Chapter 4

A/N: All the characters you recognise are JKR's and not mine! Again thanks and hugs to the wonderful beaweasley2 for her alpha reading and to lyn_f for her beta work and her patience! Thank you also to my lovely reviewers; I really appreciate your time and effort.

Thank you to beaweasley2 and Jay for the wonderful banner!

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Chapter 4

Harry Potter thrust his fists deeply into his pockets and tucked his chin into his chest as he walked through the streets of Hogsmeade towards the Three Broomsticks. It was getting late in the evening, the sun had set, and August had turned cooler this week in Scotland. He shivered and drew the light jacket he had worn more tightly around him, wishing that he had listened to Ginny and put a jumper on.

Immediately after the thought had presented itself, he rejected it. For Merlin's sake, how hen-pecked am I? Ginny was a wonderful wife and mother, and he loved her passionately, but there were times when her protective instincts were so alarmingly like his mother-in-law's that he feared for his future. Once he had looked at Arthur after he had been on the receiving end of one of Ginny's 'helpful' suggestions and was shocked at the look that the older man was directing at him. In that moment, Harry had recognised the hunched shoulders and the embarrassed shrug of his father-in-law as his own. As the memory continued, he grinned as he recalled Ginny's angry denial later on that evening and the subsequent bout of fierce lovemaking that followed. He felt himself flush while he smiled. Those thoughts were more warming than any piece of clothing he could have put on.

He paused at a junction in the street opposite Honeydukes before turning left towards the pub. It was Tuesday evening and the village was quiet. A few people passed him, nodding as they recognised him. He smiled in return, walking easily down the street towards Zonko's and the Three Broomsticks. He had not enjoyed working for the Ministry. Although he liked and respected Kingsley Shacklebolt, it was a fact that he spent more time at diplomatic functions and tedious meetings with international representatives on the Wizengamot than chasing down criminals. Going back to Hogwarts to teach had been a risk, but Harry had grown so frustrated by his experience with the wizarding world in London that he had eagerly taken the opportunity to teach Defence Against the Dart Arts back at school when Flitwick had approached him. Following a curriculum plan and thinking of interesting ways to get ideas and information across to the students at school was a challenge that he relished. He found that he was enjoying the opportunity to teach.

Harry pushed open the door of the pub and walked inside. A brief nod to Rosmerta, and Harry surveyed the noisy bar, his eyes sweeping the interior quickly and efficiently, before he alighted on the figure that he was expecting to meet. The Three Broomsticks was packed, as usual, and the atmosphere was convivial and cheerful. Despite the time of year, Rosmerta had lit a fire, and the shadows of the flames danced on the walls and shone on the faces of those inside. Harry stared around him, his Auror's instincts searching for a familiar face. There! Harry's face broke into an easy smile of recognition as he picked his way past the other drinkers in the bar towards the fireplace where his friend was sitting, surrounded by others.

As he got nearer, Harry could see that Ron was his usual animated self. He was currently engaged in explaining some complicated Quidditch move to two attractive blonde witches who were looking at him with a mixture of hero-worship and incomprehension. Ron was demonstrating the manoeuvre with the aid of his Deluminator that he had charmed to hover and twist in the air in front of him in response to his hand movements, an impressive trick. He was flushed and excited, and a half-drunk pint of Butterbeer sat on the table in front of him. Harry came up behind his friend quietly and then clapped him sharply on his shoulders. Ron yelped in surprise, and the Deluminator dropped sharply onto the table, narrowly missing his pint.

"Harry!" Ron grumbled, embarrassed at his lack of control. He swept the Deluminator into his hand and clicked it reflexively. This habit had particularly annoyed Hermione and had been the cause of many of their rows as their relationship faded and died. The little object no longer worked; it had ceased functioning since leaving Australia, and Ron had not been able to fix it. Perhaps the only person who could have done so was the last person he was going to ask to help him. Nevertheless, clicking the Deluminator was a habit that he had never shaken.

"Drink, Ron?" asked Harry and inclined his head towards the young witches at the table, eyebrows raised.

"Oh, yeah, thanks, mate," Ron said, grinning. "I'll have another pint. May I introduce ... err ... Sharina and Amira?"

The blondes smiled at Harry insipidly.

