1

دمشق، مدينة الياسمين

Damascus, City of Jasmine.

The muezzin began his call to the faithful.

His voice embraced the words, stretching them, imbuing them with a passion that could make the stoniest heart weep. Allahu Akbar, he called. God is Great. He was joined by a thousand others, every one of them different, every one of them the same, crying the cry heard for over a thousand years, laid down by the Prophet. They made their testimony, affirming the truth that every Muslim knows. The call continued. Haya 'ala-salah, the cried. Come to Prayer. The Minaret of 'Issa, where the Messiah will appear on Judgement Day, shone brightly in the sun, towering over the Old City, leading the cry. Laa Illahu Illa Allah. There is no god but Allah.

The holy month of Ramadan was in its last days, and the streets were deserted. It was mid-afternoon, the hottest part of the day. Forbidden from food or drink, forbidden even a cigarette, many preferred to take a nap until sunset. The evenings were lively. Once the fast was broken, the streets came alive, as everyone rushed around, shopping for the Eid celebrations that would begin sometime next week.

Even the Christian area was quiet. The Christians did not fast, but they saw little reason to eat, drink or make merry while their Muslim neighbours did not. A few cafés were open, but the majority of customers were tourists. Some young men congregated on street corners, smoking and watching for any passing girls to wolf-whistle. But there was no real enthusiasm there. For the most part, they were just passing the time, waiting for the main event.

Anyone who knows Damascus knows what it means to wait. Waiting for prayer, waiting for Jum'ah. Waiting for Iftar, waiting for Eid. Waiting for service in a café, waiting for an official to do anything. Waiting for a customer to come to your shop, and waiting for your creditors to demand the money you borrowed. Waiting for things to get better, for the freedoms that others take for granted. Waiting for the knock at your door that means you'll never be seen again.

The greatest virtue among the Arabs is Sabr, patience, and its greatest exemplar was Ayyub, also called Job. To live in Damascus is to be patient, and hope that, Inshallah, things will change. To live in Damascus is to live in fear, never knowing if the person you see everyday is the same one who will turn you in. Hope and fear, too little of one and too much of the other. Inshallah, things will change, as the rumours whisper of a girl raped and killed and dumped behind a church because she dared to question authority, of men who called for justice now rotting beneath the desert, and the people of Hama weep for the dead. Inshallah, things will change, as the bombs rain on Iraq, as Palestinians fight with sticks and stones against tanks and jets, as brother murders brother and neighbour bombs neighbour in Lebanon. Inshallah.

2.

They had just broken their fast when the foreigner entered.

Maghreb had come, and with it the time to eat and drink. On a large carpet in the centre of the room was a humble feast: dates, milk, some 'arq soos, sheets of kamruddin, bread, hummous, some rice, some vegetables, bottles of water. Around it, the men sat and ate, talking about the trials of the day, wondering at the mysteries of fasting, discussing the football. In Damascus, as in many cities in the Middle-East, there is Real or Barça. Other teams barely register.

"Assalaamu 'alaikum," said the foreigner.

"Wa 'alaikum assalaam, wa rahmatullah wa barakatih." Every person said the same words, without even looking at the new arrival. It took a few moments for them to realise that the man was foreign.

The owner of the shop grinned hugely and leapt to his feet, pulling the stranger by his arm and gesturing to sit. He summoned his middle son, a noted linguist, and asked the boy to translate. The foreigner stared, somewhat bemused, as the boy stood in front of him and asked, in halting and hesitating English, "Would please eating for Ramadan Fasting now?" His father looked on proudly. It was a blessing to feed a stranger during the holy month, especially if he could show the man the generosity and kindness of the Faithful. Perhaps he would return to his country and tell his people that Muslims are not terrorists and savages, but people of kindness and patience, always willing to help their fellow man.

Th foreigner continued to stare at the boy, who was now worried that he had made a mistake with his vocabulary. Then he looked to the boy's father, and in fluent Arabic replied: "I thank you, sir, for your kindness. I would be honored to eat with you."

Feeling a little foolish, the man served his guest food with his own hands. Everyone was now asking questions, the usual litany: where are you from, where is that, how long have you been in Syria, where did you learn Arabic, what religion are you... Many would find the questions irritating, but the foreigner understood it was merely the curiosity of people for whom the outside world was limited to Hollywood films and TV series.

