Chapter 6

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 reviewers – I love reading what you think of this story.

Thank you to beaweasley2 and Jay for the wonderful banner! Things will heat up in a while, and so will the rating... but for now....

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Chapter 6

Hermione sat alone on the couch looking across at the peristyle garden, waiting for Snape to emerge from the bathhouse. Pertus had brought food out to her on a tray. Olives, fruit and bread lay before her again on the low table. Pertus had not spoken to her when he set out the food, and beyond a quick thanks, Hermione had not asked anything else of the slave. The food had remained untouched before her.

For the past ten minutes, she had rehearsed the events of the last two days in her mind. Then she had calmly catalogued her situation and formulated a list of action points to determine her next course of action. She had identified priorities and used some standard Arithmancy formulae to assess her chances of success. Unfortunately, there had been so many variables that this had proved a virtually fruitless exercise apart from working as a meditation technique. The breathing exercises her Muggle psychologist had taught her during her short-lived period in therapy had also helped her to rationalise her concerns and make plans. Her immediate concern was quite obvious.

She could not see it from the house, but behind her, she could almost feel Vesuvius looming over the city. The mountain sat like some sort of squat, brooding menace to the north of the city; it was ready, she knew, to rain down its deadly destruction on the city's inhabitants.

Last year, at the end of September, she had been with a group of academics invited to climb up to the crater by the Italian volcanologists from the Vesuvius Observatory. Hermione had jumped at the chance to visit the shattered summit of the modern volcano with the scientists who were monitoring the growth of the lava chamber underneath the volcano for the 2008–9 report.

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Although she had been working on the Pompeian dig for the whole summer, she had never before climbed up to the crater. As she had walked up the broad mountain track with her scientist escorts, a fairly stiff thirty-minute hike carrying equipment and protective clothing, she had idly tried to imagine herself back in time in 79 AD, climbing through the vineyards that had criss-crossed the sides of the mountain in those times.

She had tried to hear the rhythmical chanting of the slave gangs, driven onwards by their overseer, the vilicus, who maintained the vines and other crops on the rich ground for their Roman masters. The quality of life for a slave in Roman society was dependent on where they served, and the poorest life expectations were generally reserved for these agricultural labouring bands. The men worked alongside each other, chained together with rough iron, strips of ragged cloth wrapped around their ankles to prevent the metal from rubbing sores in their flesh, much like the famous chained prison gangs of later centuries. Trying to visualise the scene even more exactly, Hermione had allowed her eyes to become unfocused while she had looked down the steep slopes of the volcano, striving as she had done so to picture the ancient, bustling agricultural society below.

Hermione's reverie had been ended as the team reached the summit of the volcano. Standing at the huge, gaping throat of the crater, grateful to be able to put down her rucksack, she had felt a thrill at seeing the gasping fumaroles and the white wisps of smoke and sulphurous gases floating starkly against the reddened bedrock that surrounded it.

She had understood, of course, that the volcano was still active, but seeing it in front of her and around her was still quite a shock. She had gingerly descended into the crater itself, following Bernardo Revini, one of the young volcanologists who was accompanying her, to check on the sensitive seismological recording equipment that the volcanology research team had set up to record any changes in the mountain. Their primary goal was to try to predict its next eruption, and as she had done so, a fanciful part of Hermione's imagination thought she could feel the mountain breathing. Automatically, she had thrown out her magical senses, trying to identify any latent magic in the area, but she could detect none. Even so, the effect of the gases in the crater had been eerie and spectral.

Clambering back up to the lip of the crater, she had listened attentively as Bernardo had explained that they were monitoring the magma chamber, which was rising at a rate of about seven centimetres per year. It was inevitable, he had said, in politely thoughtful and measured English, that the volcano would erupt again in their lifetime.

"Like it did in 79 AD?" Hermione had asked, staring at one of the fumarole's lips, its edges encrusted with the telltale yellow-green signs of sulphur dioxide deposits.