Harry smiled back. He was used to the groupies that usually surrounded his friend. Since his break up with Hermione, Ron had embraced wit henthusiastic abandonthe sexual opportunities that being an internationally famous Quidditch star had provided. It appeared that Ron had lost little time in making new friends in Hogsmeade on this fleeting visit.

"Nice to meet you," Harry said insincerely, his innate good manners warring with the need for him to have a serious conversation with Ron over Hermione's situation. "We do need to talk, Ron." He looked pointedly at the blondes before turning for the bar.

By the time Harry had returned to the table, carrying their drinks, the girls had withdrawn to another table from where they continued to flash lascivious looks in Ron's direction. Ron waggled his eyebrows at Harry suggestively.

"I think I'm in there, mate!" he said cheerfully.

"Which one?" asked Harry and was quite shocked as his friend made a gesture indicating both of them. Rather primly, Harry pushed Ron's Butterbeer over to him and picked up his own.

Ron took a pull of his drink and suppressed a gas belch. "Right, Harry," he began. "What is so important that I have to meet you here to talk face to face?"

Harry leaned forward, searching his friend's face. Ron had always had a horrible temper, and he hadn't wanted to risk a sulking fit while he tried to gather information. He took a deep breath in anticipation. "Do you know where Hermione is?"

Ron scowled immediately, his jaw set, and he clicked the Deluminator reflexively. "No idea," he said eventually. "We haven't exactly kept in touch."

Harry sighed. He was used to his friend's moods, and he knew that Ron had been deeply hurt by Hermione's rejection. He knew how hard Ron had worked to try to keep the relationship going and how frustrated he had been by his failure to do so. The fact remained, however, that Hermione was still missing, and he had to try anything to locate her, including asking her ex-boyfriend if he'd seen her. Ron clicked the Deluminator again. Briefly, Harry explained what had happened over Snape's Headmaster portrait.

"So what's the problem? Snape's portrait doesn't work. Big deal! You wouldn't want that sneering bastard whining at you all day if you were the Headmaster, would you?" Unlike most people, Ron had been unmoved by Snape's memories of Harry's mother in the Pensieve. Hermione's frequent attempts to take him to task about this had caused friction between them as well. He took another drink and clicked the Deluminator again. "Send your Patronus to contact her, if you want to."

"Minerva tried that." Harry frowned. "As far as we knew, she was working in Italy... on that dig in Pompeii. Minerva tried to send her Patronus out there, but it couldn't find her."

Ron shrugged. "She'll be fine, mate. You know how she disappears sometimes. Remember when she went to Jakarta, and we all thought she'd vanished, but then she showed up two weeks later having got distracted by the bat caves...."

Harry nodded. Even so, the portrait was a concern. As was the fact that she could not be contacted by magical means.

Ron scowled again at the object in his hands.

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Hermione took another long draught from her wine glass. The wine was sweet and strong. She strongly suspected that it was the famous fortified wine from the local region, a version of the falernian wine that was highly prized in these times. It tasted like wizards' mead or Muggle sherry. Whatever it tasted like, it was welcome. She had grabbed mouthfuls of water from the many public fountains around the city as she had walked, but she was dehydrated and thirsty.

Hermione and her former professor sat underneath a narrow portico that extended around the edge of the peristyle garden in Snape's home. It was still very warm. A thick and scented evening air surrounded them as they sat beside each other eating a late supper. She looked around at the courtyard garden in front of her. Although she could not see it very well, she could smell the scents of the plants growing in the enclosed space, especially the rosemary and lavender, and hear the brush of the plants against each other in the light evening breeze that swept through the garden. The cicadas had finished singing for the night, and there was peace and silence around them. She closed her eyes and inhaled, drawing in the scents of the garden. When she opened her eyes again, the light from the candles in the lanterns that hung around the couches they were sitting on did not reveal much of the space in front of her. She could make out the details of the mosaic flooring surrounding the dining area, a beautiful geometric pattern of interweaving black and white mosaic tiles bordering larger flagstones that looked yellow in the flickering lamplight.

Unaccountably, she had a sudden and absurd vision of the Muggle film Luna had insisted on taking her to see called "The Wizard of Oz".

"... not in Kansas anymore...."

Houses falling on witches.

She shuddered and raised her hand to rub at her forehead. The graze had healed up, but she could still feel the slight ridges of the new skin under her fingertips. She was exhausted and the wine was strong. "I'm so confused," she admitted to him in a small and tired voice, her bravado of a few hours ago long gone. "This is so... so... overwhelming. I walked for hours. The wards on the gates ... can you get through them, or do they keep you captive too?"

