Summer in the Sahara

Standard Disclaimer:  This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J.K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to: Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, and Raincoast Books, and Warner Brothers, Inc.  No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Authors' Note: Thanks to all of you who have already reviewed and read the first instalments of Summer in the Sahara. Your comments were much appreciated. For those of you who are not sure what to make of Leslie and Jon, let us say a few words: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

This is, absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, a Harry/Hermione fan fiction. Yes, we realize that people adore H/Hr and love reading about them (I ,The Heir Of Paravel, am the one, afterall, who gave you 30 plus chapters of H/Hr in Summer in Cornwall).

So, we have a request. Be patient. Who and what Leslie and Jon are, and why they appear to be receiving so much attention at the beginning of this story, will all be revealed in good time.

In the meantime, we both hope that you enjoy getting to know them and that you will have faith in us, the authors of Summer in Sahara, to offer you lots of time with Harry and Hermione in the many, many chapters to come.

Once again, thank you for reading and reviewing.

Chapter Two - The Dark One

The desert night was still, the air hung heavy and low - stars obscured by a haze of clouds. The Fire Eaters were returning. A figure, clad not in wizard's robes, but in true Bedouin fashion, leaned against the sill of an upper window, deep in reflection. What news would they bring him tonight?

His orders had remained the same for many months now. In addition to maintaining the security of his territories, the Fire Eaters were to bring him any papers, scraps of parchment, anything that might contain bits of information about the outside world. Usually, the tattered pages were meaningless, only rarely did they ever stumble on what he really wanted - hints of the wizarding world beyond his own. Information that could lead him to the glory and power he desperately craved - power that he had craved since his miserable youth.

Born into poverty and deserted in his childhood by muggle parents, Dante roamed the streets of Morocco, prey to dark forces that lurk in the abandoned corners of the world. Begging and stealing were his only means of survival. Briefly, the nuns had taken him in, had tried to teach him of their singular god. But the other children had been cruel to the ignorant boy from the streets. They tormented and bullied him. One afternoon found Dante cornered in an alleyway near the crumbling catholic school by three of his classmates. There was no escape for the wily Dante this time. He was trapped and knew it. They were going to beat him senseless - he was sure of it. In his fear and anger, the unfocused magic ripped from his undernourished frame like a white hot flame. His attackers fell to their knees, gasping for breath, eyes bulging in terror. The magic was strangling them. Dante watched in satisfaction as one by one, they expired. Far from being horrified at what he had done, Dante was thrilled, enchanted by the mysterious power that had plainly come from somewhere deep inside him.

From a rooftop above, a Bedouin wizard had watched the scene in the alleyway play out with interest. He recognized immediately what the boy had done - what the boy was. And so he sought him in the streets. In a low whisper, he said to Dante, “I know what you are, even if you do not
” Dante was fascinated, enthralled by the tales the wizard told him - tales of magic and spells, tales of prophecy and destiny. Dante never returned to the catholic school. He became, instead, apprentice to the Bedouin wizard - a wizard who was skilled but cruel. Dante and his master drifted westward across the Sahara from Tangiers to Oran, from Algiers to Tunis and Tripoli. And all the while, Dante was honing his abilities. Exploring the magic within him and using it with frightening regularity to enhance the life of his master, and his own.

Dante listened each night at the fireside of Bedouin brothers to tales of the ancient legends, of the old magic and the old ways. What he liked best were stories of the Pharaohs with their powerful elixirs and incomprehensible treasures. He wanted to see Egypt, and in time he did. He saw Rameses' great temple, the Valley of the Kings, and the Pyramids. Standing alone in their chambers, a torch held high overhead, he traced with his fingers the hieroglyphics - the stories of the priests with their mysterious powers and cruel rituals. He marvelled. He memorized. The sublime beauty of the enshrined pharaohs only underscored in him the need for wealth and power.

For Dante would not always have a master. He would grow tired of the old man's wheezing waffle and impatient with the endless retelling of past glory. He, Dante, had the courage to create a new glory of his own. He would not huddle in rags before pathetic takings. He, Dante, would seek the power fate had surely destined for him. And so Dante sought his own way - a way was increasingly savage. He gloried in the power he had over other men, the power to take their lives. Dante perfected the Dark ritual magic of the region - reviving the Fire Eaters after they had lain dormant for centuries. He was growing in strength and power. But absolute power still eluded him.

Throughout the Sahara, the inner secrets of the ancient temples were still protected by curses and enchantments. Some he easily overcame, plundering the objects within. Others remained firmly fixed against him. He pounded his fist in frustration against the windowsill and began to pace the room. It was an obscenity to him that Dante, the Dark One as he now styled himself, a true son of the desert, could not breech these sanctuaries, while European wizards did it with apparent ease.

So guileless were these European wizards. One by one, he began to ensnare them - to torture the secrets from them and force them to do his bidding. There had been twelve in all so far. Some had died from the unremitting pain, others simply went mad. A few still struggled in the fortress dungeons.

