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. The only things owned by the authors, Leslie Parsons and Jonathan Clift, are the plot and character’s not previously mentioned in the official Harry Potter books. If you wish to use plot devices or borrow characters, please ask for permission: the worst we can do is say “no”.

Authors’ note: Thank you for all your kind comments and helpful reviews of the preceding chapters of Summer in the Sahara.They are deeply appreciated.We hope you continue to review and enjoy not only this story, but the other components of the Deeper Magic Series as well.The other components include Harry Potter and the Prophecy of the Phoenix by Prophet of the Phoenix, as well as Summer in Cornwall and We Fools Who Love by the Heir of Paravel.

For those of you have been troubled/concerned by the series of events presented in the Epilogue(s) to Summer in Cornwall and their relationship to this story, we’d like to explain. Summer in the Sahara takes place in the summer immediately following Summer in Cornwall – before Harry and Hermione have graduated and before they have married.

For those of you who have asked about Harry and Hermione’s children (mentioned in the Epilogues of Summer in Cornwall), they will have their own story.It’s called The Children of Godric’s Hollow and has not yet been fully written – as soon as we feel it’s ready, you’ll know about it.

Last but not least, for those of you who would prefer a bit more of H/Hr and a bit less of other characters, we understand, we really do.They are a great couple.One of the great things about them is that they run around with great people – people we want you to meet.Thanks for your patience and for keeping an open mind where and whenever possible.

Thank you again for your continued readership!

~*~

Chapter Seven – Flowers in the Desert

In Morocco…

The glittering formal dining room at the Ministry of Magic’s Embassy in Morocco was a stage, waiting for the evening’s drama to unfold. The largest and longest dining table outside of Europe was set for the one hundred and forty-four guests expected that evening. Goblets sparkled beside gold place settings; flowers welled from vases, running along yards of snow-white linen tablecloth. Native footman in white gloves stood behind each and every one of the heavy ornate chairs. Ambassador Clift surveyed the room, pleased with the splendour of it all. The room, the table, the menu, exactly suited the tastes of the French Ambassador. It would put him at ease and serve as a sign of good will. She needed him in the best of humour if she was going to convince him to help her look for a spy.

In the glorious entrance hall, diplomats and guests alike were gathering. The sound of their voices as they mixed and mingled echoed across polished marble floors and rebounded from the painted frescos that adorned the candle lit ceiling soaring high above them. These period details, this baroque finery, were lost on Alias Swift and Jack Ryan as surveyed they chamber from opposite sides. Reminiscent of highly alert watchdogs, they prowled, unsmiling among the guests, ever watchful for even the smallest sign of treachery.

Remus Lupin swept into the entrance hall with time to spare before the imminent dinner. His eye fell at once upon Brad Danner, who was deep in conversation with one of the French diplomats. In the absence of the curse of lycanthropy, Remus Lupin, was on the whole, spectacularly good looking, and dressed tonight as he was in wizard finery, his appearance might easily have drawn the attention of those around him, save for his quiet manner. Remus had a special talent for gliding unnoticed among the masses – an ability acquired during those painful years as a werewolf when he yearned for solitude and peace among the crowded halls at Hogwarts. So it was with ease that he slipped strategically into place behind Brad Danner in order to better hear his conversation with the wizard from France.

Danner and the French diplomat apparently knew each other; they spoke of common acquaintances and of relics Brad Danner had evidently retrieved from far flung corners of the world on behalf of the French government. “So,” Remus mused quietly, “he has worked for other countries.” As the conversation continued, Remus was gratified to hear (or rather not hear) any mention of Danner’s real reasons for being in Morocco. The Dark One’s name was never mentioned. But that, in and of itself, struck Remus as odd. The Dark One was mentioned on the front page of nearly every paper in the region. Danner had indicated that he was going into the desert to take up some long standing archaeological research, but never mentioned even as an aside the fact that wizards had been disappearing from the very region he intended to work in.  Even more curious was the response of the diplomat who might, in his official capacity, have warned Danner of the potential dangers posed by the Dark One. Yet he completely failed to do so. It was as if they had agreed before hand to avoid the topic – an idea that Remus found telling.