"We don't think so, no." Bernardo had shaken his head. "The magma chamber is too close to the surface." He had smiled as her eyebrows rose, his teeth flashing white in his sunburned face. "If the magma is near to the surface, the pressure is not so great. The magma is in a colder and more viscous state. Therefore, the eruption will be like the one that happened here in 1944. Some tremors beforehand, some fissures opening up in the crater and an ash cloud of a few thousand feet. Slow lava flows with property damage but no great loss of life, even though so many people live so close to the mountain." He had paused. "No pyroclastic flows," he had added softly.

Hermione had frowned at him. "Pyroclastic flows?"

"Giant masses of superheated gas, coming out of the volcano and sometimes travelling at more than four hundred kilometres per hour," the young man had explained. "Pyroclastic flows are unstoppable and deadly. They kill and burn everything in their path. In an explosive eruption, like the one here in 79 AD, the magma comes from a great depth, and it is under great pressure. When it explodes outwards," his hands had mimicked the top blasting off the mountain and shooting upwards, "there are usually many pyroclastic flows in a big eruption. That is what killed the people in Pompeii. They could not outrun the pyroclastic flows. The ash in the air meant that they could not breathe, and then they burned." Hermione had shuddered, suddenly cold. She had known that the people of the city had been buried under tonnes of ashes during the eruption but had not realised how violent the process had been. Her mind had turned to the plaster cast figures of the Pompeian dead in museum on her dig site, their limbs twisted and misshapen, their mouths open and gasping in death.

"It must have been a horrible way to die." She had looked down into the plain below Vesuvius, towards the ruined city, and shuddered again. She had been very glad at the time that the danger of such a similar explosive eruption was remote.

Suddenly, she had found herself in her imagination, staring at more broken and dead bodies, this time not plaster cast figures, but bleeding and rendered flesh. She had looked with dull horror at the dead, as they had been laid out in the Great Hall in the shocked peace of the aftermath of the final battle. Her eyes had swept past the bodies and those who mourned them and onwards to the devastation that surrounded them. Dust, debris and broken masonry lay all around her; lumps of wall and staircase and windows that had been blasted apart by the fighting. There had been bloodstains everywhere.

She had been frozen in the memory, trapped in that horrific time at the end of the war.

Her perception had shifted again, and then she had been standing immobilized as the battle had exploded around her; she had heard the screams and curses and seen the flashes of wand light as the Death Eaters had battled Harry's supporters. She had witnessed the charges of the giants, the centaurs and house-elves. She had been terrified and impotent with fear. It had felt like she was watching everything rip apart around her.

She had been jarred out of her immobility by Ginny's bellow, and she had realised that Bellatrix had been coming closer, the witch's face distorted in a gleeful rage, her wand hand flicking and twisting with frightening dexterity as she had begun to duel. Hermione had acted out of our sheer instinct, throwing hexes and shields around her friends, thinking a desperate mantra in her head as she fought: I can't lose them! I can't lose them! I can't lose them!

Her memory had shifted even further back before the fighting had begun and so many lives had been lost. She then had stood with Harry and Ron and the others in the Great Hall, listening to Minerva McGonagall making plans to evacuate the younger students behind the defences of her school. She had relived that horrified rush of dreadful anticipation as Voldemort's words had echoed through the Hall, and she had known with dreadful certainty that the school's shields could not hold and that the Dark Lord was coming, like a mighty, roiling cloud of hatred and destruction bringing death and annihilation and heralding the fulfilment of a prophesy–

"...Dr Granger? Dr Granger?" She had realised that Bernardo was trying to break her out of her reverie and worriedly pulling on her sleeve to attract her attention. Dimly, she became aware that the young Italian's anxious voice was growing deeper, richer, and more exasperated. Hermione felt that she was pulling away from her memories...

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"...Granger!"

With a start, Hermione came back to reality and realised that her former Potions master was standing in front of her, his brow furrowed and lips drawn into a thin line. He loomed over her, watching her intently as if weighing something up in his mind. He was holding himself very stiffly, still favouring his left side, but he was in control again, and she knew that if she were to get out of Pompeii, she needed his help.

