The heat of the Egyptian afternoon was a physical presence, but the view from the third-floor balcony was enough to make one forget the sweat trickling down their spine. Below, the Nile was a ribbon of molten silver, reflecting a sun that seemed determined to bleach the world white.
"Look at that," Ron muttered, leaning over the stone railing. "Are they mad? It's nearly fifty degrees out there and they're huddling together like it's a Quidditch match."
Allen followed Ron's gaze. A few hundred yards down the bank, a dense knot of villagers had gathered around a jagged depression in the sand. Even from this distance, the atmosphere felt charged—not with the heat, but with a palpable, jagged anxiety.
"Curiosity killed the cat, Ron, but it usually makes for a better story," Allen said, already turning toward the door. "Let's see what's got them so rattled."
By the time they reached the riverbank, the smell hit them first. It was the heavy, cloying scent of decay, made a thousand times worse by the baking sun. In the center of a makeshift sandpit stood a man in a crisp white galabeya and a stiff red tarboosh. He was vibrating with a mixture of fury and fear, his face a deep shade of mahogany as he gestured wildly at the ground.
"I warned you! How many times did I have to say it?" the man, Nasser, shrieked. His voice was thin and high, cutting through the low murmur of the crowd. "The river is not yours at night! It belongs to things older than your grandfathers! And what do you do? You sneak out, you lose your livelihood, and then you try to bury the evidence like a shameful secret! Idiots! All of you!"
A group of younger men, their bronze skin glistening with sweat and sand, leaned on their shovels, looking properly cowed.
Allen nudged his way through the crowd, Ron trailing nervously behind him. In the pit lay a carcass. It was bloated and gray, the skin torn in jagged, serrated patterns that didn't look like the work of any desert scavenger.
"Merlin's beard... is that a cow?" Ron whispered, shielding his nose with his sleeve.
"Too small," Allen noted, his eyes scanning the remains with a clinical detachment that often unnerved his peers. "Look at the hooves. It's a donkey. Or what's left of one."
The crowd was swelling. Word had traveled fast through the village, and now mothers were clutching their children's hands while old men leaned on their canes, whispering prayers in rapid Arabic.
Nasser turned his wrath on a thin, dark-skinned man named Hassan, who was staring at his feet as if he hoped the sand would swallow him whole. "Hassan thought he was faster than the shadows! He encountered the beast and ran, leaving his poor beast to be shredded. And then, he hides it! He buries it in Saleh's field! If Saleh hadn't smelled the rot, we would still be walking blindly into the jaws of the monster!"
"The water monster..." a woman in the crowd whimpered, clutching a protective amulet at her throat.
"Yes! The Nile Water Monster has returned!" Nasser roared, nearly losing his hat as he swung his arms toward the river. "Heed me! No one—absolutely no one—goes to the water after the sun touches the horizon. If you value your lives, stay in your homes!"
The crowd began to fracture and disperse, the weight of the warning settling over them like a shroud. Only a few workers remained to finish the grim task of reburying the donkey.
"Do you reckon it's a crocodile?" Ron asked as they walked back, though his voice lacked conviction.
"Crocodiles don't leave jagged tears like that, and they usually drag their prey into the depths, not leave them half-eaten on the bank," Allen replied thoughtfully. "Whatever did that was either very hungry or very territorial."
On the way back to the villa, they passed a villager who was far more interested in profit than monsters. He had set up a colorful cart under a drooping palm tree, selling chilled juices and local brews. Seeing an opportunity to lighten the mood, Allen bought a significant haul—pitchers of icy watermelon and apple juice, and several bottles of dark, local beer.
Back at the house, the drinks were a godsend. Arthur Weasley, ever the enthusiast for "Muggle-adjacent" experiences, conjured a mountain of crystal-clear ice cubes to keep the beverages frost-covered.
As they sat in the cool shade of the domed living room, Ron recounted the "Monster of the Nile" story with a fair bit of dramatic flair.
"So you're saying a big, scary shadow ate a donkey and you're shaking in your boots?" George grinned, leaning against the doorframe.
"I'm not shaking!" Ron snapped, though he gripped his glass of watermelon juice a bit tighter. "I'm being observant. Unlike you two, who would probably try to prank a dragon."
"Remind me to check under your bed for water monsters tonight, Ronniekins," Fred added with a wink before the twins disappeared into the kitchen, snickering.
Molly, however, didn't find it funny. She followed them out, her voice stern. "I don't care what you think you saw, you listen to that man! No wandering off at night! Do you hear me?"
