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CHAPTER ONE.
THROWING THEM DOWN A FLIGHT OF STAIRS
IS CERTAINLY A CONVERSATION STARTER
As Fleamont Potter stared up at the luxurious steamer SS Karnak, its shadow cast long and large over the bustling port of Shellal, he allowed himself a single, ungrateful sigh.
He wasn’t much of a traveller, truth be told. He’d paid handsomely for a Floo hook up at his home in London which he used to access the clinic at the hospital for simplicity’s sake or whenever he had to meet his suppliers in Birmingham or Dover. But Fleamont wasn’t one for journeying for pleasure. He’d rather in quiet evening with a good book and piping hot Refilling Cup of tea. In all honesty, there was little indeed about his upcoming voyage which filled him with more than a vague sense of annoyance. That he had committed to the next two weeks of lounging about an Egyptian river cruise - filled with few people he only vaguely knew and even fewer he actually liked - rather than attending to his research was truly a mark of his friendship.
“Mont! Oh good, you found us. I thought you might’ve tried to sneak off.”
Speak of the devil.
Dorian Longbottom came strolling down the gangplank, arms outstretched. His dark hair had lightened a little in the Egyptian sunlight and he’d gained a natural golden tan which the cool English weather typically stripped from him. But his large protruding ears and customary wide grin was just as it had been since they were boys together at Hogwarts. Fleamont met his embrace with a patient, somewhat forced smile of his own.
“I wouldn’t sneak off,” Fleamont lied through his teeth. “My driver was Muggle, so he had a little confusion over how my trunks seem to have fit in his cab.” The man himself was directing the Karnak’s cabin crew in loading the trunks now, his clothes, books and well-stocked potion kit swiftly vanishing up the gangway onto the ship. “But a few extra pounds and he seemed to lose interest quick enough.”
Dorian laughed at that. “The locals are a good sort around here,” he admired, glancing about the port with an air of eagerness. “They’ve been looking after Aggie and I so well I’ve been teasing her that we might never leave.”
Fleamont raised his brows. “And how is the new Mrs Longbottom?”
“Already on board, rearranging our compartments.” Dorian said, sounding entirely unbothered by the fact. “I tried to help at first but then I decided just to leave her in charge. She seemed happier for it.”
“I see.”
“Oh, come now,” his friend admonished. “Don’t be like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know perfectly well what.” Dorian cast him a knowing glance. “Take this trip as it is meant, Mont, as an opportunity for you two to get to know each other better.”
Fleamont’s smile grew wry. “I take it Augusta is no fonder of me than she was at the wedding.”
“It was a bad first impression.” Dorian admitted as he led them up the gangway aboard the Karnak. “Which was entirely my fault. I should’ve warned you about the bad blood with the Prewetts. Truth be told, when you told me you were bringing a date, I thought you were teasing.”
Fleamont rolled his eyes. “You know perfectly well Penelope came as a favour to me, not as my date.” Though this distinction had not been satisfactory to the bride’s family, who had been outraged that a Prewett would have the audacity to attend the reception. Penelope had worn a smile like the Kneazle that had caught the pixie all night, which probably should’ve clued him in.
“You could’ve at least looked for someone more eligible to bring.” Dorian told him frankly. “Weddings are marvellous occasions to acquaint yourself with potential future Mrs Potters.”
Fleamont could not contain an eye roll at his friend’s imagination. “I needed a friend that day. Penelope kept me from leaving during that atrocious wedding toast for Augusta’s great uncle.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“He fell asleep halfway through it.” Fleamont pointed out with open exasperation.
“No matter,” Dorian said dismissively, gesturing to the Karnak. “It’s finished now. Come on, I’ll give you the Sickle tour.”
The Karnak was divided between the lower levels containing the crew areas, luggage store, kitchens, engines and such, and the upper levels where the passenger cabins were located. They avoided the ship’s saloon, located near the bow of the ship, which was being set up for afternoon tea but there were several large, comfortably arranged activity decks across the upper levels which Dorian took them through. Each was labelled with small golden lettered signs for convenience sake, named after Egyptian cities: the Luxor Deck was the largest and most open at the very front of the Karnak, directly overlooking the glittering Nile waters. The Giza Deck was semi-enclosed, located in the middle of the ship on the top level, open on the port and starboard sides. The Cairo was identical and sat directly beneath it on the next level down. Each one had been furnished with lounge sets, games of shuttle board or card tables, and small, portable wet bars for guests to access throughout the trip.
The cabins were tucked toward the stern of the ship, Dorian explained, gesturing to the staircases on both sides of the ship which gave access to each level. It was a luxurious ship to be sure, with as many windows as was possible to fit, lending views of the Nile in every direction. And yet as Dorian led them upstairs to where the wedding party had been lodged, Fleamont couldn’t help tugging at his collar, dreading spending two weeks stuck in a fishbowl with strangers.
