging waters in the sea, you shall not drown. If you walk amid the burning flames, you shall not be harmed. If you stand before the power of hell and death is at your side, know that I am with you through it all. Blessed are your poor, for the kingdom shall be theirs. Blest are you that weep and mourn, for one day you shall laugh. And if wicked men insult and hate you all because of Me, blessed, blessed are you! Be not afraid, I go before you always. Come, follow me, and I will give you rest.

The inscription stood for a moment, until wisps of smoke began to creep out from beneath the monolith upon which it was carved. The smoke grew, and the tendrils of fire that had begun to lick the volcanic glass grew into a raging inferno that consumed the entire stone and stretched from floor to ceiling. And there it stayed. The three friends stood and examined it for a moment. It was as wide as a door; only its edges flickered like true firelight, its body flowed like a liquid; most curious of all, it emitted no heat.

“So…” Harry commented thoughtfully, “What do we do now?” Neither of the others answered. Ron because he honestly didn’t know, and Hermione because she was mulling over the inscription that burned in her mind with all the intensity of the fire that had consumed it. She repeated it in her mind, and it was only when she reached one line that it began to make sense.

"If you walk amid the burning flames, you shall not be harmed.” She muttered to herself. Harry and Ron fixed her with questioning looks. She nodded towards the pillar of fire. “We have to walk through the fire.” She told them matter-of-factly.

There was a moment of silence. “And then what?” Ron asked.

Hermione shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m making this up as I go.” She responded wearily, before walking directly into the centre of the flames. If either Harry or Ron were expecting some kind of ceremony, a flaring of the inferno perhaps, or a scream of pain, or even a rustling of wind, they were both disappointed; Hermione vanished instantly, completely, and without warning into the mysterious pillar of fire.

Ron and Harry glanced at each other, shrugged, and followed.

So there it is. A nice little Raiders reference, if you caught it.

The verse is from the Bible, Joshua 1:9. I got it from Wikiquote, and have been unable to find the version it belongs to. MSG is the closest, but nothing exact.

6. Chapter 6

As usual, none of this belongs to me. Original idea still belongs to LeoLupin.

Chapter 6

As expected, there was no pain. The sensation could best be described as one of profound emptiness. Hermione examined her surroundings, sensing rather than seeing the millions of lights winking on and off at her. Out of curiosity, she stretched her perceptions out to a small group of them. What she saw was indescribable. Each light was, in fact, a sort of window; a window into another country, or another time. In one, she caught a glance of a half-finished stone pyramidal structure in the desert, in another massive dinosaurs ripped trees down.

Something caught her eye, figuratively speaking. She turned to it, and perceived an empty blackness. But was it truly empty? Closer inspection revealed that the space was comprised on many of those windows, rotating rapidly around a focal point. A strange feeling erupted within her; one of intense euphoria. She felt herself blink, and in that momentary loss of eye contact the scene had changed. She was now standing in a long stone room, filled with gold, silver, and jewels. She whirled around, and saw only a patch of wall of a slightly lighter shade than the rest. She turned back to the room, and jumped a clear foot in the air when a hand came to rest on her shoulder. “Holy shit.” She heard Ron breathe behind her. She extricated herself from the hand, Harry’s, to take a closer look at the riches.

“As I expected,” She noted with distaste. “A Nazi vault.” Precious heirlooms, gilded menorahs, silver rings inscribed with Hebrew characters; all marks of the brutal and oppressive politics of 1940’s Germany. She turned to the boys; Harry was glancing around with an expression of mild disgust, and Ron was curiously flipping through a copy of the Torah. “If it’s anywhere in Germany, it’s here.”

The trio scattered, sifting through the mountains of confiscated treasures to find a single weapon. After several minutes of fruitless searching, Harry and Hermione met up in the middle of a stack of Synagogue relics. Harry straightened up quite suddenly, dropping a large lamp on the pile. “We’ll never find the damn thing; it’s like searching for a needle in a thousand haystacks.”

Hermione stood as well, laying a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It felt odd to be doing this to him, the one who was always so confident and self-assured. “We’ll find it; even if we have to tear this chamber apart brick by brick.” He turned to her, and she felt herself drawn irresistibly towards him; towards his eyes, his lips. Scruffy or no, he was a very attractive man. But there was more to it than that. There was…she didn’t know how to explain it. He began to lean towards her as well; she felt her eyes close involuntarily; her head tilt ever-so-slightly. And then…

“Guys! I found it!” Ron’s voice from the other side of the chamber completely spoiled the moment. Hermione was at the point of throwing something large and heavy at him, until her brain processed his exclamation.

“He found it!” She cried excitedly to Harry, and ran off in the direction of the voice. It came from the very end of the hall, through a narrow doorway. Hermione was so excited that she didn’t notice the thick grooves cut into the stone within that doorway. But as soon as she passed it, she stopped dead.

