It was a sumptuous office. Every wall frescoed with the supplicants, gods and pharaoh kings of antiquity. In the center, like a monolith, stood an enormous desk of ebony wood. Along its sides, carved deep in its surface, pranced a cavalcade of elephants, acromantula, and kingsnakes, ringing three registers. Atop the polished wood, a monkey skeleton stared Bill in the eye. He idly moved his head to the side, and he could have sworn that the skull’s gaze followed.

“Mr. Weasley? Were you listening to me?” Bill looked down to where the Riptooth leaned across the table, and waved for him to continue. An ugly sneer spread across the goblin’s face as he stretched across the enormous desk to get a quill. The desk dwarfed its occupant, and Bill was (quite despite himself), reminded of a particularly ugly little child commandeering his father’s chair, and pretending to be doing vital work. The goblin’s seat had to be lifted in order to put him at even height with Bill, and even then Riptooth couldn’t reach across from one side of the desk to the other, such that all the stationary was cluttered together within his short arms’ reach. The other two thirds of the desk were empty, and polished. “Mr. Weasley,” Riptooth said at length. “We’ve heard of some problems at your site.”

“Problems?” Bill asked, raising an eyebrow. They were making good time too, had excavated more than a fair share of antiquities. “There haven’t been any problems.”

Riptooth stabbed the paper in front of him with a sharpened nail. “We signed you onto this project with our usual contract, Weasley. You had some very good references from the Heliopolis branch. But you shouldn't mess with us. Understand me, Weasley? You wouldn’t like the results.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Bill stated flatly. Goblins didn’t appreciate courtesy, taking it as a sign of weakness, so Bill was always careful not to give any. “Now, Riptooth, you called me in here at the break of dawn, apparently to accuse me of something.” He leaned in, and tapped the paper the goblin was keeping close to his chest. “How about you tell me what’s going on, eh?”

The goblin snarled. “We have records of some of our artifacts in that temple you’re digging up. Goblin Silver.” Bill started feeling a headache coming on. Of course, it was Goblin Silver. It was always Goblin Silver.

“We haven’t found any of your silver in this pyramid,” Bill said. “Only gold. Now, I don’t want to have to do this whole song and dance again—you know we’ve reported everything we’ve found.”

“You’ve only reported everything you’ve reported,” he spat, looking about ready to leap across the desk. Bill reclined in his chair, well out of range of the diminutive goblin, and spun his wand in his left hand, a clear threat. He could see Riptooth’s eyes dart between the wand and Bill’s neck, obviously trying to figure out if he could jump across the desk and rip out his throat before the wand turned him into goblin tartare. He slumped back in his highbacked seat with a grimace, unwilling to take the chance.

“You know you’ll never find your silver without my help,” said Bill mildly. “Goblins can’t enter the tombs.”

Riptooth snarled but didn’t contradict him. Bad things always happened to the goblins who went inside the pyramids. Not the sort of lingering curses like in old dime novels, either, but immediate ones—like violent incineration. Bill noticed the dark circles under Riptooth’s eyes, and the way that the goblin’s sharp nails look bitten thin, and frowned. He had never seen the old grouch like this.

“Are you alright, Riptooth?”

The Goblin sniffed. “I’m under a lot of pressure, Weasley, and it goes straight to the bottom, you understand? To the deepest levels of our government.” He massaged the bridge of his pointed nose. “Now, I’m going to believe you - for now - when you say that you haven’t seen it…”

“Riptooth, I don’t even know what exactly you’re looking for.” Bill gave a half-cocked grin. “How about we start there?”

The goblin looked reluctant, glacing both ways in his office, even though it was empty except for the two of them. No sound pierced the tall brass doors that separated Riptooth’s Office of Acquisitions from the bank floor. Still, whatever it was that the goblin was looking for, it bothered him enough to make him wary of saying its name out loud. That was odd. Usually goblins loved to talk about all the things wizards had stolen from them through legitimate purchases. “...It’s the Crown of Isis,” he said at last, barely above a whisper. “The first Witch-Queen of Egypt.”

Bill raised an eyebrow. “I thought Isis was a myth.”

“Gringotts records do not contain myths,” snapped Riptooth, and not for the first time, Bill wondered how old Gringotts truly was. Riptooth tapped the document in front of him. “This letter came straight from the Pit. They want that crown, or it’s my head on the chopping block… and yours.” He drew a wickedly sharp claw across his wrinkled neck. “I know things sometimes have a tendency to… fall into a wizard’s pockets. Make sure this isn’t one of times. Got it?”

“Fine.”

“The letter is for you,” said Riptooth. “It’ll be proof that if we kill you, it’s legal.”

Bill sighed and rolled his eyes a little. The goblins were far too dramatic for their own good. “Go ahead.”

The little monkey skeleton on the corner of the desk suddenly jerked to life, skittering across the surface before slamming a stamp onto Bill’s letter with an ear-piercing screech, spelling out ‘APPROVED for EXECUTION’ in crimson red ink. Bill, knowing that any failure to sign was an admission of guilt under goblin law, wrote down Bill Weasley with a little flourish.

Riptooth folded the letter into his breast pocket as Bill stood up from the hardbacked chair, leaving the office without another word. Riptooth wasn’t interested in sharing more words than those which needed to be said. If any goblin was, Bill had yet to meet them.

Two goblins with pikes stood outside the door, glaring at him as he emerged from the office. He strolled out to the bank floor, where rows of tellers examined rubies and emeralds under magnifying glasses, and ran claws down the backs of gold scarab amulets. A steady stream of local wizardry came in and out, dressed in their white linen robes and keffiyehs.

It was bright outside, bright enough to make Bill squint as he stepped out from the shade of the bank’s hypostyle columns, and into the Bizarre Bazaar. Every space conceivable, and some not, were taken up by merchants bartering and arguing. Bill watched as a herd of pygmy abraxan cowered before a crouched nundu, who’s maw was covered with an iron muzzle. A befezzed merchant, argued over the price of a Hand of Glory. A whole flock of tourists all obligingly followed their slightly seedy looking guide into the Blue Parrot. The Bazaar sat nestled between ruins, seemingly moving through ancient palaces and homes, shops set up between columns

But Bill headed through the little bazaar for a café at a corner of the courtyard, where sat Cheops, an institution in Memphis. A bronze sign hammered into the stone of the patio was engraved with Hieroglyphs, but as he watched, the lines of the symbols rearranged themselves, first into an archaic Sumerian, then Punic, Greek, Latin and finally settling into down into a legible English,

‘Cheops’ Café est. 1040…’ A little amendment was attached at the end there, almost as ancient as the original sign. ‘BCE.’

A skeleton manned the podium, leaning over it, with a fedora perched jauntily upon his bony top. “As pe pekry,” he said, Bill just stared for a moment, and the skeleton inclined his head a moment as if in faint imitation of rolling nonexistent eyes. He took a drag of a cigarette, and continued as the smoke whirled out of empty ribs. “What is it?” he said in a distinctly American English.

“I think some friends of mine already have a table.” Bill nodded into the recesses of the restaurant. The skeleton stared at him for a second, tapping his fingers on the wooden podium.

“Well, what are you waiting for, Mac? Get going.” He thumbed the restaurant, and Bill quickly moved inside.

Every time Bill came to Cheops, he couldn’t help but think that café must have been a particularly awful translation. It was built a temple’s ancient hypostyle hall, with a labyrinthian interior going on for half an eternity and torches perched like little birds on massive columns, trying and failing to pierce the darkness above.

His lieutenant, Cecil Witcombe, met him at the door to the dining room. Bill watched as he peered down at a set of latin graffiti that looked like it may have been written at the same time as Pompeii. Witcombe himself was indeterminably aged in such a way that he could have been an old thirty or young looking sixty. He fiddled with a pair of silver spectacles that sat perched on the edge of his aquiline nose.

“Hello there, Bill,” he said with vague interest, as he turned from the graffiti. “How was the meeting?”

“Riptooth is a fair enough boss, isn’t he?” said Bill tonelessly. Cecil winced a little over-dramatically, straightening his tweed outer robes as he stood up.

“Old Balashov always said it was like pulling a dragon’s teeth.” He clapped Bill on the back. “If you need my help, you know you have it, old boy? You’re a little young to be manning a site like this, hardly anyone would expect you to do all of it on your own.”

“Balashov seemed to.”