Dorian nudged him, noticing Fleamont’s morose expression. “Cheer up, Mont.” He laughed. “The Karnak is the height of sophistication, you know. We’re lucky to have secured passage for us all.”
“How many people have you lured on this trip?” Fleamont asked, warily.
“Just the five of us but there are a few other guests as well.” Dorian recalled, squinting in thought. “Odds are some of them will be single witches.”
“You sound like your mother.” He accused, already sick of his friend’s teasing.
“You ought to be listening to me, Mont.” he said cheerfully. “I’m a married man now.”
“This is going to be the whole trip, isn’t it?” Fleamont groaned. “Listen up now, Monty old boy, I’m a married man now, with married man’s wisdom.”
“Well, if you’d just let me introduce you to a few of Aggie’s friends, perhaps I wouldn’t feel the need to lecture you quite so much.” Dorian remarked pointedly.
Fleamont turned to glare over his shoulder at the man. “Or perhaps you could simply take my word for it that I’m in no hurry to go waltzing down the aisle to the first young witch I happen to take a liking to- oh bollocks!” he suddenly yelped as he collided with a warm body, narrowly missing some heavy object which tumbled down the stairs in the wake of the crash. He impulsively threw his arms out to prevent the woman from following, for it was certainly a witch: he nearly took a faceful of riotous dark curls as she wobbled in his grip.
“Dhikkāra!” the stranger stared at the mess below them, a fallen basket with its bright, colourful contents spilled across the staircase in disarray. “Oh, my things-” She fell silent as she glanced up at Fleamont, realising they’d become pressed together, his arms firmly keeping her pinned to his chest. Fleamont found himself speechless for an entirely different reason.
Below them, Dorian was already calling out for staff to assist in cleaning up the mess, his wand already flicking a quick Tidying Charm towards it. “…for my friend, Miss.” He was saying, his most charming, apologetic smile lit and ready to dazzle her into forgiveness. “Mont here has terrible eyesight, I’m afraid.”
“And good reflexes, it seems.” she murmured back, glancing at the steep decline she’d nearly toppled down. “I cannot blame you entirely sir, I was a little distracted myself.”
“Yes,” Mont found himself echoing stupidly. “Distracted. I was. I mean, I am. Fleamont Potter.” He added, holding out his hand in the narrow gap between them.
The woman glanced down at it with a slightly amused look. Fleamont noted the delicate fan of her lashes as they brushed her cheek, realising she was certainly almost a foot shorter than him. “A pleasure, Mr Potter.” She finally said, taking his hand gently. “And thank you for your save. Though perhaps you might let me go now.”
“No.” he said immediately. Then closed his eyes in humiliation as he extricated his arms from around her, putting some much-needed space between them both. “I mean, no, of course, you’re right. Apologies, miss. Miss…?”
He could practically feel the scorching heat of Dorian’s amusement at his nonsense babbling words.
“Mia? Are you alright, beti?” An older, dark-skinned gentleman had appeared at the top of the stairs above them, his dark sage green robes embroidered with delicate golden suns matching the dignified dastar turban folded around his skull.
“I’m fine, Appa, just a small mishap.” The woman laughed, hastening up the stairs to join him. “These poor gentlemen were nearly crushed beneath your laundry.” She teased.
The older wizard gave a chuckle. “Attacking you with soiled garments seems a poor way to start our journey together, gentlemen. Fasir Misra,” he introduced, with a gentle nod. “And this is my daughter Euphemia.”
“A pleasure to meet you both.” Dorian said, kindly. “My name is Dorian Longbottom, and this is my dear friend Fleamont Potter, who will regain the working use of his tongue any minute. I’ve managed to lure him out of his workshop to join my wife and I on our wedding tour down the Nile.” He added, cheerfully.
Misra’s gaze softened slightly. “Ah young love, always such a delight to see. And where is your lovely bride?”
“Marshalling the ship staff to her will, at present. But she’ll be joining me for dinner in the saloon later this evening. You’ll have to join our table, to make up for nearly knocking your lovely daughter overboard.” Dorian insisted, with another charming smile.
Euphemia waved a hand. “Don’t censure yourself so harshly, Mr Longbottom. As I said, I was quite distracted with my reading, I should’ve known better than to attempt a Levitation Charm without looking.”
“Then it’s settled, we are all equally at fault and we must all have dinner together to make amends.” The Misras laughed at his teasing. Fleamont had always envied Dorian his easy, affable charm. The Longbottom wizard seemed effortlessly comfortable with his own skin, always equipped with a retort or a compliment or a joke as the situation may need. They’d first been acquainted at Hogwarts in a Potions class in Second Year, when Dorian had verbally decimated Myron Montague for making fun of Fleamont’s name, cementing his role as Fleamont’s best, and at times, only friend. He usually thought of Dorian’s social graces as a welcome shield, relieving him of having to make dutiful but dull small talk with strangers.
Now, however, Fleamont found himself vaguely annoyed by the way his friend seemed able to chat and laugh so easily with a woman so beautiful she put the sun itself to shame.
