Chapter 1

Chapter 1

A/N: Not mine; all characters belong to JKR.... Huge thanks to my alpha reader, beaweasley2, for her comments and support. Thanks also to my beta reader, lyn_f, without whom you would not be reading this! Reviews are very welcome; I still have lots to learn! Please note that the rating for this story is K+PG for the next few chapters, rising to MA (NC-17) later in the tale...

Thank you to beaweasley2 and Jay for the wonderful banner!

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Chapter 1

Dr Hermione Granger rocked back on her heels, brushing the dust from her hands absentmindedly on her thighs as she did so. She looked carefully at the image that she was painstakingly revealing with her brush. It was shaping up to be in almost perfect condition, a beautifully intricate example of a mid-first century AD mosaic. She had been working on the dig in Pompeii for the past month, supervising the excavation of a row of modest houses to the northwest of the city with a team of Australian and Italian students who made up with enthusiasm what they sometimes lacked in intuition and understanding. Some instinct had drawn her to this particular area of the house that her team was excavating, and she had been rewarded by the emerging mosaic image before her.

It was nearly noon, and she realised that the sun was becoming painful on her exposed neck and shoulders. She muttered another cooling charm, tilted her hat further back on her head in hopes of covering up the skin that was burning and took a long drink of water. She was used to the weather by now in southern Italy and knew that the other archaeologists on her section of the dig would have retreated sensibly to shelter, eat lunch and chat about the morning's discoveries. She had been so interested, however, in the intricate mosaic that she was busy uncovering from its layer of ancient pumice and tufa dust, so engrossed in her work that she had completely forgotten the time. She could, of course, use spell work to remove the dirt that was covering the original image, but she felt that there were good reasons why the traditional method worked best. It wasn't a matter of skill (her wand casting was excellent, as was her control) but she harboured a romantic notion that she would rather see the layers of dust and damage peeled away by hand, tantalising her with the possibilities beneath.

She returned to her task. Brush. Brush. Blow. The mosaic was about three foot square, each tile about a small fingernail in size. She was working methodically, from the edges inwards. As she worked, carefully brushing away at the images in front of her, her excitement rose. The edge of the mosaic was decorated with geometric designs, interwoven lines of different colours. Every six inches or so, along the twisting design, the artist had added Roman numerals that were arranged in a simple pattern. Hermione paused and frowned, unconsciously chewing her lower lip. The numerals were familiar somehow. Perhaps the colour, the relationship between them... she wasn't sure. Pulling out her phone from her pocket, she took some quick photographs of the designs before returning to the work of uncovering it.

The next stroke of her brush lightly exposed the centrepiece of the mosaic, and it became clear that the central feature held a portrait. Her excitement increased again by a degree as this was very, very unusual. Roman portraits were mostly painted at this time, mosaic portraits were incredibly rare and only one other had ever been discovered in Pompeii before now. She smiled a tight grin of satisfaction. This would be worth an academic paper at least. Another gentle swish of the brush and more colours emerged. Dark hair. Mmmmm. That would have been typical of the region and the people who had lived there before the volcanic eruption that destroyed the city. She had another swig of water and absently blew a lock of frizzy hair out of her eyes as she bent again to the mosaic. Steady... take your time. Suddenly a voice, a memory from long ago, rang in her mind.

'Be precise, Miss Granger. Precision is everything, or the potion will be ruined.'

Another pass of the brush.

More uncovered.

Dust swirled.

Pale skin tone.

Large nose...

Hermione frowned.

Wait! Was...? That face emerging seems familiar? She bent again, heart thudding in her chest, holding her breath, the brush poised in her hand. There seemed to be a strange smell in the air. A metallic tang, like blood...

Suddenly with a snap of wind and wings, an eagle owl swept in front of her, chittering for attention. Hermione shot backwards in shock, landing on her arse in the trench and knocking over her water bottle, which spewed onto the notebook beside her. She swore roundly, slightly ashamed of her reaction to the bird, and glared balefully at the messenger. It was just as well she was alone, trying to explain to her colleagues or students the sudden appearance of a giant bird of prey with a tightly rolled scroll tied to its leg would have challenged even her abilities. She rescued her notes, thankful that she used pencil to record her finds so the dousing had not damaged her records. The bird merely regarded her loftily and proffered its leg.

Hermione patted her jeans pocket, located and withdrew a half eaten packet of peanuts and offered them to the owl. It looked at her with disdain for a moment, picked up the packet in one clawed foot and then flapped off into a nearby tree to eat its unsatisfactory meal. Hermione struggled to her feet, wincing and rubbing her bruised backside. She opened the scroll, her eyes widening in initial pleasure and surprise as she noted that the message was from Ginny, then narrowing as she began to read its contents.