As he listened to Danner and the French diplomat, Remus’s eyes swept the room. It was an eclectic group -.  Europeans in wizard and muggle dress, various and sundry representatives of the various North African cultures in native attire, and resplendent among them, in white Bedouin robes, was Pascal. He moved through the crowd smiling and nodding, but with an aloofness that reminded Remus forcibly of a desert chieftain about to address a tribal council.  Remus checked his watch then scanned the crowd for Jon and Leslie. He was torn between concern for their safety and amusement at the probably reason for their delayed arrival. As the hour for the dinner grew near, Remus was on the point of going to find them when he saw them slip discreetly through a side door and into the glittering throng.

The irrepressible smiles, shining eyes and flushed cheeks were proof enough for Remus that dementors, hinkypunks, or boggarts had not, in fact, delayed Jon and Leslie. Remus made his way through the crowded room toward them.

“You look lovely, Leslie,” he said with a courteous half bow.

“Thank you,” she said, the flush on her cheeks deepening as she fidgeted with her elbow length white gloves.

In a tone reminiscent of the one he used to take with James and Sirius in their misbegotten youth, Remus said wryly to Jon, “You’re looking splendid yourself. That’s a particularly nice shade on you.” Remus winked and gestured to the trace of lipstick that remained on one of Jon’s cheeks.   He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Jon, who, in a flash of insight, wiped away the ghost of a kiss that had lingered to betray him. Remus raised an eyebrow, clearly wondering if Jon was going to offer comment. Fortunately for Jon, the ringing of a gong saved him.

An embassy official was ring a small gong outside a pair of arched double doors, opposite from the doors leading into the dining room. A hush rippled through the room as the doors were thrown wide. The embassy official, whose voice had been magically amplified, announced, “Her Excellency, Ambassador Julia Clift.” All heads turned as she appeared in the doorway, smiling serenely and giving a slight nod in the direction of Jon, Leslie, and Remus.

She wore an exquisite beaded gown with a sash bearing the Ministry of Magic crest, seal, and emblem. Pinned to the sash, as well, were the ribbons and medals signifying her membership in the Order of Merlyn and her former service on the Wizengamot. Ambassador Clift (for it was impossible to think of her as “Jules” at this moment) was also wearing elbow length white gloves, over which a triple-strand pearl bracelet shone softly – a perfect match to the ropes of pearls at her neck.

Jon’s face shone with pride - Remus’s with something else. Leslie shivered as a powerful premonition filled her vision. Leaning of to Jon, she whispered quietly in his ear, “She’ll be the Minister of Magic one day.”

Jon smiled and nodded, knowingly, as Ambassador Clift cleared her throat to make an announcement.

“Good evening witches, wizards, ladies, and gentleman. Thank you for joining me in paying tribute to our honoured guest, His Excellency, Ambassador Aurelien De Tournet of France.” A polite pattering of applause called the French Ambassador to the double doors through which Jules had appeared. But at the sight of him, the applause died a sudden death to be replaced by gasps. It was, however, not the Ambassador that produced this singular effect, rather the woman on his arm.

“Woman,” is a pathetically inadequate term to describe the apparition that was floating at Ambassador’s De Tournet’s elbow. A sheet of silvery blonde hair fell like a curtain to the middle of her back. Her dress robes clung to her like pearly mist, revealing a perfectly formed figure. Her eyes, haughty as ever, regarded the crowd coolly.

“Fleur! Fleur Delacour!” Leslie hissed under her breath to Jon and Remus (as if they needed to be told) - as if a Tri-Wizard contestant who also happened to be part Veela were easily forgotten.

