Scorched Sand

(Original Title; "Shades Of Panic": can be found http : // hp . adultfanfiction . net / story . php? no = 600011425 )

Abby Ebon

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Disclaimer: Ducklings, if you think I'm J. K. Rowling, author of seven Harry Potter novels and a few fandom booklets - or that humble little me would work among those who produced the books, or movies, or even helped in the production and/or writing of the Mummy or the Mummy Returns, you're a bit more off the rock then the average swan - but that's okay, you're just a different breed of duck.

Summary: Harry went and died when he really wasn't supposed to. Is it his fault he's mortal? Landing in Ancient Egypt after killing a Dark Lord isn't death; but it might as well be something close to it. Now this modern wizard must juggle Egyptian Gods, Pharaohs, and High Priests that want up his…erk, loincloth?!

So things get better, or worse. Especially when, after picking up a rock that absorbs into his skin, he can read and speak the ancient languages. Thankfully the daughter of the Pharaoh has taken a liking to him- unfortunately so has the power-mad Priest who wants to make Harry his bitch. Or worship him to death with sex. Luckily said Priest dies- unluckily Harry is put under a soul-link with him that acts as a primitive form of cryogenic freezing (without the cold) to ensure he stays that way, immortality with nothing to do? It sucks. 3000 years later, things get… interesting. Just a little bit.

Author Note:

If you by chance read this story before '09, well things have changed in new and interesting ways. If not, continue on and ignore all oddities I haven't caught.

Inspiration comes form some of the oddest forms, for this, I can point out the idea of a 'Harry Potter and The Mummy!' crossover has been done before, and will go on around a while after, this story.

A particular favorite of mine in this crossover is 'Desert Warrior' by Shade Dancer; whom some time ago I did speak with and informed of the fact that I was writing a Mummy/Harry story after watching a USA marathon of The Mummy, The Mummy Returns, and The Scorpion King, and remembering her story, something like this was conceived from my mind. Felt a bit like Athena hatching from Zeus's head, really, I still remember the damnable headache.

By the way, if you encounter a little cat-scorpion muse scurrying around this story, or a baby-bunny companion running amuck, do approach with caution. They aren't called Hanic (i.e. Panic, my Egypt muse, that freaky looking cat-scorpion thingy…) and Havoc (demon plot-bunny, evil, possibly reproducing itself and new and intriguing ways everywhere)…Now you might be nervous of a such a "precious baby bunny" being taken care of by a cat-scorpion muse, have no fear, do remember the lion and the lamb- 'sides I think its adorable.

Havoc can so kick ass, too. Cause that "baby bunny" look? It's like a fishing hook, and you're the one swallowing the line.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

One Dark Lord Down, One Manic Priest To Go

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"It is said that the Founders, given their differences, inherently wished for the children and teachers of Hogwarts to succeed them, independent of their deaths.

To better explain what happened next to future generations, I must briefly explain how things have been done before the writing of this history, and will certainly occur long after.

Writing our rich history is by some, considered an ailing success, so it is that much of what we know comes from word of mouth and legend and lore of our people. We know it to be true that there are – or were – creatures of immense power, to lesser ability these exist still today though they are rare to sight and harder to find for their hiding of themselves. That we, magical as we are, are not the only ones to have this power, some would say this gift or curse is passed by blood, something put upon us by Beings Of Greater Power.

We do not know their Names, and if known we must never Write or Speak of these Names aloud for fear of wakening of stirring the attentions of these sleeping God-Powers. Yet it is considered a proven fact by many families of magic that they exist and are quick to offend or grant whims if flattered.

It is not known how it happened, but the Founders must have known some ancient and arcane means of invoking – or taking - these Names for aid.

In the East of that Sunrise, after a three-days Eclipse; a great sorrowful song came upon all and the people who had known the Founders wept for knowing that on this day they must continue on the four's great work alone. For the Founders had died with the night. This song of the East was that of the Phoenix, whom the Egyptians call the Bennu, knowing it by its nature in these words within the Egyptian Book of the Dead;

"I am the Bennu bird, the Heart-Soul of Ra, the Guide of the Gods to the Duat.".

That I may write this Name, while dare not write any other Names should be noted for this reason. As every child so must be placed in one of the Four Houses by the Sorting Hat, so must the Bennu seek the best leader and teacher for Hogwarts born within the next Age to follow in the footsteps of the Founders. Its reasoning was asked, and answered while it still had Power, that it had Forgotten its Name and sought it now from the most clever mortals born. Since then, no one has uttered the sought Name.

