The hook of the Portkey was a violent yank behind the navel.
The world twisted into a blur of colour, then snapped back into place.
A wave of dry, scorching heat hit him first, scented with spice and dust, washing away the last traces of cold, tombstone air from the Italian valley.
Douglas's feet found solid ground. A warm brass plaque carved with a scarab beetle design cooled under his boot.
He was in a spacious sitting room.
Heavy crimson curtains blotted out the harsh sun outside, leaving only a single, blade-thin slash of gold that cut through the dim interior.
An old ceiling fan whirred in a hypnotic, lazy circle overhead, stirring the thick, hot air.
Home. In Egypt.
Douglas glanced around. His gaze swept over the walnut picture frames on the wall.
The largest showed him and Bill standing before the pyramids of Giza. Bill's fiery hair was a wild banner in the desert wind, his grin wide and brilliant, one arm slung heavily around Douglas's shoulders as if to show him off to the world. Douglas stood beside him, wearing Muggle sunglasses, a faint smile on his lips, looking steadier than the stone monuments behind them.
Next to it was a photo from just before graduation: him, Bill, and Charlie in front of Hogwarts castle. Three boys, shoulders touching. The towers loomed behind them, the Black Lake sparkled. Charlie's face was all eager ambition. Bill had a newfound gravity. And Douglas, as always in the middle, his eyes holding something deeper than the rest.
Beside that, a picture from the Three Broomsticks. They were crowded around a table piled with butterbeers and food, laughing, practically falling off their chairs. Madam Rosmerta had taken that one.
And finally, the famous Weasley family portrait. Pure, glorious chaos. Arthur poking curiously at a moving picture of a pyramid. Molly trying and failing to pin down the twins. Percy, chest puffed out with self-importance. And in the back, Charlie and Bill, flashing a secret, three-fingered salute only the three of them understood.
Douglas's eyes lingered for a second longer, then he moved into the study.
The bookshelf against the wall told a story. His own Muggle novels and technical manuals now shared space with a row of new, distinctly Egyptian-looking volumes. Gilt hieroglyphs and modern Arabic script adorned the spines: Corrections to Nile Tomb Runes, Charting the Lost Solar Barque, Secret Histories of Fourth Dynasty Wizard-Priests. The pages were dog-eared, the edges faintly gritty with sand.
Douglas pulled out Secret Histories, ran a thumb over the rough cover, and slid it back into place.
He headed for the kitchen.
The fridge, unsurprisingly, was stocked. Bacon and eggs for the Brit. Fresh local vegetables and lamb. And in one corner, a small packet of dried Chinese chilies and Sichuan peppercorns. Bill remembered.
Douglas rolled up his sleeves.
Time to show this curse-breaker, who spent his days with sand and dead things, what real cooking tasted like.
The skillet hit the flame. Butter sizzled—the opening notes of an English morning. Soon, the smell of sausages and bacon filled the air.
Next, a different pan. Lamb slices seared in hot oil. Cumin and chili powder hit the heat, releasing a scent that belonged to crowded, sun-baked streets. Direct. Unapologetic.
Finally, potatoes. He sliced them into fine shreds, rinsed the starch away, and flash-fried them over high heat. Just a dash of vinegar, a pinch of salt. A plate of sharp, crunchy shredded potatoes. You could almost hear the sound of it.
His own flavour.
Three dishes. Three worlds. Just like his friendship with Bill and Charlie. Utterly different, yet somehow, it all fit.
The last sliver of sunset vanished from the crack in the curtains. A key turned in the lock with a soft click.
The door opened. A tall, lean figure stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of desert dust and faint, fading magic.
"I smell a miracle."
Bill's voice was tired, but there was a deep, relieved ease underneath it.
"Looks like I'm not eating rock-hard flatbread tonight."
He tossed an ancient-looking leather tool bag onto the sofa. It landed with a heavy thump. His red hair was tied back loosely with a leather cord, a few sweat-damp strands sticking to his forehead. His leather jacket was scarred, the cuffs frayed. But his sharp eyes lit up when they landed on Douglas.
"Lao Dao."
He grinned, wide and real.
"SB."
Douglas walked out of the kitchen carrying a plate. He jerked his chin toward the table.
"Wash up. Eat."
Bill barked a laugh, heading to the sink. He scrubbed the grime from his hands. "You could've sent a warning. I was prepared for a solid week of jaw-breaking bread."
"Then you'd have missed the debut of my new and improved 'Well-Behaved Rope' charm."
Douglas set the plate down, his tone flat.
Bill dried his hands, dropped into a chair, and speared a sausage without ceremony. He chewed, eyes closing in bliss. "Mmm… there it is. The house-elves here can't get it right. Always trying to add dates and honey."
"They're treating you like a pharaoh."
Douglas pushed a glass of water toward him.
"Pharaohs never ate this well." Bill took a huge gulp, then grabbed chopsticks, expertly snagging a heap of shredded potatoes. "Oh, right. I took two weeks off. Got a surprise for you. Something to see."
Douglas's eyebrow twitched, barely perceptible.
"A surprise?"
He shot Bill a look, his voice dry with knowing amusement.
"Let me guess. Another tomb."
Bill's grin faltered, then returned, sheepish. "How'd you know?"
"That brain of yours. It hasn't changed since Hogwarts." Douglas leaned back in his chair. "My fault. Should never have told you all those tomb-raiding stories. Turned a perfect Prefect into a desert rat chasing legends."
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