Heads turned as Ambassador Clift, Ambassador De Tournet and his attractive companion parted the sea of guests filling the entrance hall. They swept, as one, through the gothic archway into the dining room. Once the dignitaries were seated, footmen directed guests to their places.

Ambassador Clift sat at one end of the immense dining room table. Ambassador De Tournet was seated in state at the opposing end. On De Tournet’s right, (a signal to all of her importance to him) was Fleur Delacour looking feline as ever.

Remus, Leslie and Jon were eyeing the place cards to discover the location of their own seats when a footman conducted them to the head of the table.  Remus Lupin was surprised to discover that he was being seated on Jules’ right. At first he protested mildly.

~*~

Remus resisted, reluctant to take a position of honour. Didn’t he know? Didn’t he yet understand that he was far nobler than any of the stuffed shirts surrounding Ambassador Clift’s expansive table?

Anxious not to offend his hostess, Remus eventually took his seat. She noted with maternal happiness and secret satisfaction the appraising looks that Julia Clift was occasionally giving him as he engaged those around him in conversation. Equally interesting were the sidelong glances he kept stealing at her.

He hadn’t looked at anyone like that in years. But then, for years, he hadn’t allowed himself to even consider the possibility of romance. He had been a werewolf – outcast by society, unable to keep a job. And in a way, he had thought that all for the best. He had secretly loved Lily Potter for years, but never told her…never told anyone. Being a werewolf gave him the perfect excuse for not dating. But the truth was, he wouldn’t have dated anyway. He loved Lily and she had been taken. She loved his best friend. And Remus, being the saint that he was, kept his feelings to himself. “Or nearly to himself,” she thought with a bittersweet smile. She remembered watching him play the piano for Lily, remembered the moment when she had realised the depth of his feeling for her. She never told him she knew, and if Lily guessed, she never said anything.

She sighed, expelling the ghosts of the past forcibly from her thoughts. Lily was gone and Remus was no longer a werewolf. Free of the damnable curse, he was now poised to experience the kind of life she had always wanted for him – free to live, not just to exist. His time had come at last, and she was thrilled for him. The world was his, and nothing would stand in his way.

Courses came and went; conversation flowed freely as did the wine. Remus was totally at ease, totally unprepared and unsuspecting – completely caught off guard by the native server with the mad gleam in his eye and the curved knife in his hand. She screamed his name, but no sound came out. She screamed and screamed again. Remus never even had time to draw his wand. In a swift movement, the rogue server plunged the knife into the crisp white dinner shirt Madam Malkin had tailored especially for Remus months earlier.

Jon Clift was on his feet in an instant, stunning the server before he could land a second blow, but it didn’t matter. It was too late. Remus stared at his own chest - noting with horrified fascination that the knife was still buried, hilt deep through his heart – marvelling that it didn’t seem to hurt at all - watching as the scarlet stain spread across his robes and welled onto the snow-white table. Ambassador Clift was screaming now. Her face would be the last thing he ever saw. As the mists closed around him, his features went slack and still. He slumped forward onto the table as Julia Clift wept bitterly over his body.

“NO!” Arabella screamed “No…no…it can’t be…Remus!” Catherine Granger heard her mother’s cries of distress and flew to her room. In the midst of satin sheets, Arabella Figg was struggling and weeping. Catherine shook her gently awake.

“Mother! Mother, wake up.” The words sank in slowly as Arabella fought her way back to consciousness. Her eyes were wide with terror.

“Albus,” she half-sobbed, half spoke, “I need Albus.”

In the Headmaster’s Office, Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…

The solid oak door, glowing faintly with the patina of age, swung easily on its hinges, clicking softly closed behind Solaris Clift as he departed the Headmaster’s Office. Dumbledore allowed himself a small sigh before returning to the cavernous depths of his beloved chambers with its delicate instruments humming and whirling on spindle-legged tables, its treasured volumes of spell books, and rather famous collection of portraits of former Hogwarts’ Headmasters. It had been a long night. Solaris had been understandably upset to learn that both his son and daughter were in a position to encounter a formidable dark wizard. Solaris was equally (if not more) disturbed by the idea that Jon might stumble across a key to mysteries of his past (and future) in the desert.