“-and Mont will be there too, of course.” Dorian slapped a hand on his shoulder, knocking him out of his stupor.
“Yes,” Fleamont blurted out, hastily. “Of course. Please, you’ll be a welcome addition at our table.” And a welcome respite from Augusta Longbottom’s annoyed glare, he added silently.
“Then it seems we have no choice,” Misra relented, happily. “Mia, we should not keep the captain waiting much longer to discuss the permits for travelling with those samples you brought. If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen.”
“Of course.” Fleamont murmured, catching one last glance at Miss Misra as she departed, her arm tucked in her father’s.
“Well, it’s not exactly my technique for meeting pretty witches,” Dorian noted when the pair were out of earshot. “But throwing them down a flight of stairs is certainly a conversation starter.”
“I didn’t throw her down the stairs!” Fleamont argued hotly, embarrassment coursing through his veins. “It was an accident.”
“Certainly.” Dorian shrugged, as if he didn’t fully believe the wizard. “Either way it’s effective. Now what was that about not waltzing down the aisle with the first witch you liked?”
“You’re a terrible friend.” Fleamont complained, his foot catching on something left discarded on the next step. “Wait, that must be Miss Misra’s book.”
“Lucky you, you’ll have something to talk to her about this evening.” Dorian said cheerfully, clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder as Fleamont turned the dark purple leather tome over in his hands. “Come on now, Mont, try to exercise a little of that famous Potter wit. Staring might convey admiration well enough, but I’d wager the daughter of Fasir Misra prefers intelligent conversation over goggling.”
“Fasir Misra…” he echoed as he blindly followed Dorian towards the cabins. “Wait, Misra? As in Misra Exports?”
“The very same.” Dorian confirmed, brows raised. “I recognised the rising sun sigil on his robes. I’m surprised you didn’t. Haven’t you been frothing over his apothecary catalogue for the past six weeks? I’m sure I remember you babbling on about it at the wedding.”
Fleamont could hardly believe he’d just been in the presence of Fasir Misra, owner of the largest apothecarial exporter in South Asia and publisher of one of Fleamont’s favourite treatises on the uses of Rajasthani Ridgeback dragon scales in spell amplification, and he’d been too busy staring at his daughter like a prize idiot to notice.
“This is why I never leave the workshop.” He muttered scornfully.
Dorian snickered. “Lighten up, Mont, you can talk his ears off tonight. Though I think I’d rather talk to Miss Misra if I were in your shoes.”
“Shut up.” Fleamont told him, annoyed. “This is your fault. All this haranguing about marriage nonsense and Aggie-”
They turned the corner just in time to see the tall, poised figure of Augusta Longbottom arch her brow at the pair of them. “Nonsense?” she echoed in a deeply unimpressed tone. “It really is a wonder you aren’t married, Fleamont.”
“Now, dear, play nice,” Dorian chided, slipping an arm about her waist. “Mont’s just met his future wife, he’s still in shock.” Despite her husband’s sweet, charming tone, Augusta remained rigid as she glared over at Fleamont. It was one of the reasons he’d never really taken to the former Miss Finch. She was always so straight backed, with her stiff upper lip and imperious stare. Matched with his charming, outgoing best friend, Fleamont had never really been able to reconcile the two together.
But he owed it to Dorian to make peace all the same. “Good to see you, Augusta.” He said, tightly. “You look well.”
“I look quite the same. You on the other hand look as if you’ve taken to nocturnalism.” She said, briskly.
“I’m quite busy at work these days.” He said, biting back a retort.
She studied him critically. “It would be quite rude to shut yourself inside your cabin for the next two weeks, you know.”
Fleamont forced a smile. It came out more like a grimace. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Then why do you have the ship staff unpacking a small potion’s lab in your compartments?” she challenged, arching her brow. “It’s unseemly.”
Even Dorian’s laughter seemed a little tense. “Aggie, you know Mont doesn’t travel lightly.”
“I admit, there are a few specimens I’d like to try my hand at collecting while I’m here.” Fleamont said, with a deep, calming sigh. “Particularly at Abu Simbel.”
“There are as many responsibilities in being a good guest as there are in being a good hostess, you know.” Augusta pointed out, idly. “One of them is engaging with your fellow passengers on appropriate topics of conversation to pass the time. Not regaling them with the rejuvenating qualities of frog mucus.”
“Your aunt was the one who asked about my experiments.” Fleamont said stiffly. “I was merely being obliging.”
She hummed, unimpressed. “Do try better this time around, won’t you?”
And that’s enough of that. “Quite.” Fleamont said shortly, turning to Dorian. “I’ll see myself to my cabin. Until dinner.”
His friend looked vaguely apologetic for his bride’s waspish tongue but he let it go without comment. “I’ll introduce you to the rest of the party. And make sure you bring the book!”
He found himself running a gentle hand over the cover on the way to his cabin. As if he was likely to forget.
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