Witcombe coughed. “Yes… well… I know it can be a little overwhelming for such a young site leader. I am, as always, here to lend a helpful tip here and there, eh, old chap?”

Bill forced a smile. “Of course.” His eyes focused on the packages clutched in the older wizard’s hand. “Did you manage to find the copy of that scroll?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “You know Bill, they say that the Bazaar has everything you could ever ask for, and if they don’t have it when you get there—after you look around a little you’ll find it tucked in the back.”

“I have been to Memphis before, you know?” sighed Bill.

“Of course, of course,” said Witcombe jollily, along with a conspiratorial wink. “I always forget that you have a little experience.”

As they stepped inside, a set of torches flared in front of them and another in front of that, so forth through the dark, each hovering beside elephantine columns. The light was so dim and feeble, compared to the sheer breadth of the room, that the shadows seemed even darker for their presence. The wall paintings that crawled across the columns moved in the flickering light, walking, prostrating and fighting. A tableau of their lives, extolling their ancient deeds, and the ancient deeds of their gods. For bare seconds, Bill could catch glimpses of people eating, but just as quickly the extinguished torches would plunge them once more into the dark. Despite how crowded it was, and the fact that he could see people talking, the place still retained a deathly sort of quiet, words dying as they made it past their intended ears.

Every time he entered Cheops; Bill was reminded why he first came to Egypt.

His team reminded him why he sometimes wanted to leave.

“But there is no way to know whether you people are descended from the Ancient Egyptians at all. We are all entitled to an equal share of it.” Armand Lafitte lounged in his chair, a half-eaten plate of lamb in front of him. Pureblooded scion of one of France’s most prominent families. His wand twirled between his fingers like a baton as he spoke, and he continually had to push long brown hair out of his eyes. He had the kind of face that seemed dilettante, with a sharp goatee, hooked nose, and high cheekbones.

Bill and Witcombe sat down at the table, although its occupants seemed to take little notice of them. A genie, tanned and mustachioed, emerged from the lamp that sat upon the broad wooden table. He bowed as he took their order, and just as quickly disappeared. Their food, lamb glistening with a garlic sauce over tomatoes and feta cheese, appeared as they looked down.

Bill carved off a little piece of lamb—a little curious as to what exactly the two were arguing over. “We have records,” said Dina, and her eyes seemed to flash as she spoke, pressing her index finger into her palm as emphasis. Her dark hair was curly, and her skin tanned. Her face was pretty—but not fine, it was roughhewn, and somewhat heavy. “The Sarafim have been here… forever.”

“Then why is your name Greek?” asked Armand. Dina looked like she was about to explode, so Bill quickly interjected.

“Hey now,” he said. “Let’s not get into a fight over family names.”

Dina seemed to take notice of him for the first time. “Bill! This… ingrate has been insulting my heritage for nearly half an hour now! You expect me to roll over and take it… like one of those two knut Marseilles whores that he enjoys so much?” She stood, and the torchlight was reflected in her brown eyes. She poked Bill in the chest. “Tell him to stop.”

Bill sighed, and reluctantly glanced towards the Frenchman. “Armand?”

He shrugged, his head lolling a little to the side. “It is a little much to insinuate that the Lafitte ancestry is so thin to barely make us wizards at all, no?” Of course. In England there were only a few truly noble wizarding families, but such an insult offered to a Lafitte? Even if they were poor, they were proud. In France, Dina would have been liable to duel for the insult.

Bill turned to Dina; his brow raised.

She artlessly shrugged. “They’re a young family.”

“I’m not sure you can call the ninth century young.” Bill pinched the bridge of his nose. His gaze finally fell on the third of the party. He hoped against hope that he would offer something to diffuse the argument. “Witcombe, you’re the history expert. Say something that makes sense.”

He looked up from his plate, dabbing at a little bit of sauce which had found its way on his cheek. “All wizards at some level descend from the Egyptians, for they were the first to master wandcraft.” He flashed an artless shrug. “After a few thousand years, who’s to say who descends from whom. Culturally, we are all of the Egyptians—the Pharaohs were all our ancestors.”

“Pfft,” said Dina. “Typical English prevarications.”

“I rather liked the sentiment,” said Bill.

“Of course, you did.” She made to poke him again, but Bill idly swatted her wandering hand away. “You’re English.” She shook her head. “None of you understand. The Serafim truly are descended from the Pharaohs. Directly. It’s written about in our most sacred texts.”

Armand rolled his eyes. “That’s impossible to say, it’s been three thousand odd years since the last Pharaoh—well, except for the Ptolemies, but they hardly count.”

Bill could almost see the steam coming from Dina’s ears. He waved a hand. “Let’s not get into this, eh? We’re all wizards here.”

“And witches.”

“And witches,” agreed Bill amicably. “There’s no need to make a fuss, eh? Or to cause any trouble.”
Armand shrugged. “Fine.” The wizard slumped back in his seat, letting a cap fall in front of his eyes, as he looked for all the world like he was taking a nap, although Bill fancied he could see one of his eyes open and look around every once in a while.

Dina leaned in a little, her eyes fixed on Bill. “So, what did that goblin want with you?”

Bill raised an eyebrow. “That goblin is our employer.”

She snorted. “I’m sure he’s called us worse than that.” Bill was sure he had, too. But Memphis was a city animated by the goblins—and by goblin gold. To speak too loosely was dangerous.

“He accused us of stealing,” said Bill flatly.

“Stealing? Stealing what?”

“What else,” said Bill. “Goblin Silver.”

“How odd,” said Witcombe. “We’ve all dug enough for the goblins, that I’d think we’d be extended the benefit of the doubt.”

“Apparently it was a special artifact, something called the Crown of Isis.”

Both Armand’s eyes shot open, and Dina pressed the weight of her elbows against the table as she leaned forward.

“Did you say Isis?” asked Witcombe. “By Jove, that doesn’t narrow down the dynasty very much, does it? Half the queens of Egypt were named Isis-something.”

“Not, an Isis. The Isis. Of dynasty Zero,” said Dina. “Not just before Narmer, but before Egypt ever split into Lower and Upper kingdoms.”

“Surely not the wife of Osiris!” cried Witcombe. He began furiously cleaning his spectacles. “That has to be a mistake. Merlin’s beard, she’s mythological!”

Dina scoffed; with a hand she swept a few dark strands of hair from where they had fallen in front of her face before speaking. “If it’s in the Goblins’ lists, it’s no mistake,” she said. “They’ve had records from before there were even wizards.” Her tone suddenly turned wistful then. “Now, if they would only just let us get inside their archives.”

“The crown of Isis,” said Armand. “It must be worth something, no? I bet we’re due for something of a bonus.”

“You’re right,” said Witcombe. “If they accused us of stealing it, they must really want it. I wonder why.”

“Well, it’s obviously Goblin Silver,” said Bill.

Witcombe waved a hand. “We find plenty of goblin silver. A few years ago, Balashov and I, descending down into the depths of this tomb near Nubia, found a khopesh that had more silver than any crown,” he said. “But for the Lower Levels to specifically ask about an artifact?” Witcombe’s eyes darted around the room for a second, he licked his lips and continued. “It must be a tad more important than an average trinket. Probably more powerful.”

The table fell silent. Even if they all worked for Gringotts, no witch or wizard would ever really be comfortable with anything powerful in the hands of the goblins. The problem with goblin artifacts, was that they often weren’t exactly goblin artifacts. The goblin might have forged the sword, or the circlet or the hammer—but wizards tended to enchant them afterwards, enough that it was hard to figure out where the forging ended and where the enchanting began, or who truly ‘made,’ something powerful.

Now, Goblins didn’t have any real ability for wizarding magic, but were always covetous of it. They gained magic through theft, by giving or selling artifacts, and then taking magic as payment for services rendered. Giving them an object of power was a little too close to giving them magic, for most people’s taste. After all, every wizard knew you couldn’t trust a Goblin.

Suddenly, Bill realized that they were all looking towards him. Even Armand, slouched in his seat, and practically awash in his long duster, had his eyes fixed intently at him. Bill straightened up, and tried to relax, trying to keep the nervousness that he felt from showing. “We’ll figure it out, won’t we? More than half a chance this crown isn’t even in the vault. It has been a few millennia since the last time anyone’s gotten a look at it.”