This creature, bound now to Hogwarts and the Mortal World, has forgotten its Name and Power, and to keep it bound, everyone who the Bennu seeks gives to it a Name of Lesser Power, do not utter aloud it's True Name, for it will not thank you for the knowing. It is no more then a Beast now, though fragments of its Power still waken from time to time.

-Hogwarts A History

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"Harry," it was Hermione who called to him after a long sleepless night and the Dark Lord pressing their defense endlessly, "I think I found a way."

A familiar old book was tucked under her arm; her eyes were tired and restless, yet still so intent and focused with her brilliant mind fully behind them. The use of his true-name alone drew his attention to his only childhood friend who made a point to deny his first official war-office order and use it. She alone could remind him of who he was, and not have it backlash to sting him like a wasp in the face. He was who they counted upon to put an end to the monster who stirred the War, but he could not think of himself as such and not faultier in his job for worry and wondering if this was the right thing. If he should not go out among his war-wizards and battle-mages and seek out for himself the Dark Lord with his bone-white crown.

Her words, if not his name and the reminder of who he was by spoken prophesy, were a blessing to their forgetful ears. She knew that she brought them fragile hope, now, in a time where they had need of it most. Still, she stood just outside the door, uninvited in and yet still a upstart enough to show that she was waiting for Harry to join her.

For all he knew and loved her, she was his friend and for all the knowledge she had he cold not – would not – risk her dying in this war. He could not loose her, another of his dear friends. In the beginning she and Ron had rode with him to the battles, had refused to leave Harry's side, it had been the end of him. Harry didn't bother dismissing himself from the gathered war-generals, he their war-lord and master by their own decree. He left the others without a word.

Let them watch him follow her, a muggle-born mudblood, as much the cause of this War as any.

"It's been sitting here all along, Harry." Hermione murmured softly, the strain of sleepless nights of study plain upon the ear.

"Look at this." Hermione gave him the book with a small shove, the top corner of the page tucked against the next. Harry looked at the words for a long time, senseless and unseeing. What he read gave him focus. Voiceless, his lips formed the Name. His wand, its phoenix feather –Bennu's feather, core the twin to the Dark Lords own, hummed warmly against his forearm like the twine of an instrument plucked.

"What do you think, Hermione?" Harry asked of her, seeking her council now, when in the past it had been flung upon him. She'd gotten wiser about when to use her tongue, but sometimes kept her silence and secrets too well.

"It pains me to say, I do not know…but, Harry we must try. He gains ground and power against us day-by-day, if this continues…it can not continue. We already loose heart and spirit, our souls may well be lost; all that will be left of us will be our bodies to be used as only his toys." Her hand shook as she brushed it through her mane of bushy wild brown curls. They bounced charmingly, framing her youthful face. He forgot, sometimes, that she was as old as he was; they both seemed so much older. War having shaped their lives and aged them cruelly, at least they still survived. Though it did not seem they enjoyed it much.

"Is this, then, the power he knows not?" Harry asked of her, his wand held in his fingers. His hands were smooth and clean, still the calluses there were for weapons. He was as skilled in those as in his magic. Hermione wondered sometimes if she could still best him in practice spar. She hid her smile as she answered.

"There is a chance, yes." Hermione could not deny she saw the steely gleam of triumph that began to bloom in his eerie Death Curse green eyes. It lifted her heart to see it.

"Then I will try." His confidence in her made her breathless, and she dared hope that his faith in her would not prove wrong. He bushed a closed-lip kiss against her forehead, smiling in a way she had no seen since before Ron died. It was brotherly, comforting and proud. Then his words sunk in, finally, and she knew what he intended to do.

"No! Harry, please, you must let someone else try…we can not loose you." She had thought it might be easy to confront him, to get him to change his mind with her sway. Always before he had heard her and more importantly valued and listened to her. Not so simple now.

"You won't, Hermione. Have faith in your own clever mind. I will see this War ended." Harry whispered the words softly, eyes now upon his wand once more. It was as if it were a secret he had dared not believe in before; for all that the others said it among each other by now as a simple truth. It was accepted for fact; though Harry had done only the best he could by them, he had never believed in his heart-of-hearts that he would be the One to end the War and kill the Dark Lord. Not after Ron had fallen.