Finally, the meal done, the men began to return to their work, though a few still lingered for a smoke and a coffee. The owner of the shop sat with his foreign guest, and asked "How may I help you? I have many fine items here, I'm sure I can find something you would like."

The foreigner smiled. "Actually, I was hoping to speak to Abu Samir."

The owner looked confused. "Abu Samir? I am Abu Samir. We are speaking!" He chuckled, pleased by his joke. The foreigner laughed politely. Abu Samir continued. "What did you wish to speak to Abu Samir about?"

The foreigner put his hand in his pocket, and withdrew a slender item. He showed it to Abu Samir, who gasped, then looked around nervously. "Put that away! Are you mad, to show that here? Leave this shop. I will meet you at Nawfarah in an hour." Nodding, the foreigner took his leave.

Abu Samir watched him go. "Baba, who was that man?"

He turned to his son and smiled. "Just a foreigner, my son. You know how they are."

At Nawfarah, Abu Shady, the legendary hakawati, had begun his evening performance. He was telling a tale of a sultan's vizier, noted for his venality and lechery, and not a person in the room failed to recognise the caricature of a certain former president's brother, now in exile. The laughter was loud, drowning out all sounds of the souq nearby.

Abu Samir sat down near the foreigner. The waiter came, and he swiftly ordered tea. His hands trembling slightly, he lit a cigarette, then he looked at his companion. "What is your name?"

The foreigner grimaced. "Here, they call me Yohannes."

"What do you want?"

Yohannes sighed. "I'm sorry to do this to you, Abu Samir. I know that things are difficult here, and that now is not a time to reawaken old friendships, but I need some information. I understand that some refugees from Iraq brought a large amount of books and treasures from the National Museum of Baghdad. I also heard that you had examined them. Is this true?"

Abu Samir nodded. "They were looted when they bombed the city. Staff had moved the most precious and most important items out, but when the bombs destroyed the main roads, it was impossible to keep track. Refugees were using the artifacts as currency before the mukhabarat investigated."

The hikawati had begun a new story, about an animal kingdom ruled by a proud lion. Yohannes sipped his tea. "Were there any items of a... special nature?"

Abu Samir smiled wryly. "So the rumour has already travelled that far... If I knew who had spread it, I would hand him over the the mukhabarat myself. Yes, there were. And yes, the story is true. We found a copy of the Kitab al-Azif. Extant. Not a page missing. I did not read it myself, for obvious reasons, but I looked at the notes of one of researchers. He died a few days later, in very mysterious circumstances. Well, that is not too uncommon here, but I felt it was too much coincidence."

Yohannes let out the breath he had unconsciously been holding. The Kitab al-Azif, the most dangerous book of Dark magic ever composed, and it had resurfaced now. Only once had it ever been used, and the consequences had even touched the Muggle world. If Riddle ever got his hands on it...

"Where is it now?"

Abu Samir shook his head. "I can't tell you that - "

"Please! You must!"

Abu Samir didn't speak for a long moment. Finally, he looked at Yohannes. "It's guarded in a fortress in the mountains. It would take a full-scale invasion to even make it past the first ward, let alone the rest of it. Be at peace, Albus Dumbledore. Not even your old student will be able to reach it."

Yohannes looked surprised. Abu Samir sneered. "Yes, I recognise you. Did you really think I'm such a fool that I would not know you? You can hide your name, change your face, but my eye sees through all disguises. That is the gift Allah has given me. Leave this city, Albus Dumbledore. We Arabs are sick of your wars, your conflicts, your pettiness and your arrogance. All you have ever brought us is grief and misery. We will guard the secrets well, and you will never trouble us again."

Feeling as though he had been punched in the stomach, Albus Dumbledore rose. Perhaps the man was right – certainly Europe had brought the Middle-East nothing but conflict, a poor way to repay them for their teaching. But it was a hard thing to hear it from a man he had once admired.

Abu Samir watched him leave. He frowned. Age had made him short-tempered, but he had still been rude to speak that way.

He watched the hikawati tell his tales. Nothing left now but to wait.

Until someone else came.