Dumbledore did what he had always done. He allowed Solaris to vent his frustration and anger, and then calmly, rationally, offered him an alternative point of view. In the end, Solaris was no less happy, but had accepted the situation for what it was. He would, of course, be joining his children to guard and protect them, and to reinforce the warnings he had just issued via Moses, his Phoenix.

Dumbledore surveyed the remaining two Phoenix perched in his eclectic office. Fawkes, his own faithful companion was gazing, regal as always, at his master. The second Phoenix, however, was restless and agitated. The only female Phoenix in the world, Helen belonged to Leslie and had been entrusted to Dumbledore’s care whilst Leslie joined members of the Order in their search for Bill Weasley.

Helen ruffled her feathers anxiously and appeared to be fretting, not at all typical of the dignified birds.  Dumbledore regarded her with a blue-eyed stare.  “Wanted to go with him, didn’t you?” he said softly, alluding to Moses who had just been dispatched to Morocco.  In answer, Helen, crooned a single bittersweet note. Dumbledore smiled absently and stroked her head, understanding fully her desire to remain with Moses and to be reunited with Leslie in Morocco.

Still musing over the nature of these remarkable birds, Dumbledore found himself suddenly anxious - filled with an unnamed dread.  A single word, a single thought echoed within his mind, becoming clearer with each passing inch of time. “Arabella”.

The aging headmaster, unbeknownst to many, had a significant emotional connection to Hermione’s grandmother, Arabella Figg.  Its depth and history were highly personal and extremely powerful.    She was never far from his thoughts and in times of extreme emotion, he could feel her presence almost tangibly in his mind.  Now…he sensed her distress, her urgent need to see him, to speak to him. 

Much as members of the Order of the Phoenix had their own secret and highly reliable methods for communication with each other, so too, did Arabella and Dumbledore.  He was just about to invoke their particular means of communication when Arabella’s daughter, Catherine Granger, did so herself. 

“Professor Dumbledore” her voice was faint, but in its urgency confirmed for him that indeed something was amiss at Paravel, “please, can you come right away? It’s mother.”  His eyes swept his office swiftly, preparing to depart.  Thinking it unwise to leave the agitated Helen on her own, and with his legendary foresight, Dumbledore tucked Helen under his arm and apparated to Paravel.

So great was his concern for Arabella that matters of simple decorum fell by the wayside.  Dumbledore appeared with a faint “pop” at her bedside, taking Catherine Granger completely by surprise – but not Arabella, for she had sensed him coming.

Taking Arabella’s trembling hands in his own he said, his voice full of concern, “What is it my dear?”  Catherine Granger took an involuntary step backward.  The aura of the bond between them was palpable, powerful and…private.  Slipping silently from the room, Catherine went in search of Arabella’s faithful butler, Hopkins, knowing that in all likelihood tea would be wanted and soon.

Arabella waited until Catherine had closed the bedroom door before she began to speak, but then in hushed tones recounted for Dumbledore the nightmare, the vivid images of Remus’s life being taken.  She knew with perfect certainty that what she had witnessed had been more than a nightmare it had been a shadow of the future. 

“I believe you.  I believe you,” he said in a manner that was simultaneously reassuring and horrifying.  Arabella was relieved and gratified that he had come, that he believed her, but terrified for Remus, desperate to alter the reflections of the future she had seen for him.

“We must warn him” she said, her throat tight, her tone urgent.  Dumbledore merely nodded. Looking into his gently lined face, she took comfort from the resolution she saw there, and from his purposeful stride as he advanced to the small writing desk in the nook by the window.