She took a deep breath and focused all her attention on him. She folded her arms on her chest, tapping her wand on her bicep.

"Professor," she said, her voice flat and calm, "I need some answers from you. Right. Fucking. Now. First of all: what is today's date?"

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"Brilliant, brilliant, Septima! Oh, come in, come in," Filius Flitwick called as Harry tapped on the door to the Headmaster's office.

When Harry entered the familiar room, he saw Flitwick conversing with the Arithmancy professor, Septima Vector, in front of the portrait of Snape and Hermione. Flitwick was standing on a small set of stepladders, balanced precariously so that he could look at the portrait on the same level as his companion. Vector was pointing to the mosaic and explaining something to the Headmaster. Both turned as Harry walked in, Flitwick wobbling unconcerned on the top of his stepladders.

"Come in, come in, Harry; this is fortuitous indeed!" Vector nodded her greeting in her friendly but rather stiff manner while Flitwick was far more effusive. "Good morning, Harry! Do come here and see what Septima has pointed out! We may have made a breakthrough." He waved his hand, bidding Harry to come closer. "And how was our Mr. Weasley?" he enquired. "Has he heard from Hermione at all?"

Harry shook his head. "He's fine, thanks, Headmaster. You know Ron; he's doing really well. The Cannons might actually reach the quarterfinals of the Cup this year... He hasn't heard anything from Hermione, though – not a word. But he did remind me that Hermione gets so excited by her work that she drops out of sight sometimes." Harry took a breath. "So, actually, Professor – that's why I have come here to talk to you this morning. I'd like to..." Harry had drawn level with the other professors in front of the picture, but his voice died as he did so.

The figures in the portrait had changed again. If it was at all possible, Snape now looked even more murderous and stubborn than he had before, and he was now facing Hermione in the portrait, his arms folded defensively against his chest. In turn, Hermione's body language was equally determined and her expression resolute, her wand still visible in her hand down by her side. Harry felt a familiar and proud surge of emotion as he looked at his friend's image.

Flitwick was positively thrumming with excitement beside him. "Septima," he urged the tall, dark-haired witch beside him, "this is so exciting! Please let Harry know what you are working on!"

"Thank you, Headmaster." Vector's voice was deep and clear, its faint Massachusetts accent lending her vowels a rich and melodious tone. "Harry, I think the key to why this portrait is not working properly may lie in these numerals here around the frame." She pointed her finger at the edges of the portrait, directing Harry's attention to a series of runes that surrounded the perimeter of the central image in a geometric pattern.

Harry frowned at the mosaic. "I thought that was just a pattern around the edge," he said, "like a border. I don't remember seeing them before."

"Isn't that simply brilliant, Harry?" Flitwick enthused, practically jumping up and down on the top of his stepladders. "We were all concentrating on the central image – after all, it's pretty remarkable – but trust Septima to find something that we had not even seen before!"

Vector rolled her eyes, but smiled, clearly flattered. "I will need to do some more research here," the Salem-born witch continued, "but I think that I have come across something like this equation before."

Harry furrowed his brow, desperately trying to cudgel his brains into action. He hadn't taken Arithmancy at school, opting for Divination and Care of Magical Creatures instead. "It's an equation?" he ended up saying, wondering what that meant.

"Yes, I think so... if one reads it as a continuous wave pattern around the edge." Vector gestured with her wand at the portrait, and Harry watched as a pale copy of the numerals floated away from the frame and then settled onto the parchment in her hand. She muttered a quiet fixing charm and then, satisfied, rolled up the parchment. "If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have some work to do in my office. Harry." She bowed in her formal manner. "Headmaster," she added with another slightly deeper nod of her head, "I will let you know immediately I have anything further to add." Her work done, parchment and wand in hand, she left the room.

Flitwick watched her go, a rather wistful look on his face. He sighed. "Such a brain, Harry!" He tapped his fingers on the stepladder's handrail, lost in thought.