Beyond the opening was a small room, no larger than ten meters square. In the center, on a raised pedestal, was a large spear, two meters long, with a darkish red stain capping the shank, illuminated by a narrow shaft of light from the ceiling. Opposite the only exit, the benevolent face of Jesus Christ looked down on the spear from a wooden crucifix. Hermione briefly noticed that one arm of the crucifix had splintered and was hanging from the remainder, but the bulk of her attention was focused on the pedestal and the object lying thereupon. There was only one thing it could possibly be.

“The Lance of Longinus.” Harry breathed, making Hermione jump again. That man had a lot to learn about not sneaking up on people.

Hermione’s ire was quickly forgotten, however, when Ron took a step towards the spear. Her hand immediately shot out and grabbed his arm, causing him to turn towards her. “What is it?” He asked her, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

This sentiment did little to assuage her. “That’s what scares me.” She retorted, pulling him back forcefully. Forcing the two males back, Hermione set about demonstrating exactly why she had been recommended for the mission. Every inch of the room was analyzed, and every step calculated so as not to set off any hidden traps. The only things not physically touched were the most obvious choices for booby traps: the wooden crucifix and the spear itself. The only things turned up by her search were small holes cut near the top of the walls and an inscription on the pedestal reading “Iterum ergo locutus est eis Iesus dicens ego sum lux mundi qui sequitur me non abulabit in tenebris sed habebit lucem vitae,” translated from Latin by Ron into “Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.” She had no idea why this particular Bible verse had been chosen, but as far as she knew the room was clean. She made to life the spear, but Harry’s voiced stopped her.

“Get back here; we’ll lift it up with magic, just to be sure.” Magic, the newest factor in the equation. And, coincidentally, the one she kept forgetting about. Regardless, she retreated outside the room and permitted Harry to cause the two thousand year-old weapon to float several centimetres above its base. Nothing happened, beyond the spear floating in mid-air. It faintly amused Hermione that she was not fazed by a Legionnaire’s weapon hovering of its own accord, a sight that would have once had her running away screaming.

Hermione’s personal reactions aside, the fact is that absolutely nothing happened by raising the spear from its pedestal. Emboldened by that, the trio cautiously re-entered the room and Hermione deftly plucked the spear out of the air.

That time, something did happen. Several somethings, as a matter of fact. First, two immense stone slabs slid together from the grooves Hermione had failed to notice earlier, effectively blocking their escape. Second, sand began to pour out of the small holes Hermione had succeeded in noticing earlier. Third and finally the sand, having no outlets, began to accumulate around their feet. And the level was quickly rising.

“Suffocated by sand; lovely,” Ron commented. He was ignored.

“Any bright ideas?” Harry asked Hermione, a sarcastic edge to his voice.

She shot him a look that would have killed most men. “I’m working on it, I’m working on it.”

“Well whatever you’re doing, do it faster.” He was not helping, and the sand had just passed their kneecaps.

The Hermione’s eyes happened upon the inscription. The words Ron had translated flooded back to her: He that followeth me shall not be left in darkness. She thrust the spear into Ron’s hands, and began wading towards the crucifix. “Hermione, I don’t want to alarm you but we are rapidly running out of room.” She ignored the words, not even registering who had spoken them, but she could not ignore the fact that the sand was somewhere about her mid-torso.

She reached the crucifix, and the brilliant light that had guided her to it shut off. What in the hell was she supposed to do with a broken crucifix? “Hermione!” She ignored the voice. The sand was at her upper chest. How could this wooden carving save them? Then she remembered being in Iran, a long time ago, and being trapped in a treasure chamber while searching for the Cup of Jamshid. She remembered her father pulling on something on the wall, and talking to her later about fulcrum release levers.

Her reverie was interrupted by another pesky voice. “Hermione, we are going to die!” And it was true; in her reminiscing she had failed to notice that the sand was rising up her neck. With a great effort she lifter her arms from the rising sand and pushed upwards on the broken arm of the crucifix. It crept upwards a few millimetres with agonizing slowness, then snapped the rest of the way into place. The room echoed with the sounds of primitive gears turning, and the entire back wall of the chamber swung open.

Almost 150 cubic meters of and material is inevitably going to take the path of least resistance, and in that case that happened to be through the newly-created hole. The miniature tidal wave carried its passengers with it a short distance, until depositing them unceremoniously on the dirt floor of a tunnel. Two of the trio got up, brushed themselves off, and surveyed their surroundings.

“Good job,” Ron praised offhandedly. “I thought we were goners.” Hermione accepted the compliment silently, still not quite used to brushes with death. Ron glanced down the tunnel. “I wonder where that goes.”

Harry swiped his hat against his pants, dislodging the accumulated sand on both, before replacing it on his head. He outstretched a hand to Hermione, and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s find out.”

Sorry for the long wait, life has been hell and my muse deserted me.

Bible verse is legit, of course; John 8:12. Likewise the Cup of Jamshid is real, or as real as a mythological object can get. In Persian mythology, it was filled with an elixir of immortality and the whole world could be seen in it.