They seemed to accept that, even if Bill thought there was little chance of it being true. But he had a feeling that none of them really wanted to think any more on the crown. Armand relaxed back into his seat. Dina and Witcombe began to discuss the implications of the historicity of Isis and Osiris seemingly being confirmed by the goblins. Banal, normal discussion for the two of them. But it all felt forced. Bill, even through the duster, could make out the way that Armand’s muscles were tense and his eyes darted around the restaurant. Dina bit her lip so hard that Bill thought he could make out a droplet of blood before it was flicked away by her tongue.

As they left the restaurant, Dina fell back to walk beside him. “We can’t give the crown to the goblins.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it’s ours.” She tapped a finger against her palm. “Not theirs.”

Bill felt a little sympathy for Dina, she was the only Egyptian of their team, the only one for whom the symbolic value of the crown was so great. To suggest giving the crown to Riptooth was probably akin to if she had suggested melting the Sword of Gryffindor down for scrap metal. “Like I said. We’ll figure it out.”

She paused for a second and stared him dead in the eye, her dark eyes fixed on his blue. Slowly, almost tentatively, she nodded. “Alright.”

He sighed. “Expedition leader isn’t all it was cracked up to be.”

She laughed. “Why do you think old Balashov was so keen to give you the job?”

“He never did like me,” said Bill. “Did he?”

“Did he like anyone?” Dina shrugged, and in one smooth movement, apparated back to the excavation site, Bill only a second behind her.

The pyramid, even low and sagging as it was, still dwarfed them at the campsite. In the dark of the night, it stood like a mountain among dunes. Their cook-fire burned cheerily in the dark, encircled by their canvas tents. Witcombe was leaned back in a red plush armchair, a thinly arched pipe between his fingers venting lavender scented smoke. As Bill and Dina approached, he gave a little wave. “Took your time, didn’t you? Did you lose the way? Take a right turn at Luxor?”

“Nothing of the kind,” said Bill. “Simply had to settle your bill.” He collapsed by the fire as well, not bothering to retrieve a chair.


Bill felt like he had awoken just as soon as he lay his head upon the pillow, but when he left his tent, an orange glow had broken over the Nile.

He retrieved a pan and sat beside the fire, setting to frying little bangers with some eggs, as their coffee pot set to boil beside them. As usual, Witcombe strutted first out of his tent, already immaculately groomed, his dark hair parted to either side of his face, and his cane clasped between his arms. He had the mixed blessing and curse of being a morning person—a blessing for him and a curse on the rest of them.

“Good morning Bill,” he said cheerily, and scooped himself a full plate of the eggs and sausages. “Sleep well?” He squinted as he looked out at the horizon. “My, but it’s a bright sunny day, eh?”

“Egypt tends a little brighter than Shropshire,” replied Bill. “Are the others up?”

“You know how they are. I’m sure Dina will be around soon enough,” he said with a shrug.

“Soon,” agreed Bill. Sure enough, Dina stumbled out of his tent only a bare ten minutes later, in a nightgown, her hair a rat’s nest, with a hand cupped over her eyes to shield from the harsh glare of the morning sun.

“Mornin’ Bill… Ce,” she mumbled, trying to finish their names, but after a valiant attempt, giving up on that difficult second syllable. She began shoveling food onto her little tin plate, all but dead to the world. She hefted a large coffee mug, and after downing a cup, began to look a little more normal.

Bill looked down at his watch, at the whirling device of planets, and then back up at the sky. He frowned. “Armand’s not up yet. It’s nearly ten.”

Dina snorted. “Probably doing his eyebrows.”

“Not so surprising, is it?” said Witcombe. “He stayed in Memphis a little later than we did.”

“He stayed in Memphis?” Bill hadn’t noticed, but then he had gone to bed soon after they’d gotten back, and Armand tended to be quiet. He couldn’t quite remember not seeing him, but that in and of itself was hardly odd. “Do you know why?”

Witcombe gave a half-hearted shrug. “Probably meeting up with a girlfriend or something. I try not to pry, you know that.” Bill shot him a skeptical glance, thinking that it was probably more likely that Armand had just not given him a straight answer.

But just then, Armand left his faded tent—as composed as if he had been awake for hours. Dressed in sturdy brown trousers and a chiffon shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and suspenders over his chest. “Good morning everyone,” he said cheerily.

Dina leaned in; her eyes slightly narrowed.

“There’ll be only a little more time for breakfast, Armand,” said Bill apologetically. “We’re rather behind schedule.”

“Of course,” he said, as he filled his own plate. Bill idly sat down on one of the fallen stone blocks, eaten away by eons, that litter the side of the pyramid.

“Well,” said Bill. “As you all know, we want this crown.”

“Bill,” hissed Dina.

“I’m not saying what we should do with it, but I don’t want to put this in someone else’s hands, you understand?” he said. He stared Dina down. “This has become our responsibility.”

“Isn’t it obvious what we should do with it?” said Armand. “We should give it to the goblins and get paid.”

Dina shot him a look. “Isn’t the crown worth more than that?”

“I’ll tell you what that crown is worth,” said Armand. “All the jewels, all the silver and all the gold in that pyramid—and that’s exactly Gringotts is going to give us.” He gave a wicked little grin. “They showed their hand, we know how much they want that crown.”

Bill took a sip of coffee. “I’m still not certain that if they want it so bad, I want them to have it.”

Bill stared at the pyramid. Hardly much of a pyramid at all, it belonged to the First Dynasty. Just three square mastaba tombs stacked atop each other. However, for some reason this pyramid was special, and he didn’t know why. “The real question is where it is. I thought we had pretty well explored the pyramid.”

Dina shrugged as she followed him. “It wasn’t supposed to be particularly large, or impressive.”

He traced his hand across the sandstone walls, pursing his lips. “Witcombe,” he said. “What can you tell me about the site?”

Witcombe looked at him oddly. “Bill, we’ve been here for months. Haven’t you been listening to me?”

Bill waved it off. “Humor me.”

“It’s the tomb of the Witch-King Weha. A pyramid—of sorts, older than any other pyramid we know of,” said Witcombe. “It’s a proto-dynastic burial site—right after the foundation of Egypt, as kings formed a new society under the rule of the most powerful warlocks in all the land, the pharaohs.”

“Yes, but this was already a necropolis, wasn’t it?”

Witcombe blinked. “Why, yes… probably… Wapakr was attested as a royal cemetery long before the kingdom of Thinis conquered the entirety of the Nile; there are artifacts here that could be dated prior to the establishment of Weha’s reign.”

“That doesn’t explain anything,” complained Armand. “Why would the crown of Isis be in this King’s vault?”

Witcombe shrugged. “Later conquest. Tomb raiding. It might even have been celebrating the symbolic power of the new King and dynasty through a connection with one who would have been regarded as ancient.”

“I just don’t understand how we could have missed it,” said Dina. “We looked everywhere in the vault.”

Witcombe seemed to be getting into the swing of things now, excited to show off his knowledge. “There are often hidden portions in these tombs. Why, once, Balashov and I, stumbled upon the ruins of an entire ancient city—you’ve of course heard of Itjtjawy. It was all sunken beneath a Ptolemaic temple mount.

Sunk beneath… “Weha almost unified Egypt, did he not?” said Bill.

“Oh yes,” said Witcombe. “He came quite close indeed.”

“But he wasn’t the first.”

Witcombe looked a little bemused. “Not if you believe the goblins.”

“I’ve got an idea,” he said. He pressed his ear against the sandstone wall. Closing his eyes, he heard the chords of Monteverdi’s l’Orfeo. Brassy and of two worlds. Bridging madrigal and baroque, Bill could hear the way it stepped from one era and into another, just as King Weha had once done thousands of years before the music had ever been conceived. These were the curses and charms that made up the Pharaoh’s tomb, the symphony that protected him for thousands of years against thieves, tomb-raiders and the ravages of time. It had taken him years to be trained to listen to enchantments.

It was a masterful working, and it had taken Bill months at the site to understand the chords of it—of course, someone else would have heard different music entirely, but what was important was that it had to be a bridging work, both moving from one era to another, and from the here to the hereafter. That was Weha’s reign, and that was Weha’s tomb. He strained his ears trying to listen closer, to hear anything that might be different about this pyramid in particular.

Then he heard it. Quieter. Much quieter than the broad strings of Weha’s composition. It was one tune, one melody, hidden between the strands of the louder song. Yet it’s beat and rhythm ran much stronger.

“It’s here,” said Bill, as he stepped away from the pyramid. He looked towards his companions. “It’s here, down below. Beneath the burial chambers and beneath even the serdab.”