As evening bled into a deep, star-studded night, the heat finally began to break. Allen and Ron were in their room, the moonlight spilling across the floor in silver bars. Allen was reclining on his bed, a heavy tome on Egyptian mythology open in his lap, while Ron sat cross-legged, hanging on every word.
"So, Osiris," Ron said, his eyes wide. "He gets chopped into fourteen bits by his brother, scattered across the whole country, and his wife just... puts him back together? And he's fine?"
"Not exactly fine," Allen corrected, staring out at the dark silhouette of the palms. "He became the King of the Dead. But the concept is the same. The ancient wizards here understood that the body is just a vessel. If the soul is preserved, the container can be repaired."
He paused, a dark thought crossing his mind. "Actually, fourteen pieces is quite amateur. I know of someone who didn't even bother with a body. He shattered his very soul into seven or eight fragments, hiding them away just to ensure he could never truly leave this world."
Ron shivered. "You're talking about You-Know-Who, aren't you?"
Allen didn't answer. The silence of the room was suddenly broken by a soft, metallic sound.
Click.
Someone was turning the doorknob. Slowly. Deliberately.
Allen was on his feet in a heartbeat, his wand leveled at the door before Ron could even gasp. The door creaked open, moving an inch at a time. Through the gap, two tall, horrifying figures lurched into the room.
They were wrapped from head to toe in yellowed, tattered linen. The smell of ancient dust and stale spices filled the air. Their arms were outstretched, fingers hooked like talons, as they shuffled toward Ron's bed with a guttural, wheezing moan.
"Mummies!" Ron let out a strangled yelp, scrambling backward until he hit the headboard.
Allen's eyes narrowed. In the dim light, he saw a sliver of red hair poking out from a gap in the bandages of the lead "mummy." He lowered his wand slightly, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Oh, no," Allen said, his voice dripping with mock terror. "Ancient guardians of the tomb! I must use my most powerful, destructive curse to stop them!"
He began to chant a nonsensical, rhythmic string of Latin-sounding gibberish, waving his wand in a massive, sweeping arc that gathered a glowing white light at the tip.
"Wait! Stop! Don't blast us!" a muffled, panicked voice erupted from the bandages.
George and Fred tumbled forward, tripping over their own trailing linens as they tried to ward off Allen's "spell."
Ron's terror vanished, replaced instantly by a face so red it nearly glowed in the dark. He snatched a heavy feather pillow and hurled it with all his might, hitting George square in the chest. "You absolute gits! I'll kill you! I'll tell Mum!"
The twins collapsed into heaps of bandages, howling with laughter.
"You should have seen your eyes, Ron!" Fred gasped, clutching his stomach. "They were the size of dinner plates!"
"I wasn't scared!" Ron yelled, his voice cracking. "I knew it was you! I was just... waiting for the right moment to counter-attack!"
"Sure you were," George wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "That's why you were trying to climb through the wall. Allen, mate, you nearly had us. That light was a bit much."
"I figured you'd appreciate a bit of atmosphere," Allen chuckled. He flicked his wand, and the rolls of bandages—which the twins had clearly nicked from a local market—unwound themselves with a soft rustle, piling neatly in the corner.
"Look, if you're so brave," George said, his eyes gleaming with a new challenge as he stood up. "Prove it. The river is right there. The moon is bright. Let's see if you dare take a stroll where the 'Water Monster' lives."
"Fine!" Ron stood up, his pride stung beyond repair. "Let's go. Right now."
Allen grabbed his cloak. He knew the twins were just looking for an excuse to explore, and they'd likely use Ron as a human shield if they got caught by their mother, but his instincts were prickling. Nasser's fear hadn't been faked, and the donkey's wounds were very real.
They snuck out of the villa like shadows, moving through the bougainvillea-scented garden and toward the silver expanse of the Nile. The night air was surprisingly cool, and the only sound was the rhythmic chirping of desert crickets.
Ron was walking stiffly, his head swiveling left and right. Every rustle of a palm frond made him jump, though he tried to play it off as adjusting his shirt. The twins were trailing a few paces behind, whispering to each other about potential prank ideas involving Nile silt.
"Allen, look," Ron whispered, his voice trembling as he pointed toward a patch of reeds near the center of the river.
The water was shimmering, but in the middle of a clearing in the reeds, something was moving. A horse—or what looked like a horse—was swimming silently through the current. Its head was noble, its eyes glowing with a faint, ghostly luminescence.
But as it turned its head toward them, Allen realized it wasn't a horse at all. Its mane wasn't hair; it was made of long, dripping fronds of broad-leaved cattails and river weed. The creature's skin had the texture of wet kelp, and as it rose slightly out of the water, it let out a low, haunting whistle that sounded like wind through a hollow reed.