Snape turned to face her, and she felt his eyes regarding her, although his face was in shadow. He said nothing. Hermione felt her throat constrict, and tears began to come. The crushing feeling in her chest returned, and she pressed her right hand to her stomach as she drew a deep and shuddering breath. The pain intensified, and she found herself leaning forwards, her left hand moving to rest on his leg. Suddenly his arms were around her, his body moving against her, and she was sobbing without restraint. The fear and tension of the day, the heat and the exhaustion, had reduced her to a wreck, clinging to him for stability and comfort.

The fine wool of his tunic was smooth and soft, more like cashmere against her skin. His collarbone jutted out from above his chest muscle, and as his torso rose and fell, she thought he smelled rather sour, of vinegar and pine resin. She could hear his heart beating loudly against her ear. She clutched at him and burrowed closer. It was impossible to think because thinking overwhelmed her. She was badly frightened, and the fear reminded her powerfully of all that she had gone through eleven years ago when she was on the run with Harry and Ron. Snape was holding her quite tightly, and she thought that the strength of his hold encircled her in a sort of protective armour.

She sobbed for ages, but slowly, as she began to calm, she realised that he was humming something softly that sounded rather like a healing spell. He was also rocking her slightly. As she came back to herself, she realised that the material under her cheek was wet and scratchy on her face. She had covered him with her tears and snot. She closed her eyes in embarrassment.

"Oh God... I'm sorry..." she said, hiccoughing wretchedly and sniffing hard, her arms still wrapped around his body for comfort.

"Miss Granger," he began gently, his deep baritone a rumble in his chest that she felt as well as heard, "you are clearly very tired and overwrought. I think it is time for you to go to bed."

Hermione nodded into his chest and snuggled closer to him, beginning to drift. His chest was so comfortable and so solid, so secure. Her belly felt so much better, her mind was more settled. Pine resin and vinegar, she thought vaguely... so warm....

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When she woke again, it was morning, and Hermione felt stiff and sore. She was back in her room, fully clothed on her bed, and sunlight was breaking through the doorway. Her head pounded. Too much falernian, she thought ruefully. By her side, on the stool by her bed, she saw a small bottle and a scrap of papyrus. She squinted at the bottle. "For the headache," a familiar spiky hand had written on the parchment. Rolling her eyes and flushing slightly (but gratefully), Hermione unstoppered the little bottle and downed the contents. She thought back to the night before and grimaced. He must have put her to bed again. She remembered her meltdown in the garden and the way that he had allowed her to collapse on him. Looking back on his response, she was baffled. In their first conversation in the morning, he had been very much as she had remembered him: sarcastic, defensive, patronising and, frankly, unpleasant. Once she started crying, however, he had behaved entirely unlike her old and bitter professor. It occurred to her that a lot could have changed in the past eleven years.

She swung her legs from the bed and stood up. Her nose wrinkled as she caught an involuntary whiff of herself. It had been two days since she had had a wash, and she certainly needed some sort of bath right now! She saw a large bowl near her bed, the same one that Pertus had proffered yesterday, and muttered a quick Aguamenti Charm, envisioning warm water to wash in. A pity she did not have any soap or shampoo.

A few minutes of splashing and a quick Cleaning Charm later, Hermione was feeling much better. There was very little she could do with her hair, as usual. She twisted it into a knot at the back of her head and secured it in place with a hair band from her jeans pocket. She picked up her wand and searched for somewhere in the stola she was wearing to secure it. Yesterday she had walked around the city with it in her hand. It seemed unnecessary to do that while she was in his house, but... was she really safe here? She dithered for a few moments more and then made a decision. She stuffed it under her jeans in the pile of her Muggle clothing and left the bedroom.

The morning smelled very fresh. She had no idea of the exact time, but she thought it must be early. She could not hear anyone else moving about in the house, and she was hungry. Perhaps she would be able to find Snape and apologise for her breakdown yesterday. She might also make the first steps in trying to work out how to get out of there, logically. She also realised that she needed to go to the loo. She had to have a look around for the toileting arrangements in the house.

She did not remember much of the layout of Snape's insula from yesterday; her panic and anger had so dominated her thoughts as she had argued with him that the arrangement of rooms had passed as a blur. She pushed open her door carefully, trying not to make any noise, and walked out to explore his home.