Harry grinned again at his Headmaster, running his fingers somewhat nervously through his hair. Flitwick's fondness for the Arithmancy Professor was the subject of gentle gossip in the teachers' common room at Hogwarts.

Harry cleared his throat. "Professor, I'd like your permission to go to Italy – to try to track Hermione down." He held up his hand as the diminutive Headmaster opened his mouth to reply. He rattled on, determined to explain his reasoning before Flitwick could say no. "Yes, I know that she's done this before, Professor, but I'm really worried that she hasn't replied to Ginny's owl, and I know that she's supposed to be in Pompeii until October, so there's no reason for her to have disappeared like this. I want to see if anything has happened to her and try to bring her back if it has."

"Harry," Flitwick said, smiling, "I think it's a very good idea for you to try to find her – I'm sure she will be as anxious as we all are to solve this mystery and repair this portrait so Headmaster Snape can be properly represented among his fellows here in the office!" He chuckled indulgently, turning his attention once again to the central figures in the mosaic. "I rather think that Severus would prefer to be alone in his own portrait as well, from the look he is directing at her."

Harry smiled too, seeing the stubborn determination on Hermione's countenance in the face of Snape's sneer. I recognise that look, Harry thought to himself and grinned, despite his misgivings about his friend's whereabouts.

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Hermione barely breathed as she faced Snape down. They had been looking at each other unblinkingly for what seemed like minutes. He was clearly uncomfortable standing before her – whether just physically from his injuries or because of some other reason, she could not tell. His eyes were as unreadable as ever, and his hair fell across his face as he looked down at her. She continued to stare at him with as much confidence as she could muster.

Eventually, she saw his eyelids flicker, and a strange, amusingly resigned expression crossed his features.

"As far as I can be sure, it is the twentieth of August," he said eventually, and she felt herself relax fractionally.

Her mind raced, calculating. "That's four days before...," she began.

"Before. Yes." He nodded slightly. His eyes darted in the direction of Vesuvius. "May I join you?" He indicated the seat beside her. She shifted slightly to the right, offering more room for him to sit down. He did so, carefully mindful of the damage to his ribs.

"Thank you, Professor. Now will you tell me the rest?"

"It appears that you are as affected as I am by the wards on this city, Doctor Granger. I seem to have little choice but to confide in you," he said stiffly.

She reached for an olive from one of the bowls on the table. No sense in being hysterical about this situation, she thought, and she was starving hungry. "Why are there wards on the city?" Hermione asked. "I've never felt such a strong power."

Snape leaned forward. His hair fell across his face again, and his face was in shadow. Reaching over to the table in front of them, he picked up a boiled egg and began to peel it carefully, his long fingers working efficiently to shed the outer shell. He placed the peeled egg on a platter and offered it to her. She flashed him a doubtful look, but picked the egg up and bit into it. It tasted wonderful.

"I think what we need to do is establish how we both got through the wards in the first place." Hermione continued, carefully trying not to spit bits of egg out as she spoke. "After all, both of us passed through them in order to get into Pompeii, so that might help us to work out how we can reverse the process and get away."

As she spoke, he leaned forward again and picked up a fig from the basket in front of him. She watched, almost mesmerized, as he brought the fruit to his lips and bit into it, his teeth sinking slowly into the soft purple flesh. "I mean," she continued, as if it were perfectly sensible to discuss the warding of an ancient city in the company of a man who had bled to death in front of her eleven years previously, "there must be other wizards here. Have you made contact with them?"

Snape continued to eat carefully. It appeared that he was thinking hard about his response.

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She really is impressive, Snape thought. It had taken roughly thirty-one hours for Granger to progress from vomiting and bleeding all over herself, to accepting the impossible that she had been transported through a painting to ancient Pompeii (of all places), and on to contemplating a rational analysis of their situation. He thought how lucky those idiots Potter and Weasley had been that she had stuck with them. The brightest witch of her age, he thought. Could she be the ally he so desperately needed? Perhaps that was why he was so absurdly relieved to see her again. Despite the throbbing in his side, he felt a refreshing sense of calm and purpose sitting next to her. He caught himself sharply; letting her see how pleased he was to have her near to him would never do, and he wasn't about to confide in her before he knew that she could be trusted.