The scratching of quill on parchment was the only sound in the room.  Arabella didn’t breath, didn’t move while he wrote.  Deftly folding his completed, if cryptic, warning, Dumbledore gestured for Helen who flew to him immediately.  “Take this to Remus Lupin, please Helen.  It is a matter of some urgency.”  Helen remained motionless while Dumbledore affixed the roll of parchment.  When he had finished, he retreated to Arabella’s side.  In a flash of fire, Helen was gone, leaving behind a single scarlet feather, and two soul mates in an emotional embrace.

In Morocco…

Moses swept silently out of heavens blacker than burnt velvet, eyeing the North African coast. The night was still and dark. Below him, tiny villages and towns were strung like the gems along a twinkling necklace of shoreline. Intuitively he wheeled away from the sea, soaring inland across seemingly infinite stretches of sand to the dusky city that was his destination.

As Moses approached the bounds of Morocco, a blinding flare of radiance rent the air in front of him. He veered sharply to avoid colliding with the fireball that had materialized in his in course.  Circling high above the unforeseen inferno, he watched intently as Helen emerged from the blaze. Smaller than Moses and with a decided bent for mischief; the only female Phoenix in the world had just rejoined her mate. She spied him immediately, soaring aloft to greet him with a soft cry and a playful snatch at the top of his regal head.

The supremely elegant and completely dignified Moses looped her easily, returning her greeting with a haunting note of his own before leading her to the Ministry of Magic Embassy.  By common consent, Moses entered first, gliding silently across a marble terrace and through the open doors to the ballroom.   Everywhere, couples were whirling and swaying to the long-forgotten melodies of another time…to waltzes that would have seemed out-of-place anywhere except in the glorious setting that was this chamber.   From amongst this ocean of swirling colour, Moses honed in on the intended recipient of the letter clutched in his talons.  Ancient instincts, keen eyesight and undying loyalty led the magnificent bird directly to Jon Clift, who as if sensing Moses’ approach, had stopped dancing and had turned in the direction of the open doorway. As Moses plunged among the dancers to light on one of Jon’s tuxedo-clad arms, gasps filled the room.

It was not that phoenixes were totally unknown, but they were exceedingly rare and unimaginably beautiful.  That a family might keep one as a pet was not unheard-of, but that it could be dispatched with messages was a surprising to say the least. Phoenixes, after all, are not tame birds.  The sight of Moses enthralled nearly all the assembled guests, but a few turned away, unable to bear the sight of something so pure.

In fact, something of Moses’ own light seemed to be reflected in the faces of those surrounding him, a phenomenon that made one face in particular stand out in distinct contrast to those around it. 

Fleur Delacour had been dancing with Professor Danner when Moses swooped past.  Brad Danner felt her shudder, felt her recoil in horror.  For a spit second, her cool facade slipped and she muttered before she could stop herself, “Oh zat ‘oreeble bird!”  Looking at Jon she added, “‘ow can he stand to touch it? It looks so cruel…so vicious!” Brad Danner raised an inquisitive eyebrow and was about to comment when a second scarlet and gold form hurtled past.

Singing gaily as she flew, Helen had entered the ballroom as well, completely disrupting the few couples that had returned to the gleaming dance floor in the wake of Moses’ arrival.  Leslie watched with amusement as Helen careened dramatically among the dancers.  It did not escape Jon or Leslie’s notice that as Helen brushed by Fleur and Professor Danner, the former tri-wizard champion looked positively ill.  The face that had darkened at the sight of one Phoenix was now creased with worry and tinged with green at the sight of a second and the sound of its song.   Simultaneously, Jon and Leslie experienced a flash of rapport – “Did you see that?” echoed loudly in the forefront of each of their minds. To Leslie’s further surprise, Helen sailed past her, past Jon, and even past Moses in a graceful arc that took her directly to Remus Lupin, who, like Jon, extended an elegantly clad arm to receive the Phoenix and her alarming message from Dumbledore.

In the Eastern Sahara…

“Miss Granger, your Patronus is fading.”

Sirius glanced sharply at the fading form.  “Suggestions?” he barked.