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On his return to Hogwarts that year, Harry Potter had been surprised and upset to learn that Severus Snape had not been granted the honour of a portrait in the Headmaster's Study. A few judicious owls to the Ministry (not to mention The Quibbler and the Daily Prophet) from The Boy Who Lived and Defeated the Dark Lord, and various shamefaced officials had signed the relevant paperwork, and a magical portrait was promptly commissioned.

"... Which was only what he deserved, don't you think, Hermione? After all he did for the Order, and dying like that, still loving Harry's mum?" Ginny added as a chatty aside before continuing on to describe how the portrait painter, Adequs Doge, had arrived at the castle with the finished painting some three weeks later. The portrait ("...rather too flattering I thought, although I suppose you'd like it," Ginny wrote. "You always fancied him a bit, didn't you Hermione?") had been attached to the wall in Flitwick's office and the little painter began the spells required to animate it.

And this was when the trouble had begun.

The portrait would not move. It was terribly embarrassing. At first the assembled dignitaries from the Ministry and Hogwarts assumed that the spells had not been done properly, but once several senior professors, including Flitwick himself had checked Doge's spell work and pronounced it sound, they explored alternative solutions. Perhaps the manner of Snape's death had in some way prevented him from occupying a portrait? Perhaps his desertion of the post meant that he could not have an animate portrait with the other headmasters? Hermione's face twisted into a smirk, thinking that perhaps he was simply being a snarky bastard and pretending not to move to piss off the Ministry and, particularly, Harry? Somehow the thought of her sarcastic and acerbic former professor getting a little bit of retribution in this way was strangely satisfying. She found her heart briefly aching at the thought... She returned to Ginny's letter.

Minerva had the bright idea of asking the other portraits in the room for their opinions. None could sense him as they could sense each other. None could offer any suggestion or solution to the mystery. Dumbledore even offered to try to tickle Snape – to see if he was faking of course – but (to his disappointment and the rolling eyes of other portraits around the room) he could not make his way into the painting to make good on his proposal. Harry had been very upset, and the Ministry officials and press had left that evening with the promise to return if the mystery could be solved.

Okay... thought Hermione. You said at the beginning that this had something to do with me...?

Ginny's letter continued: "So, Hermione, I guess that you're thinking, 'What's this got to do with me?' right about now..."

Hermione smiled guiltily.

"... Well, the following morning Harry went back to the portrait to try to figure this out, and he saw that the portrait had changed. In fact the painting doesn't even look like a painting any more..."

Hermione stopped reading and looked again at the mosaic floor in front of her, its image finally exposed by the wings of the eagle owl as it had landed in front of her.

She stared at it.

She looked back at the page in her hand.

"...it's turned into something that looks like a piece of mosaic tile instead, and at the bottom of the image there are words written in Latin..."

Hermione looked again at the first century AD mosaic floor at her feet.

...At the mosaic floor that had been made before 79 AD.

...At the mosaic floor that had been covered by the ash and stone and wrath of the volcanic eruption that had killed every living thing in Pompeii.

...At the familiar image of Severus Snape looking at her, unmoving, from the centre of the image.

...At the shimmering numbers around the edge of the mosaic that seemed to draw her forwards and the slick feeling of magic being awakened.

...At the words on the parchment in her numbing fingers.

...At the same words written in tiles under the figure at her feet.

"INVENIENT ME" – "Find me," she translated automatically.

"ANIMA MEA, HERMIONE" – "Hermione, my soul".

She bent down, her brow furrowed with shock. Almost without thinking she placed her fingers on the portrait, tracing the line of his brow, his nose, down to his lips. She remembered the last time she had touched his face like this, and she felt her heart ache again, a wretched, twisting sensation behind her navel and in her chest. So much sorrow and regret. His had been a missed life, no life at all, really. Was hers a missed life also? Her face twisted, feeling a familiar tightening of her throat. She felt like she could cry again easily. As she stroked the rough texture of the tiles, she felt the ache again in her chest, lower even, behind her navel. Regret and loss, an absurd desire and quickening that was not even formed properly, that had grown unbidden over the past years as she had pulled away from other loves and pulled towards this... memory... no, this hope...

Her fingers traced the lips again and then moved over the words beneath the portrait, brow furrowed, her lips moving as she traced the words. Anima mea... Who talks of souls? Who could have made this impossible thing? She looked again at the numbers around the edge of the mosaic. They seemed to shimmer in the sun, their iridescent tiles flickering fire in the fierce light.

As she touched the glass tiles, they seemed to move under her fingers. She felt a familiar and disturbing tug in the pit of her navel again, and with a quick intake of breath, she found herself pitching forwards, twisting as she dipped and fell.