“We’ve already looked for anything else there,” protested Witcombe. “You remember—we had to clear out those ghastly skeletons—the ones with the vulture heads.”

“I don’t care,” said Bill. “We missed something. We missed something big. We missed something brilliant. Dina, you still have your notes, right? About how we got in? The full mapping of the charms?”

Dina nodded. “Yes, of course but I—”

He didn’t let her finish. “Armand, you have the arithmantic sequencing done, no? Got all the lucky numbers?”

“Yes,” he said. “What are you planning, Bill?”

“We’ve one afternoon to figure out how we’re going to break these curses.”

Witcombe blinked. “Break them?

Bill stared at the pyramid grimly. “Cecil, this pyramid has another one under it. And I don’t see another way how we could get around it.”


The word, cursebreaker, was something of a misnomer. Certainly, he had trained to be a cursebreaker, to find the little flaws in what seemed flawless and shatter what was at first glance unbreakable. However, the majority of their job was to know how not to break curses. The secret to success was in getting around, rather than through.


Armand held a divining rod in his hands, and his wand clutched between his teeth, as he walked around the pyramid, locating the precise placement of the different charms. Every seven steps, he would kick the floor with the heel of his boot, marking something on the stone. They had to figure out the best position to do it in. Of course, if they unraveled them in the wrong way, it bid catastrophe.

Dina sat in the sand, scribbling in her notebook, and parsing out which thread to pull, which spell stood out from the others, the weak link in the tapestry of curses that made up the tomb. It wasn’t a job for everyone.

Witcombe stood with him. Bill tried to feel any worry from the look of skepticism etched onto his face, or the way that he continually removed and replaced his spectacles. “And you’re certain of this?” It was the first words he had spoken to Bill.

Bill gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t think that Riptooth is giving us much of a choice.”

“Fair enough,” said Witcombe, and tapped back on the notebook he held in his hand. “After what happened to the Greengrasses…” He frowned. “It pays to be careful, doesn’t it?”

Bill glanced at him. “I’m not planning on picking up a Blood Curse. Are you?”

“I don’t think Thaddeus Greengrass was planning on picking up a Blood Curse either.” He bent low to take a closer note of one of the hieroglyphs, a cartouche with the sign of the scorpion enclosed, it was King Weha’s mark.

“We know how to do it now, how to break curses safely.”

Witcombe stood up and pressed a finger against Bill’s chest. He had never seen the bookish man look so intimidating. “Look, Bill. Any young buck with more bollocks than brains can break a curse. But anyone who claims to know what we’ll happen once they’re broken is lying. Lying to everyone. There’s a reason we prefer to open a door than to blow down a wall—and that’s because walls aren’t supposed to be smashed to bits.”

“Trust me, Cecil,” said Bill. “I wouldn’t do this if I had any other choice. But, by Merlin, I had to sign our death warrants, for if we didn’t succeed. Now, I’m not going to promise you that nothing is going to go wrong, but we’ve better odds dealing with curses than we do with the goblins.”

Witcombe stared at him for a while, before slowly nodding. “Your funeral.” Bill shot a smile, and hoped it didn’t betray his nerves.

He was left standing by the wall. Alone. For some reason, the empty blackness felt almost comforting. He wished he hadn‘t had to do all this, but even if the goblins didn’t say it, he could read between the lines. He found this crown, or it was all of their heads.

Almost absentmindedly, he pressed his ear against the cool stone of the tomb wall once more, and listened to magic’s symphony course through the sandstone blocks. He sighed, knowing that it would be he—after thousands of years, that would finally end King Weha’s song. He pressed his eyes tight, and tried to commit it to memory, even if he would be the only one to preserve its sublime sound.

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Dina standing there, a light at the end of her wand a beacon in the darkness.

“We’re ready,” she said. There was no levity in her tone.

“Already?” said Bill. It could have hardly been more than twenty minutes or so.

She blinked. “Bill, we’ve been working for nearly eight hours. Now I know that usually we would spend a little more time on this kind of thing, but we already had the spells mapped out, and the internal logic of the whole thing, and—”

Bill raised a hand. “No, no, it’s fine. I just… I just lost track of time.” Dina cast a worried look at him.

“You’re alright, aren’t you? If this goes badly, you’ll be the one it reflects on.” A shiver ran down his back, like ice water had been poured down his robes. To have this harm his family, who thought they were safe back in England.

He nodded, and forced a breath through parched lips. “This will work.”

“I’m glad you’ve got more confidence than I do,” she shot him a nervous grin, but it died just as quickly as it had appeared, stifled by the suffocating darkness of the tomb. Bill fancied, as they wound the through the darkened corridors, little worried glances from her. They made their way into a wide, domed chamber.

The floor of the room was lightly carved with a tight spiraling pattern of snakes and scorpions, all surrounding a single message in hieroglyphs. Armand and Witcombe already stood there, glancing up and down at parchment journals, under the light of little glowing blueball flames, that cast the room in constantly shifting light. Bill imagined that the two of them were just as nervous as he was. Anyone with any sense would be nervous taking down something like this.

Bill bent low, peering down at the faded stonework. Carved deep in the stone floor, the words writ out a simple message.

Indeed, the Gods who rest in the mountain gain strength eternal. Beware.

Bill felt a little shiver run down his spine, and he looked at his companion. “What do you make of this, Dina?”

She looked at him as though he might have lost a few brain cells when he entered the pyramid. “It’s just a tomb warning, probably to stop any muggle tomb raiders.”

He nodded.

“How is everything looking, Armand?”

He shrugged. “I was horribly rushed… but good, very promising.” A sly little smile peeked onto his face. “This is the sort of thing that can make a career, eh Bill?”

“That’s for certain,” said Bill. “The Arithmancy all works out?”

Armand tapped the center of the floor with his foot. “It should.” He shrugged. “It is an art, not a science. But the ancient priests layered thirty-five maledictions here, seven and five. It is most potent. Just to enter, I simply countered with seven benedictions at the entrance. To destroy it, however, we’re going to require a bit more work.” He showed them his notebook, littered with the arcane symbols that came from being an expert arithmancer. He indicated seven spots on the floor, and as he tapped them with the heel of his boot, a mark spread. “A hundred and forty separate counter-curses, thirty-five from each of us, all incanted at a specific time and in perfect rhythm. You understand?”

“The standard benedictions?” asked Dina, and Armand nodded.

“First and Thirteenth series. Alternating.”

“This isn’t going to be easy,” Bill cautioned. Witcombe grew a little green, but his lip stayed firm. Bill thought he could see the man counting the different steps in his head. He knew as well as anyone, the risks of this.

He looked up, and seemed to bristle a little. “Is it ever easy? Let us begin, Mr. Lafitte.”

Armand gave a tight nod, a measure of respect creeping into his gaze. “Start on the hieroglyph there in the center, and take seven steps out.” They all gave their own acknowledgements, and gathered in the center. Bill felt an immense welling of pride. His team. They were doing something exceptional.

He stared each of them in the eye. “Fortune and glory.”

They began to speak. Five blessings with every step. They would each end up somewhere different, but it was the steps themselves that mattered, the arithmantical procession, mimicking the strides of the priests as they had first laid down the curses, but in opposite. The priests would have started at the corners and worked their way in. And they worked their way out.

Each of them knew the right words. They weren’t countering any specific curses, but rather intoning the normal words of greetings and praise, in a sense, announcing their presence and their ownership, forcing the curses of the pyramid back.

A hundred and forty blessings. Each one speaking thirty-five. Each in the same manner, at the same time. His mind went blank, and he focused on just matching Armand’s clear cadence as he spoke. “Glory to you, Weha, glory to you.”

He took his final step, and he was at the end of the room. He felt a great shuddering sensation in his chest, and he knew it meant that they had finished, that they had brought low the curse. He sighed, that wasn’t so bad.

Just them, a mighty ca-rack, rang through the chamber, and Bill was forced down to the floor as a feeling like an earthquake shook the tomb. He looked around. In the center, where the scorpions and snakes swirled into the hieroglyphs, the floor had broken open, breaking the hieroglyphic seal.

Witcombe was the first to his feet, staring at the inscription through spectacles cracked by their fall to the floor. “Fascinating,” he murmured, although in the dead silence it might as well have been a shout.

“What was that?” demanded Dina, as she stumbled towards the broken floor, tracing her hands down one of the shattered carvings.