“The Firebird,” said Harry, instantly, “the real Firebird.”

“No! Harry, you can’t.” Hermione said a quavering note in her voice.  “Dumbledore said you mustn’t.”

“Not mustn’t, Hermione, shouldn’t, unless there were compelling reasons.”  Harry looked into her pleading eyes, and then glanced at the Fire Eaters who were becoming bolder now that the Patronus was fading. “I see seven very compelling reasons right there.  Besides, you can call me back…you did it before, and you’re even stronger now, more accomplished than you were then.”

Her throat was too tight for speech.  She shook her head slowly from side to side.

“Harry, mate, there’s got to be another way.” Ron said.

Samir was mystified by this exchange.  “What do you mean ‘the real Firebird’?”

“I am an animagus” Harry said, his tone grave.  “But I can assume more than one form.  Normally, I become a phoenix, like the one you saw Hermione conjure, but once...” his voice trailed off remembering that horrible night on the beach in Cornwall when he had killed Voldemort, “once, I became THE Firebird, the super phoenix of legend.”

“And it nearly killed you.” Hermione said, her voice shaking.

Sirius turned to Harry, taking him by the shoulders.  “One day, it may become necessary for you to risk your soul in that way again, but not today, not while the odds are in our favour.” 

Ron was doing some quick mental arithmetic.  “Seven of them, nine of us.”

“Eight” George interrupted, “Ginny’s hurt.”

Where the Fire Eater had gripped her, her thin robes had been burned away.  Great red streaks, like the signature of a nameless lash criss-crossed her arms where the thing had touched her.  Some were oozing blood.

“I can still hold a wand,” she said, defiantly.

“We stand and fight then,” said Sirius tensely.  “Use the Extinguishing spell.  Did you all hear it? Are you prepared to use it?”  Like a general before a battle, Sirius made eye contact with each of them, satisfying himself that they were ready.  “Right then, wands out”.

Nine wands took careful aim.  Nine pairs of eyes fixed on the immense robed figures looming ever nearer.  “Mark your man.” Sirius muttered…”Don’t cast your spells until my signal.” 

Harry gripped his wand, forming the words to the spell in him mind.  “Now Sirius” he thought, “Do it now.”

From high overhead, a ringing cry rent the air.  The Fire Eaters halted in their march.  A bird of prey wheeled in the wind tossed sky above. 

“Nighthawk!” said Samir, “That hawk is the Dark One’s familiar.  Danté is nearby, watching.”

Instinctively, the nine who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder facing the Fire Eaters, now drew themselves into a loose ring, back to back. 

The hawk gave a piercing shriek and without warning, the Fire Eaters drew from the ground the most terrifying horses Hermione had ever seen.  Sinister and snorting, they made the Thestrals back at Hogwarts look positively cuddly.  After battle with Voldemort on the beach at Paravel, Hermione had been able to see them for the first time, but her shock at seeing the Thestrals paled in comparison to her revulsion at the vile beasts summoned by the Fire Eaters.

With frightening speed, the servants of the Dark One mounted their cruel chargers and whirled away, vanishing into the trackless Sahara.

“What was that?” Fred exploded.  “I thought for sure we were about to be mowed down where we stood.  What made them leave like that?”  The sudden and unexpected departure of their foe was disconcerting and vaguely unsettling.

“I would have thought it was obvious.” Sirius said, mildly surprised.

“What?” Harry asked

“The Dark One recalled them,” Samir replied, answering for Sirius.  “But they will be back...back for fallen comrades, and back for us.”

“But they won’t find us.” Sirius said quietly.  “For we will be far from here when they return.”

“Let’s catch those camels shall we?” Arthur said with false brightness.

This time, neither Fred nor George objected to their unusual mounts as the battle-weary caravan headed east, across the burning sand.

In the Fortress of the Dark One…

“What did you say?” Danté said, kicking Bill viciously. Bill raised his head from the floor - his nose bloodied, his bottom lip cut.