"You must not risk yourself, Harry. We live for you. It would kill us – kill me – to see…to see you die. Please, think! It isn't worth it, its only barbaric scribbling!" She cried out, yelling through the depths of the Underhill. This was the Summer Stronghold, kept by Elves and given to Harry as an alliance-gift. There were protections here that were promised never to fail, and here alone was one of the places that Harry could live without his war-generals fearing for his life. Hermione knew what it might mean, if the Dark Lord learnt that Harry now ventured from the Underhill.

"It's the History of Hogwarts, Hermione. You've loved this book since we were school children. You had such faith in it then, have some now." He caressed the pages of the thin book, and then put it swiftly into her upraised hands. His wand in his other hand, there was something sad in the victorious smile he gave her then, it was fleeting but telling. She feared for him, having seen it.

"He's right, it won't be easy, but he is right." Hermione found herself relaxing, not at the words, but at who spoke them. Luna Lovegood smiled dreamily having stepped lightly up beside Hermione, her liquid moon-silver gaze unfocused in the here-and-now, but Seeing, as was her birthright.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"War-Lord…? Are you well?" He found the constant worry for his health, as if he might sicken suddenly and topple over into death, grating. Still, he gritted his teeth and looked to see which of his three war-generals had spoken. None of them were fully human.

Neville Longbottom was partly elf, and had an affinity with growing things. Harry knew others often forgot (though Harry never would) how frightening Neville could be when he chose. Planets that were dangerous flourished at his hand, and wielded ruthlessly in the War. It was not done to disagree with Neville lightly; he was terrifying in his own right. Neville had put himself firmly at Harry's side after Ron had fallen, even against the wishes of his formidable fully-elf "Gran", Augusta. His seconds were Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas, of which Harry did not entirely disapprove of. Though he half thought Colin Creevey and Dennis had joined merely to torment Harry in their awe of him.

Fleur Delacour, as a part-Veela, had held her ties to Bill Weasley as sacred, as all family was to a Veela; with his death, she had gone to harry, telling him bluntly to let her fight – or she would wage war against the Dark Lord single-handedly. Harry had not disbelieved her. Her only daughter, Victoire was the only Weasley born child living; the others the Dark Lord had seen fit to hunt down and kill to make examples of. With her sister Gabrielle and Tonks as her second-in-commands, the sisters and Metamorphmagus were a fierce and passionate trio on the battle field and were never underestimated; not even by the elite Death Eaters of the Dark Lord. Of course, her fraction was made up entirely of females; Padma and Parvati Patil not entirely approving of this. Katie Bell only found it all the more hilarious, though neither Lavender Brown nor Cho Chang found it so. They were, none the less, effective.

The last and most surprising of his war-generals was the former Slytherin, Blaise Zabini, who Harry knew to be part hag –if on his mother's side, though it didn't show except in his physical abilities. With, at his request, Theodore Nott and Draco Malfoy his acting as his seconds; he managed good control over his mood. Harry himself could never trust Draco, and Draco preferred working with Blaise, so it suited them. Victor Krum had settled easily among them, and his fierce loyalty to Harry wasn't questioned, he was after all a war-general in his own right when the Dark Lord took to the skies.

It had been Krum who asked, heavy brows frowning in obvious curiosity.

Harry reached, absent-minded, to sooth the ruffled feathers of his companion, the phoenix Dumbledore had named Fawkes, who Harry suspected was Bennu.

"No. I want an end to this War; even if I must bleed in self-sacrifice to achieve it." Harry allowed, knowing they would not take well to his words or what he intended to do. Draco stirred, raising a pale eyebrow – looking only once to the silent-struck Blaise before speaking his mind, with a blunt tongue, as he usually took to doing when Harry seemed the most oblivious to what he thought to be obvious.

"All that's very well said, and pretty to think what we've been doing for five years so meets with your approval. What has that to do with you totting about with a phoenix on your shoulders, Potter?" Malfoy asked in a soft aristocratic drawl, blue eyes shining his amusement. He did not yet grasp what Harry fully meant to do with this move, but was sure it was foolish and bold and with Hermione behind it's making, brilliant. That didn't mean that Draco wouldn't tease and mock him for playing this all so dramatically; as if for Draco's own pleasure. Harry knew that this was only Draco's way, and he would be least pleased to learn there was nothing else to what Harry had planned but to go through with what he said so simply.

"When the sun rises, I will go with all of you onto the battlefield; I will engage the Dark Lord in an honorable duel. You will make sure none interfere from his side, and likely, he will have his watch us. He will not believe it to be anything but a trick." Harry glanced to Fawkes, who preened at being watched – it knew it was being spoken about, even if it could not answer back as it had in the days after the Founders.