“That’s what we were looking for,” said Bill. He knelt down beside her, and put his eye to the crevice, trying to see if anything was beneath. “Lumos,” he intoned, and suddenly he could see a doorway down beneath. “It’s here,” he said. “A doorway!”

“Such a dramatic people.” Armand sniffed. “Apere!” He shouted as he pointed his long, thin wand at the floor. It shuddered, and inched open. Bill joined him, pointing his maple wand at the center. The floor opened like tectonic plates, lurching with shaking movements, but slowly revealing first a set of delicate little steps leading down beneath the Pyramid. Finally, at the bottom of the steps, a post and lintel doorway broke free from the stone, as delicately carved as the temple of Hatshepsut.

A solid block of black basalt stood as door, and on it was carved a throne, a noble seated upon it bearing a whip.

They just stared at it for a moment. Dina’s eyes were fixed upon the inscription. “To be of noble blood,” she whispered.

Bill walked towards it, and slowly laid his ear against the cool stone. Once more he closed his eyes, and without the brassy concerto, once more listened. Only one instrument. Only one curse. It was unthinkable, but it was just a steady strum. One note. Clear and loud.

“What does it sound like?” asked Witcombe.

Bill shrugged. “It sounds like a single spell, if one of impressive power. I haven’t ever heard anything like it.”

“I know what it means,” said Dina. Bill looked to her, slightly surprised. Her talent usually lay in discerning the individual threads of spells, understanding how they reinforced each other, and grew stronger by their layering, not in understanding the singularity of a spell. “It’s a blood spell. It requires noble blood.”

“Pureblood?”

“No,” she said. “The blood of a pharaoh. It’s all tied around blood.”

They stared at her for a moment. They all remembered what she had said. She herself bore the blood of the pharaohs, or at least that was what they had been led to believe. It was hard not to see her excitement.

Witcombe stepped forward. “Dina, if I might urge a modicum of caution here…”

“We should try,” said Armand. “I didn’t detect any sign of consequence. It’s a seal, not a curse. They wanted us through.”

“Need I remind you of how often a seal can also be a curse?” Witcombe arched an eyebrow. “It’s an intolerable risk.”

“Without risk, what is our reward,” said Armand, and Bill had never heard him sound so vehement. “Do not make us hesitate, simply because you are too cowardly to try.”

Bill closed his eyes. He couldn’t deny the temptation to try. But, Witcombe was right. To try something like this first? That seemed foolish. “Not right now,” he said. “Not yet. We can take the time to explore other options first—ones that don’t require us to risk Dina.”

“Bill! I am capable of deciding how I wish to risk my life.”

“Not right now you’re not,” he said. “Dina, think of the risks. I’m not saying that we can’t do it later. But as a first option? Now, that’s just damnably stupid.”

“It’s a single, solid, seal,” said Armand laconically, although Bill could see his eyes burn with anger. “It won’t come down any other way. Those simple requirements mean that there is no room for negotiation here.”

Bill raised a hand in the air. “No,” he said, and his tone brooked no argument. He idly cracked his knuckles, and the soft pops seemed to echo through the quiet. “We’ve done enough for today. Let’s go have some food and rest. We’ll start making mistakes if we keep pressing on.” As Bill said it, he suddenly realized the sense of heavy exhaustion that weighed on him, the effort of such taxing spellwork.

They didn’t look happy, but they recast some defensive charms around the site, and headed out back into the desert, where the sun’s collapse had plunged the landscape into a cool, black night. Back to campsite, where they began a pot to boiling for some stew.

Dina met him there. She grabbed his arm, and her look all but demanded answers.

“You don’t believe my line is of the Pharaohs,” she said. Not as a question, but as an answer.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I don’t think anyone really knows who’s descended from who, once you get back far enough.”

“We are,” she stated. Bill rolled his eyes.

“You think you are,” he said. “But I could think I was a Malfoy and it wouldn’t change the fact that I’m neither rich nor blond.”

She looked blankly at that, and Bill idly realized that she probably had no idea who, or what, a Malfoy was. He massaged his forehead for a second. “Dina. I’m not willing to sacrifice your life on family lore—at least not without exploring other options.”

“They mock us you know?”

“Who?”

“We are the joke of Egypt. The family who would be Pharaoh.” She poked him in the chest. “This would prove it. It would prove to everyone that we truly are of the ancient blood.”

“I understand, but that doesn’t change anything, Dina,” he said. “Just wait. If there is another way, one without risk, I want to try that first.”

She just stared at him for a moment, a glare burning. She wanted to say something, he could tell, but she didn’t. She just wheeled around, and departed. It was a quiet dinner, with only Witcombe for company. The older man told commiserating stories of similar misadventures that he’d had with old Balashov, patting Bill on the shoulder, and said that “Even he couldn’t have made that much better a decision,” and that Bill had, “almost made all the right decisions.” Bill, trying to ignore Dina and Armand’s glares, from where they sat across camp, wasn’t really in the mood to listen. He ate and retired to his tent. Soon, he had fallen into a deep sleep, not even bothering to change from his sandy outer robes. He simply hoped that things would be better in the morning.


He was snatched from his dreams by a hand shaking his shoulder. “Wake up, Weasley.” He heard a voice hissed, and his eyelids jerked open. Witcombe had grabbed his shoulder, his face wan, missing his spectacles and, grasping his arm with one of his hands.

“Cecil! What’s wrong?”

He hissed with pain. “Look!”

Bill got up from his cot, and Witcombe opened the fold of the tent. Snakes and scorpions had overrun the campsite, crawling on every exposed surface. He could hear a thousand skittering legs hit the rocky surface. His mind immediately flashed to the carvings on the floor of the chamber. Beware.

Bill just looked for a moment, overwhelmed by the mass of insects. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Have you?”

Witcombe shook his head. “No. It isn’t natural.”

“Are you saying these are just conjurings?”

“No—you don’t understand. They’re dead, Bill.” He held up one of the snakes, and Bill could see its papery skin, torn easily from its body, exposing bone bleached by thousands of years. Bill eyes flicked involuntarily towards the pyramid. Witcombe nodded.

“This is bad.”

“I suppose those curses weren’t as well broken as we’d hoped.”

“I checked,” said Bill. He shook his head as he saw the spreading crowd. “Merlin knows, that I checked. There was nothing left. Barely half a shred of real magic in the upper Pyramid—just enough to keep the muggles away.”

Witcombe gave him a dark look. “I warned you, Bill. By Rowena, I warned you! These days, we know better than to go around breaking curses. You should have listened to me.”

“We didn’t have a bloody choice, Cecil,” said Bill. “Would you rather that we get killed by the goblins? I had to sign a death warrant.”

“Fine.”

Bill ran a hand through his hair, shutting his eyes tightly and trying desperately to think, as difficult as it was in the moment. “Have you already woken the others?”

“I had to fight my way here,” he complained. Bill just leveled a stare at him. “No, I haven’t.”

Bill nodded. He looked a little closer at the snake that Witcombe had tossed onto his table. “It’s certainly some sort of inferi, isn’t it? That means our solution is simple enough.”

Witcombe just looked at him blankly.

“Use fire,” advised Bill.

“I’m not an auror,” protested Witcombe. “I ran here and they still took a few bites out of me! Do you expect me to cast incendio on all the little things?”

Bill massaged his temples, trying to tamp down on the annoyance he was feeling. He knew it was unwarranted. “Fine,” he said. “Stay behind me.” Witcombe nodded. He turned once more before he opened the flap of the tent. “Stay close.”

Bill stepped out of the tent, and felt as though the sea moved towards him, as a wave of the undead lurched towards him. He flicked his wand in the air and a wave of heat blasted into his face as his tip wand erupted into fire. A path of the vermin was instantly incinerated, as he began to walk towards Dina’s red silk pavilion like tent.

They reached its flap, edged with gold ribbon. “Come on,” said Bill.

They went inside, to the wide apartment. Everything seemed to be plush and velvet. Bill was rather involuntarily reminded of the Gryffindor common room, with the little fire merrily burning in the tiny corner fireplace.

“Not much here,” said Witcombe. Bill hummed in agreement.

“That tells us one thing,” he replied.

“What?”

“She left of her own accord,” he said, and nodded his head towards a little symbol, the Eye of Re, which hung over the doorway. “No one who bore ill-intent could have gotten into this tent—not without forcing their way in.”

Witcombe looked a little concerned by the possibilities, retrieving his eyeglasses and cleaning them furiously. “What now,” asked Witcombe.