“I-” Bill rasped, “I said… I… would… help… you.” It had taken every ounce of strength to manage a hoarse whisper. His head fell to the floor and his eyes fluttered closed. The last thing he heard before slipping into the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness was psychotic laughter. “Now,” Bill thought dimly to himself as he passed into blackness, “now I stand a chance.”

~~

Danté scowled at an irregularly shaped smear on the flagged stone floor.   Bill Weasley’s recently spilled blood was drying with sickening speed in the relentlessly arid climate of the Sahara.  “Pathetic. What an arrogant fool!”  Danté muttered.  That Bill Weasley might have a genuine change-of-heart at this late date was illogical and therefore, suspect.  His concession was transparent - the motives behind it easily seen and understood.  

This Bill Weasley had demonstrated clearly that he would sooner die than do anything to further the cause of the Dark One. “But no matter,” Danté whispered, a lurid grin splitting his face. “He might willingly sacrifice his own life, but would he allow another to be sacrificed in its place? Oh no…I think not.” If the information provided him by a certain desert flower was correct, then the means to inspiring a true change-of-heart was nearly in his grasp.

The Dark One spat in disgust – had his Fire Eaters been more strategic, that means would already be in his grasp – Virginia Weasley had nearly been his captive. But for the meddlesome Samir and the efforts of the wizards with whom she travelled, she would have been, even now, begging him for her life. And while the Dark One was long since immune to pleading, he felt certain that Bill Weasley was not.

Danté was neither a legilimens, nor was he empathic. He could read neither the minds nor hearts of men – at least not yet. But he was an accomplished scholar of human nature and could predict with absolute certainty that while Bill might not comply to save his own life, he would certainly comply to save the life of his only sister. “And then,” he laughed malevolently, “then I will have it… the Cadeau Du Soleil. I will see as once the Prophet saw. I will know the course of man before he knows it himself.” He savoured the idea, turning it over and over obsessively in his mind. “Ahh… to be so utterly and divinely empowered…” he whispered silkily, caressing each syllable like a lover.

He allowed himself a shiver of pleasure and then began to pace excitedly. “To know the future, is to control it.” Pausing at one of the keyhole arches that framed his vast desert kingdom, he vowed,  “I will bend Fate to my will as surely as the cyclone bends blades of grass. I will not suffer the destiny laid out for me as a child. I will be the supreme architect of the future – subject to the whims of no man, of no god.” He battered the window ledge with clenched fists, shouting, “I will claim the heritage to which I am rightfully entitled – the sweetest wine, the ripest fruit, the wealth of nations and the souls of men shall be mine!”

Whirling from the window the Dark One flung himself into a self-styled throne, taking long deep breaths – willing his thoughts to order, gradually gaining control of the powerful emotions that perpetually drove him to ill-considered actions – the unbridled passion had earned him the reputation of being deranged. Danté shook his head forcefully. He must not make a mistake now.  He was so close…so close. He breathed slowly, centring himself. He focused himself fully on the hawk that was his familiar. Danté’s eyes rolled in his head. The room vanished as his mind entered swiftly that of the bird - 'Borrowing' came easily to Danté now. He “saw” the open desert – the molten sun, low on the horizon. He was soaring - racing his own shadow across the dunes.

“Tracks,” he mumbled, willing Nighthawk to circle, ever lower. There, as plain to him as if it had been written on a billboard, were the impressions of a sizeable caravan – their tracks leading directly to the oasis at the boundary of the Ward. Laughter, soft and sinister, rippled from him as he considered the evening to come.

In Morocco…

The meal had been sumptuous, the company enchanting, the setting breathtaking. “Has any evening ever held so much promise?” Leslie wondered to herself as the dinner concluded and the ball began in earnest. The fact that morning would find her leaving the palatial comforts of the embassy for the Spartan lifestyle of the desert, coupled with the knowledge that a dangerous spy might, even now, be lurking among the glamorous guests around her might have made a lesser woman quail, but not Leslie. To her, it was impossibly exciting. In fact, if only Bill Weasley had been safe, she would have called the evening perfect.