"It won't be?" Neville spoke carefully; narrow eyed and clearly looking to Fawkes as if the bird had some part to play in his newly acquired insanity. Which, of course, it did…if in a more roundabout way then Neville likely suspected. Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas having seen where Neville looked, glanced between each other their expressions of coming mischief obvious.

"No, absolutely not. You are family, 'Arry, Bill sayz, adopted-brother. I will not see you die too, someone must teach Victoire of her father's family." Fleur Delacour had stood, her skin shivering like something moved beneath it. Gabrielle did not reach to calm her, as only she could, instead she stared at Harry wide-eyed, as if she feared she was looking at the soon-to-be dead speak.

"I've already sent a messenger to the Dark Lord. Fleur, would you see me take my hand away from what I reach for – as if some coward?" Harry asked of her, already knowing the answer. When it came to leaving someone behind or sacrifice one for the good of all, Fleur would not ever do such a thing, willing or no.

"When it is Death itself you reach for? Yes!" Fleur hissed back, her hands clenching as talons grew in place of nails.

"This is not a vote. It's an order I give you now; I will be on that battlefield, and I will face him, and you will stand beside me, or stand aside, or be there not at all." Harry snapped his final say. In the silence that followed, he walked away.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

"You are most foolish, boy. This futile effort of a last resort will only result in your death this day. Then what will they do?" Tom didn't speak English, no he spoke the serpent-tongue, and though Harry knew he was being goaded into answering in like fashion in front of his people. This was a ploy to bring them to doubt him. Wizards went quickly mad and dark, when they sought to speak the tongue of beasts.

"Do they, I wonder, not see how futile all this is now?" Tom hissed, mocking, playing with Harry until Harry could stand it no longer.

"Keep them out of this, Tom. This isn't about them, it's about us." He answered then, if in English still. A small victory on his part, for still his people knew (would know) that he understood what Tom said when they could not. And they would wonder, and doubt – and fear and worry. Then, most deadly of all - lose hope.

"Of course, Harry, as you wish; you request from me an honorable death-duel. How noble. Come, then, Harry, test me. We will see which of us is to die this day." Half in Parseltongue and half in English, Tom none the less had accepted Harry's terms. Harry felt a heaviness he had known most of his life lift off his chest, shifting. It was then that Harry knew this was really happening and he had to take what was happening seriously. It felt then, all too real.

The Dark Lord's red eyes glittered and with a softly spoken spell, there was a shimmering veil-dome that wrapped around Harry and Tom, separating both from their respective sides.

"Do you know what I think I will do with your favorites, Harry? I think I will let my Death Eaters have their fun with them. If they survive that, well, I'll drive them mad – if they aren't already! – and let them see, again and again and again, what I did to you. I will do so many things to you, Harry. They will know they failed you, know just how foolishly you died for them. We could do great things together, do you not see that?" Tom murmured, soft and husky now that they were alone and could not be disturbed. It brought a chill to Harry, the reminder of the graveyard where his unwilling blood had been taken to give birth to Tom's body.

"Shut up." Harry growled the words, slipping unwillingly into Parseltongue. Tom's eyes narrowed and Harry tensed, knowing he had to time it right. Their wands had to lock.

"We are equals here, Harry. I do not obey you; if you want to die so eagerly, very well. Die." Harry would only have to say one word, one Name – and Bennu would come, Harry hoped... he started to doubt and shook his head, which Tom took to be a denial of they being "equals", so it was just as well. Harry had a moment of blankness as Tom started in a familiar wand pattern, and Harry had sinking feeling in his gut that this meeting would not do nearly so well as he had hoped.

"Crucio!" Tom hissed, the word rolling off his tongue in savagery.

"Wingardium Leviosa!" Harry cries out, almost as if in protest, though a sort of wavering panic has settled into his voice – it is the first spell he had ever learned. The spells hit each other, rather then either caster. A hum started in his bones and ears, familiar and strange and beautiful, it was a song he would know if he forgot everything else. A golden thread jolts their wands stiff and unbending within their hands, unmoving and waiting.

Tom's red eyes widened, recognizing it and far less pleased.

"Is this your trick, Harry? I must say, it has gotten old." Harry does not know if Tom's spoken in Parseltongue or English and can't bring himself to worry about why. He closes his eyes, letting them fall shut and trusting in the likeness of the effects to Priori Incantatem to keep Tom from guessing that Harry was closing his eyes to concentrate and gather the strength of his will, rather then on trying to remember the Name, how it should sound upon his tongue, though the words had been unsaid.