“Armand,” he said.

They stepped out into the desert, met by more of the mummified snakes, and perhaps he was just imagining it, but he couldn’t help but think that they looked a little bigger than they had before. He plowed forward, a whip of fire burning them. They reached the edge of Armand’s faded blue tent, only for Bill to hear a slight gasp behind him, and an unmistakable hiss.

“Bill!” said Witcombe.

He cast his eyes behind him, and he could see a cobra swaying, its head held high and pendulating from one side to the other. Even from its bony, carcass, a parchment dry hood descended, and a thick dollop of poison hissed as it hit the sand. He couldn’t reach for his wand without it lunging, for him and he could see Witcombe frozen in fear.

As the cobra struck, Bill grabbed it by its neck, right underneath its head. It twisted in his grip, trying to sink its fangs down into his wrist, so ferociously that with a slight pop its head detached and fell into the sand. Bill and Witcombe watched for a moment, with morbid curiousity, as even detached from its body, a withered tongue hissed, and the snake’s jaws still snapped.

Witcombe gulped. “Right, then.”

Bill frowned and pushed his way in, as Witcombe entered, Bill traced his wand down the flap of the tent, sealing it.

Armand’s tent was filled with the sort of furniture that Bill’s Aunt Muriel would have thought was quite fetching, with all dark wood, and clawed feet. Heavy, gothic bookcases lined the walls and the embers of a fire glimmered underneath a stone fireplace. Everything was a little run down, if well taken care of. The drapes were faded velvet, with motheaten ends, and his desk had scuff marks down the legs.

“No struggle, again,” said Bill quietly. “See if you can find anything.”

Bill headed for the desk. It was bare, but for an unpublished manuscript, detailing protective enchantments on Old Kingdom tombs and a little journal that sat beside it, bearing the legend on its hidebound cover, with neat handwriting, of S. Crouch.

‘We travelled nearly thirteen days out of Assuan, after leaving the consulate. Our guide, Gafar, of an ancient Nubian family, provided us with a flying carpet—imported from the wizards of Baghdad…

The text meandered on for some time, telling of Mr. Crouch’s journey through the wastes, of having their carpet stolen by nomads and eventually, against all odds, making it to a tomb in the desert, isolated from all others.

It sat there, lonely monolith in the desert sands. Hardly more than a door, half-covered by the sands. On its plinth was the hieroglyph for Noble blood, and beside it the Set animal. The Nubian, smiled, and said that he was indeed of old blood, and that the old families know who they are. He cut his hand and placed it against the plinth and the door shuddered open. But we cannot return to what has now been lost.

Bill slowly massaged the bridge of his nose. He had an awful feeling down in the pit of his stomach. He wondered whether the snakes and scorpions outside their tents were random at all. What had Armand gotten them into?

“Bill,” called out Witcombe. “I think I’ve found something.” He clutched a little scrap of paper in his hand, the crumpled-up remnants of a letter that had been tossed in the wastepaper basket.

“What is it?”

“Correspondence with Gringotts,” said Witcombe grimly. “Apparently he had assurances of further pay.”

“Bloody hell,” cursed Bill. “I think he brought Dina with him.”

Witcombe pulled at his collar, and ran his hand through his sweat soaked hair. “But, what can we do?”

Bill’s eyes drifted towards where the pyramid loomed over the tent. Witcombe shook his head. “No… No…” he said. “I told you that I’m no auror. They chose to go in!”

“They’re our friends,” said Bill. “I’m worried they might’ve gotten into a little more trouble than they signed up for.” He began to walk towards the flap of the tent and Witcombe grabbed his arm.

“Please, Bill,” he begged. “Don’t make me go in there with you.”

“I’m not making you do anything,” said Bill. “I’m going to go in there, to save our friends.”

“But if you go in there, I’d be a coward if I didn’t join you.”

Bill shrugged. “Come on if you want to.”

“I’m an historian,” he cried, even as Bill pulled back the flap and the stepped outside. “I’m hardly equipped for this!”

“You can cast a blasting curse, can’t you?” asked Bill. “Stiffen up, eh? For the glory.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” said Witcombe piteously. “Stiffening up. Stiffening up forever.” Nevertheless, as Bill moved towards the pyramid, Witcombe was at his back. The throngs of undead pests only grew more frequent here, waves of them, rushing out of its tunnel.

But every lash of fire had them collapsing to dust, their ancient bones falling to ash upon the desert sands. Soon, they had reached the entrance to the pyramid, and ducked their heads into the darkness. Their torches had all been somehow extinguished, and the interior was a lightless black. Only the lashes he sent through the corridors like a flare lit for a moment the shadowy interior, just for the oily black to reclaim its place.

“Light,” he hissed to Witcombe. The tip of Witcombe’s wand illuminated the tunnels. Now Bill could see the snakes and scorpions as they all moved in one direction, all out of the old chamber, the one that they had opened. They struggled to move through, and the heat of the whip soon felt oppressive in the narrow tunnels, where Bill’s shoulders could barely fit, and two men couldn’t stand abreast.

Finally, they came to the odd chamber, and the pit in Bill’s stomach sunk further as he saw the gates completely ajar. It was from here, he could see, that came the mummified animals. Pouring out of every crevice, like water through a leaking roof.

“What could have caused this?” breathed Witcombe.

Bill had his suspicions, but he didn’t voice them. There was no need to. “I have a bad feeling about this.” He gritted his teeth, and with one wave of his wand shouted. “Immobilis!” The tiny mummified scorpions and snakes ceased to fall, frozen in mid air as they fell from their holes. “We need to keep moving,” he said. “I’m worried.”

Witcombe looked around. “I’d better stay here,” he said. “Guard the backline.” Bill shrugged, descending down the stairs, as Witcombe glanced nervously around. Suddenly they could a mighty crash sound somewhere in back of them, and Witcombe was suddenly further down the stairs than Bill was; almost leaping through the shattered blood door.

There weren’t any snakes or scorpions here, just a long dark corridor, the edge of which he couldn’t see. Bill cast a light, but it didn’t illuminate anything. The darkness itself seemed to suffocate the tip of his wand as he held it. It was an almost tangible blackness, the kind of dark that even the bravest soul would have some trepidations about entering, not because of what it was, but rather for what it could contain. Bill had the vague feeling of skittering feet there, or of the grind of metal or bone against stone. He pressed his eyes tight, and just forced his way forward.

As he began to walk, he lost all feeling. His body was numb, like he was floating in a pool of water, without sense of presence. His orientation changed; he was upside down now. It was impossible to know what was forward, what was back. Sensation was almost gone, and he was left like an embryo in the egg.

“Bill!?” He heard through the fog like blackness. He knew it was Witcombe, but it sounded far away, without any discernable source. He cast his head around, trying to isolate where the sound came from.

“Witcombe!” He called back. Even to his ears it sounded weak and indistinct.

He could panic fall over him. He didn’t know where to go or how. He didn’t know what else lurked in the darkness with him. He felt claustrophobic. Suddenly he wondered whether he was alive at all.

He tried desperately to find anything to guide him, to root him in the now and keep him from falling backwards. He lashed out, and suddenly felt the sting of pain as his knuckles hit the rough stone wall. That was real.

“Find the wall, Witcombe! Find the wall!”

Bill held his hand against the rough stone, and slowly forced himself to walk forward, until finally, almost imperceptibly the oily darkness fell away, and he emerged out into a new corridor. He took great wracking breaths, forcing himself to inhale and exhale.

Witcombe emerged a second later, and Bill forced himself to hope that the haunted look in the man’s eyes was not mirrored in his own. He thought it was probably a vain hope. He cast a light, and he gloried in its brightness as he never had before.

“It’s beautiful,” said Witcombe as he stared at the light, and Bill wasn’t inclined to argue. He suddenly heard odd skittering sounds coming from somewhere behind them. Immense feet hitting the stone floors.

“We should keep moving,” he said finally. Witcombe nodded quickly, his face paling as he glanced over his shoulder.

The corridor they now were in looked clear. Just rough-hewn carvings on the walls, and almost cyclopean tiles. Witcombe squared his shoulders, and made to walk forward, but Bill stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Wait,” he said.

“For what?” Witcombe looked down the hall and saw nothing. “It’s clear.”