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Very quickly, Hermione realised that Snape's house was luxurious by Pompeian standards. This was interesting and unusual. Whatever he was doing for work here was clearly lucrative. Briefly she entertained various ridiculous ideas of what Snape might be doing to earn himself the amount of money he would need to live in a house the size of this one.

Pressed by the need to relieve the pressure in her bladder, Hermione turned left out of her door in order to walk through the house towards the main street at the front of the house. She knew she had to look for the kitchen in order to find the toilet.

Nobody seemed to be around. Hermione gazed with appreciation at the cool whitewashed walls of the north side of the peristyle. She could now see the beautiful little square of garden that filled the courtyard space, surrounded by a colonnade of pale marble-fluted columns. Briefly she lingered, looking at the flowers and plants in the garden. She recognised many of the plants and noted that some of them were magical. Her eyebrows raised in interest. Potions supplies? She moved closer and stood looking over the low fence that surrounded the vegetation, quickly cataloguing different species. As she leaned over to look at a particularly interesting variant of Amales potamos, a plant that was used in the creation of memory potions, her nostrils twitched and flared. She could smell food. Turning, she walked through the passageway at the end of the peristyle towards the covered courtyard near the front of the house called the atrium. The atrium was a small room with a roof that sloped inwards. Hermione looked at the shallow rectangular basin cut into the floor directly underneath the large rectangular hole in the roof, where rainwater could flood in, providing more fresh water at one time than the house would be able to get from the aqueducts feeding the city. A series of small and beautiful paintings were decorating the walls of the atrium. She would look at them in more detail later. To her right, off the atrium, was an open doorway.

Hermione smiled. Her instincts had been right; she had found the kitchen. Again it was deserted, although a pot of what resembled a porridge-like substance was cooking over the small flame in the grate of the waist-high barbeque on the back wall of the room. She looked in without much enthusiasm. As she stepped away from the boiling gloop, Hermione's nostrils caught another odour, and she spotted the toilet at the other end of the room. Roman hygiene, she knew, left something to be desired as far as modern sensibilities were concerned, but there was little choice, and at least she was on her own.

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A few minutes later, she was heading back towards the peristyle garden. There was no noise in the house apart from the faint scrunch of her slippered feet on the fine sand that was scattered on the flooring beneath her feet. As she reached the lovely little square of the peristyle, she walked forwards towards the opposite end of the garden, past her bedroom and other small rooms on her left and towards a two-story-high building on the northern side of the courtyard. In front of her, a set of steps on the right led up to a galleried room with a colonnaded view over the garden. She assumed that this would be the summer dining room. On the left, a set of steps led downwards into darkness. Without hesitation, Hermione moved to the left. She had an idea about what rooms might be found underground in Snape's house.

She peered down the steps into the gloom below. The steps were steep and uneven, but there was a handrail that she could use. As she walked down, her eyes began to adjust to the dimness, and she saw that there was some illumination from the rooms below. She quickened her pace, feeling a small flutter of anticipation in her stomach as she did so. The steps ended in a small cellar with stone flags on the floor. The ceiling was high and the walls dark and unadorned. A mingling of scents reached her nostrils. He had recreated the Hogwarts dungeons in his home. The door on the right of the steps was ajar. She pushed it open further and looked into the room.

Inside was a large rectangular space, laid out in the familiar manner that she remembered from her six years at school. Around the edges of the room were shelves of flasks and vials. Light filtered in to the lab from magical apertures in the barrel-vaulted concrete ceiling. They gave the impression that sunshine shone into the room, thin columns of light reaching to the floor. The floor was stone. The air was cool but not unpleasantly so. One of the key reactants in potions was heat. Placing the lab underground was clearly a sensible way of preventing the Italian summer from causing untold damage to potions and ingredients. Hermione was hesitant about entering the room further, but after a quick check again that she could hear no one nearby, her innate curiosity won out, and she walked further into the laboratory.

She was drawn immediately to the heavy wooden bench in the centre of the floor, on which stood a small, unlit brazier and a cauldron. The shimmer of a stasis charm rippled across the metal surface of the cauldron. Intrigued, she stepped further and carefully looked inside, mindful to hold her breath as she did so. The potion was a shimmering silver in colour. A mercury base, she thought.