"No tricks, Tom. I only want you to remember..." Harry trailed off, opening his eyes to meet Tom's own.

"Remember what, Harry?" Tom asked, lazy and certain he had the upper hand. Harry smiled then, and it was not a nice smile.

"Bennu." Harry spoke the Name and the song of the phoenix that hummed in the air paused, wavered as if to start again in surprise; then ceased all together though the wands still joined by silver and gold binding light.

All was very still and quiet for an impossibly long moment.

"What is this you've done now, Potter?" Tom asked, sneering arrogantly at Harry likely thinking whatever he had attempted to do to Tom, had obviously failed. Harry, for a moment, thought so too. The silver dome cracked then fully in half, and as the stuff of magic tumbled into the ground like too solid bricks, Harry looked up, and 'Fawkes' feathers of red and gold shining like a second sun, swooped into to land upon Harry's shoulder.

"I do now Remember my Name, and yours, Harry Potter. I will Remember you." Black eyes gleamed at Harry, bird-like, and Harry believed the words because he felt the Power of them crawl along his skin.

"What's this? Albus's pet phoenix has learned to speak?" Tom sounded baffled by what was happening, and rather disbelieving at Harry's gall.

"I am the Bennu bird, the Heart-Soul of Ra, the Guide of the Gods to the Duat. You will know me well now, Tom Marvolo Riddle. You will die." Black eyes seemed to wink at Harry, and Harry felt rather then saw that the silver and gold that held the wands apart and together thrummed at the end of the Bennu's words. Harry felt his hands get hot, as if his wand was burning – he looked then, as his hands began to burn in blue fire. He closed his eyes then, tight, rather then watching what was happening to him – he smelt it though, his flesh boiling in the head, and heard himself start to scream.

He could not stop.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

A burning wave of heat arched along his otherwise deadened body, his vision – until then unseeing, had turned everything a milky-white, an explosion of pain resounded through the whole of his body. When Harry later thought to compare it something understandable, it was to being ripped to tiny pieces, then, in after thought, fit back together again. Unrecognizable, but wholly himself

Even as this warped Humpty Dumpty of himself; his vision was still a burly milky-white. Everything which he could see was, from the tips of his hair, to his hands, was transparent. Alike a ghost, or like finding himself drunk underneath the Invisibility Cloak, in a way he thought of it as a soft reality – as if not quite as real as it was supposed to be, and blurry, which was, in retrospect, was very normal for someone who wore glasses. From what Harry could remember (and he remembered quite a bit) he had never seen anything like this.

Startlingly clear, a figure appeared in his line of sight, appearing out of no-where, he was alarmingly … clear to his vision - inhumanly so. Startlingly enough, from the navel of torso down his body was a black tailed serpent. He carried a big stick, no, a spear. There was something poisonous and deadly about it.

"Who are you?" He questioned, unable to help himself in asking. His voice, he was surprised to hear, echoed in this off-white hazy place. Until the man had appeared, Harry thought he had been without his glasses, but he had realized that where ever he was – it was naturally this way. Creamy colored, hazy almost to the point of blurring. There was, literally, nothing wrong with Harry's eyes – at least as far as seeing the man was concerned.

It was as if…as if Harry, when he had been "fit back together again" had indeed been re-shaped to another's liking. In this case – his eyesight was perfect, Harry wondered though – what else had Bennu seen fit to do to him? What had he become? Where was he…? Was this what dying was?

"I am the God Mehen, Guard of the The Boat of a Million Years, that sails between worlds. You are not Apophis, the Destroyer, or any of his rendering. I know this. Still, what are you, a mortal, doing here Harry James Potter…" The masculine voice was calm, Harry knew with a certainty that went bone deep and crossed every instinct he had, that this man – this God, wasn't joking about who and – essentially, what he was.

At this realization, Harry felt his insides chill, his heart caught in his throat- he couldn't speak. Couldn't even think, when he managed to (by glancing away from Mehen), his first thought shocked him.

'Mehen is …striking.' This, Harry realized when he thought about it - and had taken the proper amount of time to look at Mehen, was true.

Mehen had midnight black hair, which fell like waves down his back, brushing mid-waist; his eyes were like the night sky- entirely black, with the secrets of ages older then the stars inside – seeming to shine out. His skin was (if Harry were to be 'romantic' about it) creamy. His lips were full, which made him wonder, with a tightening in his lower regions what a kiss from Mehen would be like.

At his thought, Harry didn't think it was entirely his imagination when he saw amusement arch across those night-sky eyes.