Bill narrowed his eyes. There was something about it he just didn’t like. He took a pebble from his pocket, tapping it and transfiguring it into a little mouse. It skittered across the floor, and the cracked cyclopean tiles suddenly animated. A hand reached out of the earth, enclosing the mouse within colossal fingers and just as quickly sinking back into the floor, leaving only a bloody smear as a memory of the mouse’s passing. “Not quite clear, eh,” said Bill.

Witcombe’s eyes were wide, staring at his narrowly avoided fate. Bill released another mouse, just as the fingers were closing, Bill rushed forward and tapped the hand with the wand, leaving it frozen. He vaulted over the stone digits, hoping desperately that they wouldn’t suddenly close, leaving him trapped within.

“Come on,” he yelled, and waved his comrade forward. Witcombe followed, gingerly climbing over the thumb. They emerged upon a much larger chamber. The door here was warm, but it was nothing compared to the practical furnace that burst out like a sirocco wind as they opened the door. At first glance, it was just another table. Through the center of the room, a stream, as wide abreast as Bill’s shoulders, twisted and curved a path through the chamber, flanked on both sides by a golden landscape.

On the landscape, cities and ancient ruins were modeled in miniature. Suddenly, as he stared at it, Bill realized that it was Egypt he was looking at, from the perspective of a god looking down from far above the Ethiopian plateau. Cairo, Alexandria, Giza—all were mimicked in tiny spires of the gold. The modern cities as well, not just the ones that existed a thousand years past.

“They’re liquid,” said Witcombe wonderingly, and Bill realized he was right. Rather than being the solid gold they had seemed at first glance, the gold was as liquid and moving as its silver counterpart, continually flowing into the shapes of the building. Bill watched in wonderment as a building in Aswan collapsed as he watched, and a diminutive cruise ship sailed past Luxor. Bill wondered whether if he looked closer, he might even see little figures walking around, mimicked by what lay outside.

“It’s brilliant,” said Bill, and Witcombe nodded.

“It must be the finest work of scrying…” Witcombe couldn’t even finish the sentence. His eyes were simply drawn back to the tableau beneath them.

Bill realized suddenly the heat then, was emanating from the lake of molten silver and gold. His thoughts were cast in a different direction, away from wonderment, and back to Dina and Armand, deep in the bowels of the pyramid. “We need to get over,” he said finally.

Witcombe looked a little reluctant to leave, but nodded. “You’re right. How do we do this?”

Bill stared at the lake for a moment—trying to think how he might get over. “I don’t suppose we could levitate each other over?”

Witcombe just blinked. “Levitate? Bill, as much as I respect you as a curse breaker—I’m not sure I want your concentration to be the only thing separating me from a rather gruesome end.”

Bill shrugged. “It was a thought.”

Witcombe took a moment to stare at the lake. “You’re a pureblood, aren’t you Weasley?”

His brows furrowed a little, curious where Witcombe was going with this, but Bill nodded. “Not that it matters.”

Witcombe waved a hand. “Of course, of course. I just wonder whether the Tales of Beedle the Bard were ever read to you by your mother.”

Bill colored a little. “Er… she preferred the Toadstool Tales.” His mother, although a great woman, had always balked at some of the gruesome details that Beedle so delighted in.

He sighed. “A shame,” he said. “It’s a fine work of literature. The river here, just reminded me of the Tale of Three Brothers.”

“I’m not sure I know that one,” said Bill sheepishly.

“Three brothers make a bargain with death,” said Witcombe. “It’s a rather simple story. But what reminds me, is that when the brothers come to a river’s rapids—upon which they were fated to die—they transfigure a bridge that arched the white water.

Bill caught on quickly. “You’re saying that we could simply transfigure a bridge.”

“It would have to be metal.” Witcombe’s eyes were fixed upon the twin molten rivers.

“Could we transfigure the gold?”

“The silver, I should think. Silver and bridge are both six letters.” Witcombe looked reluctant, staring at the golden replica of Egypt. “There will never be anything like this. Never anything so perfect. It’s the Philosopher’s Stone of Ancient Egypt.”

“For our friends,” said Bill, as he patted Witcombe’s shoulder. The older man gulped, but met his eyes, and Bill could see the determination shine through.

“For our friends.”

They began to morph the silver, levitating it into the air, even as the silver began to try and resist, he pulled it apart. Bill winced as he saw the gold, crash and flow where the silver had once been. It turned to a mirror flat finish even as their rude bridge materialized above it, arching above the chamber. Witcombe collapsed to his knees, trying to catch his breath.

“You alright?”

He nodded, and wiped a light sheen of sweat from his forehead. “Let’s keep going,” he said, and they quickly surmounted the bridge, over the molten gold pond, and back into the shadowy tunnels, as they delved deeper and deeper into the pyramid. Witcombe gave a small huff.

“But it seems like it will go on forever.”

Bill couldn’t help but agree. Every twist of the cramped, narrow hallways seemed to just lead to another door. Another block to their path. He didn’t know what time it was outside. Whether the morning had broken over the sands, or whether his friends were still alive, in the heart of the tombs.

Bill could see Witcombe casting nervous glances over his shoulder as they went down further. “It’s getting closer,” he said, as they turned down another staircase.

“What is?”

“That noise.” Witcombe waved behind him. “The skittering. Can’t you hear it?”

Bill could. It was an awful sound, the kind that echoed through walls. Of something with far too many feet, and which was far too large for his, or its, own good. He took his own look back. “Well, we should hurry then.”

Witcombe didn’t bother to respond, breaking into a flat sprint ahead of Bill. He turned down the hallway, and suddenly, a cry of dismay echoed through.

“Cecil!” Bill yelled. He hurtled down the tunnel, his shoulders wet from brushing up against the damp stone, and his wand aloft, a single point of light in pitch black. He finally found Witcombe upon his knees, with his hand outstretched and barely brushing the edge of an immense pillar that blocked their path. His wand had rolled to his side. Carved upon the pillar was the sort of spell of which the Egyptians were very fond, one that required a precise set of movements. Easy to get through, but time consuming.

“It’s too close,” said Witcombe despairingly. “We can’t make it.” His shot open, in barely suppressed terror. “Listen! It’s here! With us!”

Bill shot him a commiserating smile. “Chin up, mate,” he said. “We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?” He wheeled around. His wand was a single point of light in the black. But the shadow that waited at the end of the corridor lengthened and distorted. Suddenly, Bill could see little points of light reflected back at him as a jet black chitinous claw emerged, so dark that the only thing to distinguish it from the pitch black was its mirror finish. Bill could hear Witcombe stumble back behind him, and a sharp intake of breath. The man was right. It was here already. With them.

A scorpion— with claws as long as Bill’s body, its lobster-like body gleaming in the low light of the golden torches. Black ridges rose from its armored hide, and it sounded like shells as it clashed its claws together.

Bill ran a hand through his hair, and even as the scorpion charged forward, he ran to meet it. His wand whipped out and sent a spell to the ground. The ground rippled as a shockwave burst through it, sending the scorpion tumbling into the shadow. He looked back to Witcombe. “Come on,” he said. “I could use some help. But Witcombe was frozen in fear, standing statue-like, as the scorpion reemerged. He was unable to tear his gaze away from the scorpion’s barb, as it dripped with toxic poison.

He sent a cutting curse at the arachnid, but it didn’t seem to bother it, just letting its thick armor absorb the blow. Bill frowned, and suddenly conjured a fiery whip from his wand, casting it above his head like a fishing line and then forward where it hit the edge of the scorpion. It hissed in barely contained rage, but it hardly seemed to even slow it down.

Its claw shot at Bill like a Bludger, one plunging into the stone of the hallway and coming up filled with granite, only to pulverize the stone as easy as if it was sand in its hand. Again! Even as he tried to roll away, it pulled back, caught in Bill’s thick outer robes. It tore away, pulling away into scraps with the claw.

“Stupefy,” he yelled, but it kept coming towards him, its claws snapping wildly. Bill closed his eyes. He was only seconds from death, as the scorpion moved towards him, and his most powerful spells didn’t even leave a mark upon it.

“Tarantallegra!” Bill wanted to laugh, startled into the thought that Witcombe hadn’t been lying when it came to his limited spells. But his eyes opened, and he watched as the scorpion’s legs were twisted into an awkward jig, twisting it around.

“That’s it!” he cried. “That’s it! Not an auror’s spells, but a student’s! Rictusempra!” He shouted, and the scorpion suddenly collapsed to the floor in odd wheezing click, like a guffaw’s parody.