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"Again, you are assuming that I wish to be a part of your... escape committee... Doctor Granger," he said languidly, savouring the taste of the fig. "As I believe I have already told you, I like it here."

Hermione scowled. "Oh, come on! The Severus Snape I knew would never have been happy as a prisoner, no matter how gilded the cage. I don't understand how you can be comfortable here. You have spent the last forty years being part of someone else's plan. When Harry showed me your memories in Dumbledore's Pensive, I could see how trapped you had been in your previous life... Have you never tried to get out of here?"

Snape scowled as he bit into another fig. "I told you," he replied shortly, "I am perfectly happy here within the city."

"Besides," she continued, taking a draft of water from an earthenware goblet and wincing a little at the metallic taste, "it's not going to stay bright and shiny for long. Once the eruption begins, there will be nothing left of the people or the city."

He raised an eyebrow at her slowly, reaching for some cheese and recoiling slightly as the movement caught his damaged ribs. The silence between them extended to a minute.

Hermione stared. "Oh, don't be so infuriating!" she exclaimed in exasperation, "you must have a plan to get out of here."

Before any more could be said, however, there was a commotion outside, and Pertus came trotting anxiously towards them from the direction of the kitchen. Snape immediately was alert, his eyebrows furrowed as he watched the little man's hopping gait. Pertus came to a halt in front of his master and bobbed his head.

"Master, the Aedile is come to the house!" he said urgently. "He comes now to see you. He asks why you did not attend him this morning as usual. When Pertus tells him that the Master is not well, he wishes to see you for himself."

"He comes now?" asked Snape, standing and casting a worried glance at Hermione, who was looking at him in confusion. "Try to delay him for a moment, Pertus, while our guest retires." The little man nodded and scurried back towards the front of the house. Snape rounded on Hermione, his face was flushed and his eyes glittered. "There is no time to explain, Hermione," he ground out quickly, "you must get out of sight. You cannot be seen in those clothes here by him."

She opened her mouth to question and immediately felt the strange tingling sensation of a Disillusionment Charm settle over her. The expression on Snape's face brooked no further argument, and Hermione stood up, backing away from him towards her room, her booted feet making little noise on the tiled floor.

An Aedile was a low ranking city official, she knew, usually someone who dealt with the running of festivals and public works. Why such a fellow would be visiting Snape and why Snape was so nervous about the prospect was a riddle that needed answering, and Hermione was damned if she was going to allow Snape to keep yet more secrets from her.

Once in her room, a muttered Finite Incantatem made quick work of Snape's Disillusionment Charm, and she changed quickly back into her Roman stola, tying her hair back once again with a quick charm and slipping her wand into a little pocket she conjured for herself in the skirts. Well, he didn't say that I shouldn't be seen by the Aedile in these clothes, did he? she thought flippantly. Let's see who this Aedile is and why Snape is so nervous about meeting him.

Walking quietly back out of her room into the walkway surrounding the peristyle, Hermione stared at the stranger who was approaching Snape in the garden courtyard. He was about fifty years old (too old, surely, for an Aedile, she thought incongruously), quite thin and tall, with a lined and clean-shaven face. His hair, which was cut short in the Roman fashion, was graying at the temples and stuck out from his rather large head in awkward clumps. His face was wreathed in a friendly smile, which did not quite reach his eyes. Nevertheless, as he approached, Snape immediately smiled in response, stood and grasped the other man's proffered forearm.

"Aedile." Snape dropped his head in a short nod of deference.

"Marcus, please, Severus! After all, we are old friends, are we not?" the other man chided, shaking his arm with affection. "Are you well? I'm sorry I have not been to see you in a while, my boy... busy, busy. Trouble with the water supply again; you know these engineers and their ideas..."