"You are Harry James Potter." Mehen insisted, Harry jerked – nodding, then freezing, he hadn't known he was supposed to respond when Mehen had introduced himself. If he was, what was he to say to this fierce protector? 'Killed anyone interesting, lately?' That would most certainly only result in a swift demise.

Mehen's serpent dark eyes were suddenly focused, alert, as if Harry had done something of dire interest – it was, Harry knew in that moment, very intimidating to be stared at like that. All of what made Mehen what he was, a protector – a Guard of a ship for Gods, focused upon him, staring him in the face.

No, Harry realized suddenly, Mehen's eyes weren't staring him in the face. They were staring through him, into him. Harry decided to say something after all, so Mehen wouldn't find something…wrong, with him. Harry didn't really grasp why, but quite suddenly, it was important to him that Mehen not think anything was 'wrong' with him. He credited it to good survival instincts. Mehen obviously seemed the kind of God that was able to "see" what made up a person, good and bad.

"Y-yes, I am." Harry stammered in answer - for it seemed the only thing he could do, besides just standing where he was. It was the truth after all, he was Harry Potter. Mehen's attention drifted off, and Harry was at once both relieved, and –oddly - struck with jealousy over whatever now held Mehen's attention. It was then that Harry realized, he had spoken in Parseltongue while Mehen had not.

"You have died. You are not supposed to have died," Mehen told him, quite sternly, as if Harry was to go back and change what had happened, "under our Laws, Ma'at has Judged that you have one of two Choices." Mehen smiled, Harry paid it notice, but his mind was caught on what Hermione would think if she heard that Ma'at existed in truth. It was, to Harry, somewhat of a great puddle of irony considering his life thus far.

"If you so Chose, you may Relive the Event of your Death; so it may play out correctly…"

'Not bloody likely!' Harry thought, his expression of mixed disbelief and just a tab bit of desperation, caused Mehen to chuckle. Harry did not think it nearly so amusing, having been so recently burned to death.

"Or…"

'There is a 'or' thank you, Ma'at!' If Ma'at had appeared, and Mahen pointed her out as such – Harry could have kissed her.

"You are to go where and when, Between the Worlds, that you are Needed."…Or kick her. It just figured Ma'at would be a bitch.

Harry gnaws at his upper lip, for it was obvious to him that between the two choices, which one Harry would choose, Harry could not return, for doing so would return Voldemort to life. Or so he suspected. Finally, Harry opened his mouth- and Mehen seemed to gather himself to hear the answer.

"I will go where, and when, I am needed." Harry told Mehen truthfully, unable to help him self in speaking the serpent tongue with Mehen so bluntly joined at the hip as one. Who would lie to a God after all? Mehen was only the most stunning being Harry had ever set eyes on, and he wanted Mehen to at least think well of him.

Mehen seemed not to sense his inner turmoil, or if he did, and paid attention to it… in any case, Mehen did not let on to Harry that he had. Regardless, Mehen nodded, then moved in closer while Harry watched, it was interesting the way Mehen's hips seemed to sway and thrust as he moved the tail slithering forth, a mere breath away.

"While you seek what Ma'at wishes for you to find. Then…I will wait for you, Beloved…" Harry felt himself freeze, the breath whooshing out of him in surprise. Fingers he hadn't seen move drifted down his cheek, knuckles scraping against his stubble, then fingertips touched under his jaw, flexing against the vulnerable flesh of his neck. Pulling him forward then with an urgency that Harry didn't resist, he was too stunned. A forked tongue flicked against his lips, tasting and scenting him all at once, when Harry did not struggle, Mehen moved still closer into his personal space (which Mehen was more then welcome to share) just teasing him for a moment, letting Harry smell the sweet spice and tang of metal.

'Mehen loves…me?' Harry's eyes had gone very disbelievingly wide, uncomprehending. Even as Mehen, his eyes sad somehow, smiled, and pulled Harry bodily against him, muscles smooth and sleek and flexing as if to hold Harry in place for all time, kissing Harry boldly on the lips only then, secure against the God and unresisting. Warmth trickled from them, demanding and searing, tingling into his mouth and urging – daring - him take a careful lick at the Gods lips. At the taste, heat hit low in his belly, and Harry thought he might have forgotten how to breathe.

In that dizzyingly blissful moment, Harry was sent on his way, and Mehen was left suddenly alone. Serpent like, he hissed, feeling keenly very much betrayed by all that he had served before with such vigor to preserve.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Harry took a breath, inhaling gritty sand with the sweet air.