A door creaked open behind him. A Fire Eater crept forward with the scrap of parchment taken off of the Tuareg leader. Dante seized it, his eyes darting hungrily across the page. “Ahh, yes” he hissed softly, a hideous grin splitting his face. It was a page from The Oracle. There was a photo of a long-haired European wizard outside one of the Pyramids at Giza. The caption read, “Gringott's Curse-Breaker Unlocks Treasure Within
”

Returning the scrap Fire Eater's filthy hands he barked. “Bring this one to me” Wordless, the monstrosity swept from the room. “Perhaps this guest will be the one” Dante thought to himself, “Perhaps he shall have the honour of laying all the secrets of Heliopolis at my feet.” Maniacal laughter rang through the Chamber. In Cairo, Bill Weasley shuddered briefly as a strange chill passed over him then vanished as quickly as it had come.

The houseguests at Paravel passed a carefree day. Harry luxuriated in the company of family and friends, the peace of the Cornish coast, and in Hermione's loving gaze. Their love was still a miracle to him; forged in the trials that were Voldemort, it burned even more brightly in the absence of his particular evil. Harry and Hermione remained intimately, deeply connected - a connection that was becoming more complete with each passing month. Their powers as a sorcerer and sorceress were continually cultivated under Dumbledore's watchful eye. Arabella was having a hard time thinking of them as individuals anymore. They had ceased to be plural and were becoming a singular, unstoppable entity.

The sense of unity the hung around Harry and Hermione was almost tangible - as though “oneness” was something that could be seen and touched. “Ageless, timeless” Leslie had thought to herself as she watched them playing in the surf. “Yes,” she thought with a laugh, “actually playing.” It did her heart good to see them so entirely free of worry and care; to see them so still so obviously fascinated with each even though they had been engaged for months.

Not unnaturally, her thoughts turned to Jon and to the future of their relationship. His electing, “No, insisting” she thought to herself, that he was going with her to the Sahara had stunned and moved her - a testimony to his devotion. She smiled, thinking for the millionth time how lucky she was to have met him, to have fallen in love with him and to have that love miraculously returned. But had it really been luck? In quiet reflection, Leslie considered the workings of fate and the surprising depth of their connection. This was no casual romance or heady affair, burning out after only few months of dating. At some level, she recognized that their relationship was a calling, a destiny to be embraced.

From the time she first met him - a skinny, wide-eyed eleven year old on the Hogwart's express, to the night of the Yule Ball in their seventh year when, tall and dark, he had swept her off her feet, she had always felt unusually close to Jon and remarkably comfortable in his presence - as though she'd known him all her life. When the easy friendship turned to romance in their seventh year it had seemed the most natural thing in the world, but the speed at which they bonded took them both by surprise. Within days of their first real date (the Yule Ball), Leslie knew that she loved him. She waited weeks to tell him, but that didn't change the fact that her feelings for him had crystallized almost instantaneously.

Their bond had a mystical quality about it. Even without the aid of the Cadeau Du Mer, Jon could project his thoughts to Leslie, and from time to time, receive hers. Leslie's unusual empathic abilities enabled her to sense in him a wellspring of ability and power that was at times difficult to fathom - and even harder to control. In times of crisis - in moments of intense emotion, his true powers bubbled to the surface, threatening to overwhelm him. In one such moment, they made an amazing discovery - by drawing on Leslie's powers, Jon could control his own and empower her as well. It was almost cliché - their whole was greater than the sum of their parts.

Their closeness, their telepathy, their shared powers were dots, waiting to be connected. Upon closer reflection, Leslie realized that there had been lots of these dots, all driving her toward an inescapable conclusion. She recalled the instance when she had been with Jon in Diagon Alley and a seemingly ancient witch - a medium, had left her tea leaves and tarot cards to embrace Jon saying over and over in a sort of wild detached voice, “You found her, again
you found her
now, things will come right.” She recalled, too, the odd sensation she'd experienced when the aged psychic had taken her (Leslie's) hand and placed it firmly in Jon's before strolling away, cackling madly to herself.

Perhaps the most compelling evidence of their connection was the dream. Jon had been haunted by a nightmare, the same one without fail since he turned fifteen. After the night of the Yule Ball, Leslie found herself tormented nightly by the same dream - an unwilling participant. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to re-experience it:

She watches Jon standing in ruined temple in the dead of night. She sees herself at his side. There is no moon. Stars shine overhead, providing the only light to guide them on - guide them forward. Once there had been light - the light from a thousand suns, but no more.

They reach the altar, shattered now, but magnificent in its day. At their feet are the broken pieces of a tablet. The tablet they have come to find. Picking up a piece of the ancient object, they trace name after name after name after name with their fingers. Hundreds of names, and places and hours and days all enumerated, once coordinated, lie hewn and separated leaving their world spinning wildly out of control. Life - happening at random was a horror


A flutter of wings recalled Leslie from her thoughts. A shadow whizzed suddenly across the beach towel where she had been reading. Leslie looked up, squinting against the sun to see Pigwidgeon, Ron Weasley's owl, circling frantically overhead. Pig managed to elude nearly everyone on the beach before finally settling on Harry's arm, twittering madly.

Hermione held the tiny owl still while Harry detached the message from Ron. Unfolding the letter, Harry quickly scanned it, and then swore.

“What is it Harry?” Hermione asked, immediately concerned. In a strained voice, Harry said. “Bill Weasley's disappeared - somewhere in Egypt.”