Hermione approached the two men, ignoring Snape's furious glare as she did so. The visitor immediately turned his attention to her, his smile growing even wider, but his brows furrowed slightly. She saw his eyes flicker to her clothing quickly and then return to her own. He twinkled. She stared.

"And who is this young lady, Severus? Has she been keeping you from me?" he enquired softly.

"She is..." Snape seemed momentarily lost for words. He cleared his throat and dipped his head towards her. "Hermione, this is Aedile Marcus Aurelius Fiducius. My Patron. Aedile, this is Hermione. She is..." Again, he faltered. Hermione scowled at him quickly, then walked forward and offered her hand to the official.

Fiducius laughed, throwing his head back, and took her hand lightly in his for a moment. He stared at her again. "But, Severus, I recognize her from her portrait! It is a fine likeness – you did not exaggerate her features at all!"

Snape seemed to wince slightly at the older man's words. The suspicion of a blush seemed to spread across his cheeks.

Hermione was bewildered. What portrait? What are they going on about?

"You must be Severus' niece!" Fiducius continued, smiling at her once again. She did not warm to his smile at all. "He speaks of you very often, my dear... I had heard you had come to the city. It is so lovely to see you here in the flesh, so to speak." The tall man bowed to her, his eyes never leaving her face.

"Really?" Hermione turned to Snape in some confusion. His niece? What on earth is happening here? She suddenly felt about twelve years old. Snape positively glowered at her. She kept her silence but her stomach roiled inside.

"To what do we owe the pleasure of your company this morning, Aedile?" Snape asked. The older man smiled once again, showing his teeth. Hermione was suddenly reminded of someone through that smile but could not quite think whom.

He stretched gingerly, wincing as he moved his shoulders. "I am afraid it's the old trouble, my boy," he said, favouring Hermione with a measured look. "A war injury," he explained to her smoothly. "I got in the way of a Parthian arrow when I was a young tribune. The wound did heal, but it has never quite stopped giving me pain. Yesterday it seemed to flare up again, and I thought it would be a good opportunity to see my good friend and client Severus. Actually, I was expecting to see him this morning at my house, but his slave has explained that he was unavoidably delayed. I wonder, Severus, if you might have some of that healing tonic I have used before for the pain?"

There was a short, meaningful pause. Hermione was beginning to regret her rash decision to meet this visitor.

"Of course, Aedile. I shall fetch some directly." Snape rose to his feet and paused. Clearly, he was uneasy about leaving Hermione alone with the Aedile.

Fiducius read Snape's emotions and waved away his concern with assurance. "Please, Severus, allow Hermione and me to get to know one another a little while we wait for you to return."

Snape turned to look at her again, his eyes fathomless. She felt Snape's wandless invocation, and then his mind gently touched hers with enough time for her to hear the words take care in her mind before he slipped away. With a final look of warning, Snape disappeared down the steps to his laboratory. Hermione watched him leave.

"So, my dear," Fiducius began, indicating that they should seat themselves on the couch, "how long will you be staying here in Pompeii?"

"That depends," Hermione replied cautiously. She was beginning to feel that there was something deeply unsettling about this man. The feeling that he was, in some way, familiar to her returned, and she found herself pulling her hands away from him and toward her stomach.

The Aedile tilted his head to the left, and his eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded her, although his wide smile remained. "Depends on what, my dear?"

Hermione blushed a little and looked away. "Oh, I cannot stay for long... I have to return home soon. I do not wish to impose on ... Severus' ... hospitality for too long."

"Quite," Fiducius agreed. "Quite so, Hermione. It is a terrible thing to be unwanted. How do you find our city? I gather that you have been out exploring since your... arrival?" At Hermione's nervous start, he chuckled expansively.

"I am Aedile of this city, Hermione. That means I am responsible for its day-to-day administration. I make sure that the water runs, the streets are cleared, the markets function and the whores are paid. Nothing happens here without me getting to hear about it." The final statement hovered in the air between them for longer than was necessary.