When Harry came back to awareness, slow and still dizzy as his mind swam into focus; not quite yet glad that pain had been replaced by the biting promise of pleasure. He found himself surrounded by silver-white sand, standing on it. Alone. With nothing within sight but miles of hot sand, it was, to say the least – a bit disturbing. The sand was pearly white in the moonlight; it spilled over the sand, calming, cooling, and somehow… reassuring.

Harry remembered the look in Mehen's eyes – and his kiss. He shivered pleasantly, wonderingly, and then it occurred to him, crashing into his blissful moment of memory. If he was meant to go "where he was needed" why would he be needed in a desert? It seemed he had been "accidentally" displaced. And what, after all, was he looking for that Ma'at would want him to find here?

If, this made no sense, then, perhaps Mehen was nothing but a pleasantly delusional dream. The backfiring of the wand cores could have sent him to a desert. So, that left Harry; wandless, delusional, but alive. If this was true, Harry hoped Voldemort was not so lucky.

Harry sighed in disappointment, his 'delusion' shattered. He swallowed down the bile gathering in his dry throat; Harry then started to walk, aimlessly, yet hoping for the right direction.

Walking on sand was something new he had to get used to- for Harry had never done it before. He had to move carefully with his weight, one displacement of balance- and he started to sink into the sand. He had to move quickly, or else the sand would creep up on him. In other words, he had to move with purpose - even if there wasn't one to be seen. He scanned the area around him; each step led him closer to a rise- a mountain of sand, Harry hoped it would give him perspective of the nearby area.

Hoping he'd see something else other then sand. Hell, he'd settle for Death Eaters. Finally, he made it up the sand hill; he bent at the waist, leaning his weight on his knees as he gripped them, just pausing long enough to gain his balance. And, Harry would admit only to himself – to catch his breath.

As he looked up, he caught sight of a stone, glittering in the light of the moon, the little pebble-sized black stone lay in the pearl-white sand, seemingly abandoned by time, it brought prangs of memory raining down onto his heart.

Harry picked it up, looking it over closely; seeing it, Harry realized it's likeness to Mehen's eyes was undeniable; Harry knew, somehow, that it was meant to be his. He clenched it in his fist, and rose from his half-kneeling, and looked out over the landscape that surrounded him. There was sand, of course; but something else in the distance.

Nestled between the shadows of two great dunes, was a great palace. Even from so far away, Harry saw the sand give way to fertile earth; trees – the like of which he had never seen, yet trees nonetheless, grew in even spaces beside the palace.

It was a long way off, but Harry thought he could walk it before sunrise.

If not, he knew to wait till dusk rather then die of wandering in the wrong direction. Harry set out then, with a real destination set firmly in his mind. As Harry walked along the rise of the sand hill, he wondered what he would say to them.

If, indeed, he could explain his presence; they would be suspicious, and have every right to be. Harry had never been out of his homeland before, and therefore, he did not know what to expect. Would these people- who had his fate in their hands, even know what a wizard was?

Would they expect him to prove it, even without his wand? Harry stumbled on the sand, the stone in his grip shuddered, and Harry opened his fingers to look down at it. At first, he could not believe what he saw. The stone shuddered again, warm to the touch, and slowly melted- then disappeared into his skin, seeming only a black pulsing heartbeat beneath his palm. Harry shook his head, was it possible that this desert, even in the night, was giving him delusions?

Not wanting to wonder about things he had no control over, Harry decided this was so, and continued on.

As he walked, Harry saw the palace coming into sight; it was huge- and he expected he would have to walk quite a while more to reach it, yet even from this distance he could see the giant stone columns of marble that linked the high ceilings to the palace floor. A long staircase met the sand, a staircase Harry now walked upon, even as it continued to the palace. Along the way to the palace, on this staircase, Harry saw many statues of Gods and Goddesses he did not understand, having never studied myths. He knew of only the Bennu and Mehen.

Most were half man, or woman, and half animal; some entirely animal- and all had writing on them, all of which blurred and stretched in his sight. Harry wondered then if these people had some form of spell on them; to ensure that he, or others who saw this place, would not see the True Names of their Gods and Goddesses.

Finally, Harry came to the place were staircase met palace, and stopped, feeling too much like an intruder. He called out, and his voice echoed among the great pillars and statues.

Harry felt suddenly light headed and dizzy, Harry felt something rush though him- and leave; he thought it felt like a spell of intent, his intent though it left burred impressions of the emotions of the originator. Harry found himself falling to the polished floor. He blinked back the familiar blurry-white sight. As he was shaking it off, Harry was relieved to hear voices coming toward him; footsteps, and the glare of torch light running through the shadows.