“Flipendo!” The scorpion flipped in the air, and fell with its legs in the air, it legs twitching in the air as it made its odd mockery of a laugh. Bill ran towards it, and finally lining up a shot with its soft underbelly, cast a burning curse. The scorpion was incinerated from the inside, its eyes glowing red with heat.

Breathing heavily, Bill stumbled towards Witcombe. “That… that was fantastic,” he said.

Witcombe simply straightened his glasses, suppressing a wide grin. But his happiness turned grim in a second. “Bill! Your arm!”

Bill looked down, and suddenly noticed the blood that streamed from his arm. The scorpion must have not only grabbed robe. He managed a soft. “Oh.”

He tore the bare scraps of his sleeve from his arm, tying it into a tight bandage around his bicep. The makeshift bandages were soon sodden with blood, and Bill was keenly aware that it would have looked even worse, had the cloth not been so dark.

“Forward?” asked Witcombe, looking leerily at Bill’s arm.

Bill just nodded, feeling rather drained. “No way but forward.” A spell pulverized the stone blocking them, revealing another of the chambers. A body lay groaning on the floor close to them, while on the other end, ethereal light shined upon an empty pedestal. He sprinted towards the body, and Bill realized that it was Armand. The Frenchman futilely clutching at the innards spilling out of his abdomen.

“He’s going to die you know?”

Bill looked up, and suddenly, where the empty pedestal once sat, was Dina, staring down at his prone form, a crown perched above her brow, as magnificent as anything that he had ever seen, encrusted with sapphires and so finely worked so as to look almost braided, but in her eyes Bill could only detect the deepest scorn.

“Dina,” he said. “What happened.” She looked up, and the look was gone as soon as it had appeared, so quick that Bill almost thought he imagined it.

“Bill! He tried to kill me—he’s working for them! For the Goblins! He tried to take the crown.”

“…Didn’t…. kill….” Armand feebly protested as his blood soaked into the pyramid’s stone. Witcombe ran over to try and bandage up the wound, but Bill already knew there was no point to it. Armand was dead, or might as well have been dead. His gaze was locked on Dina.

“Take the crown off Dina,” he demanded. Her soft look suddenly turned stone hard.

“No. I don’t think I will,” she said. “A Pharaoh ought to have a crown, don’t you think. We both know I come from a long line of pharaohs. The Serafim, a line of kings.” There was an odd sort of humor to her voice, but Bill knew that Dina would have never made fun of her own heritage.

“You’re not Dina, are you?” Bill stared at the woman who wore Dina’s face. Her posture had changed, away from the slouching gait, and towards almost a strut or swagger, someone who had only ever known success, only ever known power.

A small quirk of the lips. “I suppose I’m not. Not exactly at least.”

“Who are you,” he said.

Her eyes flashed. “A goddess.” She waved Dina’s wand, and suddenly the air between them crackled with a wave of explosions like little firecrackers that filled the air and expanded. He traced a circle in the air, and the wave stopped in the middle of the room, trying to inch its way forward, but for now stopped where it was.

The smoke dissipated, and Dina stood there, her hair wild, her eyes turned gold from their usual brown. “You aren’t as weak as your friend,” she hissed. She flicked the wand up, and digits began to break out of the sandstone, the hand of some mighty goliath, its finger reaching for bill. He didn’t blink, and swiped his wand through the air, slicing the sandstone and sending it hurtling back towards Dina.

They curved away before they could hit her, crashing against the wall. The Pyramid itself shook a little as stones were torn away from it. Bill sent a spell, hurtling towards, and he couldn’t help but cheer a little as it landed, and she was sent spinning into the wall with a crash of dust. But when it subsided, she looked entirely unharmed, almost bemused by his struggle.

Her golden eyes were locked on him, considering, and Bill welcomed the small breath. “You’re almost as handsome as my husband, you know? Dina always liked you, and I do owe her.”

“Sorry, I just don’t think it’ll work out,” said Bill. He shot a curse towards her, but she sneered as it hit a shield and made a sound like a gong crashing to the floor.

“You’ll have to do a little better than that, darling.”

She started to move towards him, flicking, darting and twisting her wand as she did so, and it was like a bullwhip smacking against the ground, Bill forced to retreat inexorably backwards, towards where Witcombe knelt beside Armand. “It’s doesn’t have to be this way, you know? Join me, take your place as my…” she waved a hand. “Something.”

Bill wiped the sweat from his forehead. The concentration of dodging and casting so many spells was taking a toll on him, he could feel his hand shake, and he still didn’t know what had caused Dina to turn into… this. “I’ve only known you a few minutes, but I can already tell I prefer the old Dina.”

She sneered. “You still don’t understand. I am not, Dina. I am Isis.”

“And you have returned.” Bill gritted his teeth; the world didn’t need another Dark Lord—not by a long shot. Here he might’ve had the only chance to keep her from becoming a bane to all wizards.

“I have returned. After thousands of years, I have returned.” Her face was a cruel mask, wreathed in shadow, lit only by the few flickering lights of the torches on the wall. “So too shall my champions.”

She stepped back, and from the darkened corridors lurched the undead. Ancient Inferi, dozens of them, their bodies decomposed and wrapped in linen fabric, but their eyes red with malice. They were surrounded. Outmatched by a witch who had millennia to plan her return. Bill grimaced; he didn’t even know if he could win.

Fire, conjured from the tip of his wand like a long and trailing whip, curved around him as he sent it into the undead, casting them low to ash as it touched their parched and dried skin. Their linen erupted into fire like they were soaked with whiskey, burning easily.

But there were more of them. Emerging from every hallway like a macabre parade, one after another, seemingly out of nowhere. Mummified animals trailing beside their masters in life. His eyes flashed towards Witcombe, where the man stood above Armand, shielding his friend from the onslaught. A bead of sweat tracked down his forehead, but he gritted his teeth in determination as he cast fire curses at the undead.

Isis stood above them all, and as Bill watched, he thought he could see her form—the form of Dina, dissolving into a miasma, replaced one by one with the ancient body of Isis. Eyes of pure gold, a dark mane of hair, and skin like clouds near sunset, and features as delicate as a porcelain doll. But where Dina had looked at the world as if she had something to prove—this… woman, looked upon it like it had something to prove to her.

She stood there, staring at him with an undefinable expression. “The world needs me.”

Bill was ready to die. He’d stand defiant, but he knew it was all a foregone conclusion. He stood in front of his friends. Die like a hero. But he would die.

Suddenly, he heard a weak sounding voice. Both his and Isis’ gaze shifted down to where Armand lay upon the stone. Flame burst out of Armand’s wand like an inferno as the wizard collapsed down upon the sand. Suddenly amorphic, protoplasmic beasts burst out of the fire. Centaurs, and crocodiles, and leaping tigers, gazelles and rhinoceroses, leaping out of the blaze, and just as quickly being reabsorbed within.

Isis stared at it, too close even to move away from it, as her skin was burnt away from her stolen body, her diadem burnt in the infernal fires. For all her power, she was as helpless as a babe before the uncontrolled power of the spell. Bill knew he had only seconds before the fires turned towards him. He grabbed Witcombe, pulling him behind him as he sprinted out of the chamber and past the scorpion.

Soon enough came to the silver bridge, they ran past it and Bill chanced a glance backwards as the flames reduced the whole chamber to molten stone and metal. They charged the corridor with the frozen hand and sprinted through the darkness; their eyes kept shut even as it seemed to toss them around. Always they could feel the heat of the fire licking at their heels.

Bill slid out of the pyramid, just as the flames seemed to lick his nape. The charging, amorphous forms of the fiendfyre tried to escape the millennia old darkness of the interior, but were cut off as Witcombe, blood dripping from his forehead waved his wand and collapsed the basalt block that blocked out the interior, extinguishing the fire for want of air.

Bill sucked in deep wracking breaths glad to have made it out into the morning air. He looked up to Witcombe wonderingly, slightly surprised that they both had made it out of the pyramid alive.

“Dina’s dead,” he said. “Armand’s dead. Half the gold in the pyramid has been melted down to slag.” He laughed, a sorry, sardonic bark. “This really has gone all cock up, hasn’t it?”

Witcombe shrugged, idly wiping his little silver spectacles clean of blood. “Could’ve been worse.”

“How’s that?” asked Bill.

“We could be dead as well.” Witcombe idly brushed the dust from the shoulders of his jacket. “That’s something, I suppose. How about we go to Cheops’.”

“Coffee?”

“Scotch.” He gave Bill a tired, little smile. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”