She moved on, away from the cauldron and towards the ingredients that lined the shelves on the wall, past the benches around the edge of the room. Her eyes moved over the neatly labelled bottles and jars, cataloguing the dried substances. It was obvious that Snape was maintaining his stores as efficiently as ever. She wondered if he had any Boomslang skin still and smiled slightly at the remembrance.

Her steps had taken her around the room, and she found herself back at the entrance to the laboratory. Looking across the hallway in front of her, she saw another door on the opposite side; again, it was slightly ajar.

Fighting her trepidation, she crossed the hallway and gently pulled the door open, revealing a small antechamber, lit, as the lab had been, by the same magical light sources in the ceiling. The room had clothes hooks on the wall and a low seat underneath them. It suddenly seemed to be warmer. She walked in and noted that the changing room led on, through a narrow arched opening, to another space beyond. Vapour issued into the room from the far entrance, and the walls nearer to the adjoining room were damp with condensation, making the tiles of the mosaics on the wall glisten in the magical sunlight. She knew then where she was. She had found a private bathroom suite.

She also realised in the same moment, from the noises that were coming from the room head, that it was occupied.

Unable to stop herself, she moved closer to the opening, until she could see inside.

The room was darker, lit by only one shaft of light from above and a few of the smaller oil lamps that she had seen before. It was stiflingly hot. The steam in the room diffused the light, lending it an ethereal quality and obscuring her view of the figure in the bath. Distracted, Hermione looked down at the floor. The mosaic pattern on it was that of a giant black skeleton, its mouth open and gaping. In one clawed hand, it held a jar, and in the other, a stick. No, a wand, she corrected herself, frowning.

The chamber was dominated by a large marble bath, set back against the far wall. It was easily as big as the prefects' bath at school and was rectangular in shape and about two feet deep. Naked, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bath, his back hunched over and facing away from her, was Snape. He was rubbing something into his shoulder and left arm and breathing quickly and shallowly. He turned his attention to his chest and ribcage and uttered a low moan as his fingers smoothed the substance (she supposed it was bruise-healing paste or something similar) over his body, paying particular attention to the ribs on his left side. The steam cleared for a moment, and Hermione saw that his back had an ugly red wheal across it, and the skin of his left arm was darkened with bruising. He looked like he had been badly beaten up. She watched as the muscles across his back played and twisted as he applied the healing ointment. His skin glistened with sweat and the moisture from the bath.

Snape carefully placed the pot of unguent on the edge of the bath next to him and ran his right hand through his hair. He straightened his back carefully and moved his left arm tentatively out to the side and back again. Seemingly satisfied, he gingerly eased himself forwards and into the hot water, taking the weight of his body on his right arm. He hissed in relief as he slid into the water and relaxed slowly against the side of the bath.

The steam in the room swirled and curled about.

Hermione came back to herself. Her mind was full of questions. Principal among them was, Who in Pompeii was capable of causing such physical damage to him? He had not mentioned the presence of other wizards here, and he had clearly lied about the safety of his supposedly perfect world. She felt a familiar rush of adrenaline at the thought of unknown enemies in this strange place.

He took a deep breath at that point, and she heard his quiet whimper as the movement of his ribcage caused him pain. Inadvertently, she took a step towards him, her hand raised to help. Her foot scuffed on the floor, and her breath hitched.

Instantly, he whirled around in the bath, despite the pain that such a movement clearly brought him, and his wand had appeared in his right hand. Snape was staring at her with a mixture of fury and discomfiture, clearly poised to attack. The steam vapour rushed around him as he gathered his powers. With horror, she realised that she was silhouetted in the doorway, and that the atmosphere made her appearance hazy and obscure.

"Professor!" she called out shrilly, holding her hands up in front of her while imagining a hundred ways he could hex her into oblivion, "It's me! Don't..."

She felt the crackle of electricity in the air dissipate, and his wand hand dropped.

Snape's expression was thunderous. "What the hell are you doing in here? How long have you been watching me?" he asked roughly, his face flushed and angry.

"I... I was... just looking around. I'm sorry!" she answered lamely, aware of how awful this looked.

"Get out!" His breath was rasping in his chest. He clutched at his side.

Hermione took another step forwards. "You're hurt," she countered. "Do you need me to...?"

"Out!" he repeated furiously, raising his wand in a sweeping movement.

She fled.