Perhaps it was bad timing, but Harry's body then gave out on him, and he fell unconscious, just as the place dwellers came into sight.

Behind his back, the sun rose, setting against his dusky tanned skin and his black hair like a shimmering cloak.

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Harry awoke in a shadowed room; even though he knew, somehow, that it was day. A woman sat beside him – she was dressed in fine, if odd, clothes. When Harry asked her name, she shook her head, a light frown pressing down her lips. It was obvious she did not understand what he said.

She called out; a man, a clear leader, and a set of six guards, entered the room. He looked down on Harry, judged him, as a man would a subject, and as Harry had looked at his own war-generals when they had purposed a risky maneuver, and then he spoke, it was Harry's turn to be confused. The language was alike to nothing he had ever heard before; but it was lovely to hear. The man frowned, and then looked to his guards- called out a name in turn, Imhotep, Harry understood – then looked down at Harry again.

The woman touched his shoulder, pointed to her self and spoke her name, slowly, so Harry could understand it. Nefertiri. Harry looked to the man, he looked amused- as if he didn't think Harry would understand her. As if Harry were savage, because he was different then them, far different; they had rich golden dark skin, they were lean, attractive and very exotic, lovely to behold, like art.

Harry was suddenly bitter– somewhat resentful, for next to them he was a pale shadow; and what could Mehen the Protector and Guard of a Godly vessel possibly see in him, next to people like these, to call him 'beloved'?

Harry felt a strong urge to prove he could speak, could learn; that he could prove himself, somehow, next to them. Harry mimicked her,and spoke his name, Harry.

Harii was what their ears heard. The man looked startled, saw him again; looked at him with newly measuring dark eyes.

Almost in mockery, he pointed to himself, and spoke his name; Seti.

Harry swallowed, the bitter and resentful feelings washing away in a chilling thought.

He knew of only one 'leader' in all the history of the world who'd called himself Seti. Harry had learned of him when Ron still alive and in Hogwarts, got back from his vacation in Egypt, had shown off to Hermione that he had, in fact, bothered to learn something.

Harry had never forgotten it – for it had proved to be amusing. Seti, Harry knew, was an Ancient Egyptian King of more then three-thousand years ago….

Ma'at, it seemed, had a lot to answer for. How could he possibly find what she wanted him to look for, in a place such as this, where he was a stranger to this time and these people?

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Note;

Duat is the Underworld, and what Bennu (aka the phoenix Fawkes) was trying to do was make Harry a God as a "Gift/Curse" for saying his Name. Alas, something went wrong in the process of burning Harry's mortality away.

Mehen is a real Egyptian God, the serpent that wraps itself around the The Boat of a Million Years, and protects it from the likes of Apep/Apophis while going through the the nightly journey of the Underworld (more about that later, if you don't look it up for yourself); hence with the "three day eclipse" they were losing big time while the Founders were around, so Bennu's Name/Power was stolen without them looking for Bennu immediately after. You'll find out what I've done to them, no fear. Timelines? What is time?

Ma'at is the Goddess of Order/Justice/Law/Truth; Pharaoh's have been known to have called themselves the "Beloved of Ma'at", because this is a Goddess even the Gods had to heed to and blessed, in the Living World or the Underworld.

I'll try to keep the Gods and Goddess under a certain number and their personalities and characteristics will be distinct of those I've previously introduced; this will mostly about the "lesser" known Gods; so don't be surprised if someone pops in who you have no idea of "whose that?", and, yes, I'll explain as I get there. There will be differences between the forms of the Gods as we know them, and as Harry knows them, their names I'll try to stay true to, but they've been currupted for some thousand years before I came around; and their forms will differ as I refuse to put the head of a wasp with body of a hippopotamus together (i.e. Ahti). Uh-uh. No, simply, no!

I'll also try to stay as true to historical facts as possible, about how these people lived and died, however with the reasoning that this is fan-fiction, so, in other words, please do not announce to the class that Imhotep had boy love for orphans. Or Mehen was pretty; no, that's just me and my glee of half serpent God people. In other words, this story is mine, don't trust it, go do your own research into Egypt.

On that note, the "games" of Egypt as we know them were played by priests and pharaohs, not the common people, because the games were believed to be a mortal eye-view window to the happenings of the Gods. If you screwed up, the Gods suffered, i.e. you suffer too.