Out of respect for Jules, Leslie had dutifully danced with each octogenarian diplomat who approached her. Aged and stiff, most had simply marched her around the room, shouting pleasantries while attempting various charms designed to improve hearing. She smiled and nodded vaguely at her partners, while allowing her eyes to search the immediate environment – contemplating the likelihood that somewhere in the ballroom, a servant of the Dark One watched and waited.

Meanwhile, Jon was discharging similar duties with a variety of fading roses. Gallant and charming, he escorted each dowager Jules had discreetly identified to the floor for a heady spin ‘round the room leaving each breathless and beaming in turn. As he returned the last matron to her table, his eyes sought Leslie immediately. She was standing in the shadow of a massive pillar and gazing across the floor at a pair of striking dancers. So captivated was Leslie by the arresting unspoken dialogue taking place between Remus and Jules, that she failed to notice a tall figure gliding quietly up behind her.

“Not a good idea you know,” whispered a deep male voice from unlit regions behind her, “tucking yourself away in the shadows like this. Anything might happen.” Powerful arms held her fast, drawing her into the dark recesses of the ancient embassy.

Turning to face her captor, she raised an eyebrow and gasped softly “What… ”

Grinning, Cheshire-cat style, Jon kissed her very slowly and very deliberately in wordless greeting.

“… took you so long?” she breathed. In the veil of darkness, twin orbs - glinting from the brilliance of reflected light from the chandeliers - answered her silently.

Returning to the luminous ballroom, they became a flawless team – dancing seamlessly between knots of couples, listening for snatches of conversation that might be telling. They had just completed their third circuit of the room, when Jon stopped suddenly, turning toward the open balcony doors in time to see Moses sweeping towards him.

The bird of wonder landed with skill and precision on Jon’s extended arm. Ignoring the “oohs,” and gasps around him, Jon smiled warmly and accepted the roll of parchment Moses offered, flicking it open with his free hand. His brow furrowed slightly. “Dad’s coming,” he said simply. For the first time, Leslie could gleam no sense of emotion or thoughts from Jon. Though he wasn’t shielding anything from her, his mind truly was unreadable.

Leslie stared up at him, wide-eyed. “Your… your father is… Solaris is coming here?” Jon nodded.

She was about to suggest that they share this astounding news with Jules when the completely unexpected sound of her own phoenix, Helen, singing gaily somewhere nearby, demanded her attention. Leslie whirled to see Helen sweep past Fleur Delacour and Brad Danner. Fleur blanched visibly at the sight of Helen and at the unearthly singing.

In a flash of rapport, Leslie and Jon thought simultaneously to each other, “Did you see that?”

Expecting Helen to land at her side, Leslie watched in amazement as the youthful phoenix sailed past and directly to Remus Lupin – who received her with mild surprise.

Making their way across the room through a crowd of chattering onlookers, Leslie, Jon and Moses joined Jules, Remus and Helen near the balcony. Jules ushered them into a quiet corner as Remus broke the seal on the role of parchment bearing his name. Dumbledore’s even hand was instantly recognizable.

As Remus skimmed his letter, Jules turned to Jon. “Why is Moses here? Is Dad…?” her voice trailed off into a whisper.

“Dad’s coming. Here.” Jon said quietly.

Jules arched an eyebrow. “Can’t say that I’m surprised,” she sighed.

Turning to Remus she said, “Is Dumbledore coming as well, then?”

Remus had an odd expression on his face and said in a strained voice. “No… No, Dumbledore isn’t coming.”

“What then?” Jules asked, curiosity mixing with alarm.

“He says…” Remus paused, as if uncertain about how to continue. Looking directly at Jules he said gravely, “He says there will likely be an attack on my life this evening.”