Hermione cleared her throat uneasily. "How did you meet Severus?" she asked in order to change the topic of conversation.

"I found him selling his healing lotions on a street corner one day," the Aedile replied. "He was in need of financial support, and I was in need of pain relief." He shifted his body slightly, picking up a plump black olive as he did so and popping it into his mouth. He chewed it carefully and swallowed. "We struck a bargain and have continued in our... relationship ever since. Severus has done well for himself, and I too have benefitted both personally and financially. He really is a talented potioneer."

She did not mistake the emphasis on the final word but made no reaction. Her heart was beginning to thump irregularly in her chest.

A crisp footstep announced Snape's reappearance in the courtyard. He was carrying a small glass bottle in his hand. Fiducius looked up and rose to his feet.

"Thank you, Severus," he said, taking the bottle into his pale hands. He smiled again, his yellowing teeth once more in evidence. "Your niece is a charming young woman, but she says that she is staying only as long as you wish her to. I do hope that we will be able to see her at our home this week for the festivities. Do bring her along. I am sure that our master would enjoy meeting her."

He regarded her again for a long moment, as if weighing something up in his mind, and then his attention refocused on the bottle in his hands. Once again, he smiled. "Well, no time like the present," he said lightly and flicked the bottle open, greedily tipping its contents into his mouth. For a short while he stood quite still, and then he seemed to shudder as he closed his eyes, clearly savoring the delicious sensation that the liquid had caused him. As he opened his eyes again, Hermione thought that she saw a shimmer in the air surrounding him. She caught her breath disbelievingly and was doubly disconcerted when the Aedile laughed at her, a carefree and hollow sound. Taking a deep breath, the Roman plucked a stray daisy bloom from a nearby shrub and concentrated for a moment. Hermione stared as the flower changed into a small lacewing in his palm. Gently, he blew at the tiny insect and watched with a hungry expression as it fluttered away in the morning breeze.

Fiducius turned to Snape, the smile that did not quite reach his eyes still lingering on his face. Hermione realized that the Aedile had been testing her and that he had carefully noted her reaction to his Transfiguration spell.

"So, Severus," he spoke softly again. "Now there are two of you." He looked once again at Hermione, and she thought that his eyes had become even more calculating in their intensity. Fiducius returned his attention to the Potions master. "Your slave at the entrance said that you were injured this morning. I trust that you were still able to harvest what you needed for the final fixative?"

Snape's eyes were flat and unreadable. His face set in a polite mask as he nodded. "The injury was not severe enough to prevent me from collecting the blood, my Lord," he replied. "The potion continues to brew successfully. I expect the first batch to be ready for testing in four day's time."

Hermione looked at Snape quickly, and then she returned her eyes to the Aedile, hoping that he hadn't noticed her reaction to his comment.

The Aedile appeared to be satisfied. He stared hard once again at Snape, then nodded. "Good," he said shortly. "See to it that you are more careful in the future. Perhaps you will consider taking your niece with you the next time you need to bleed the creatures. She may be able to help you in your endeavours." He smiled at Hermione, and she watched him warily, her senses alert and her hand unconsciously resting over her concealed wand. The Aedile turned to leave, half spinning on his booted feet, before he stopped again and regarded the wizards.

"I have protected you thus far with our master, Severus," he said, and his voice was formal and harsh. "I cannot promise to do so in the future, particularly if I believe that your attention has become... distracted... by your pretty niece. I will see you tomorrow morning at my villa for my daily update, Severus." His eyes flicked meaningfully to Hermione. "Our master may wish to speak to you, my dear, as well."

With one final, broad smile, the Aedile held his palm outwards again. He frowned and then watched, delighted, as a small blue flame danced across his palm. "Only four days to wait," he said, and Hermione noted the triumphant timbre in his voice. "Four more days," he repeated, "and then the new Gods of Pompeii will rise." He closed his fist with a flourish, turned, and stalked away.