Chapter 7

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!

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Chapter 7

"Umm, I thought I'd give Gabrielle a call before I leave for Italy," Harry called carefully through the open door between their bathroom and bedroom. "What do you think? Have you seen our spare toothpaste?"

"What?" Ginny's voice sounded dangerously charged from the adjoining room.

"Toothpaste?" Harry projected his voice a little louder and paused in his search through their bath things as he waited for his wife's reaction. He jumped when Ginny appeared suddenly at the doorway.

"Harry James Potter," she began, her eyes flashing. "What do you mean, 'give Gabrielle a call'?"

Despite his best efforts, Harry felt a blush spread to his ears. He busied himself filling his travel wash bag with various items. Soap... shampoo... shaving cream... toothbrush... flannel....

He realised that his wife had still not spoken further, and he risked another look in her direction. Ginny was standing with her arms folded and her eyes narrowed. He favoured her with what he hoped was his calmest and most winningly sincere smile.

"Darling, Gabrielle is working in Italy now," he pointed out reasonably to his wife, abandoning his search for the spare toothpaste tube and zipping up the bag. "She could be really helpful when I get out there. You know? Helping me with the language and getting around when I get there? Don't you remember Fleur telling us at Christmas that Gabrielle had that new job working for the French Ministry as a liaison officer in Rome? I thought that she might be able to help me out... Come on, Ginny! You know that there's never been anything to worry about with me!" He wrapped his arms around her waist, hugging her tight and resting his chin on her shoulder. He tightened his grip and chuckled as he felt her begin to relax slowly.

When Ginny had first met Fleur, she, like the rest of her family, had disliked her intensely, and even after nearly fifteen years, his fiery wife had not quite lost her jealous attitude towards her part-Veela relatives. It was true that when Ron and Harry had first met Fleur, they had behaved like, well, prats. But that was a long time ago. Harry snuggled closer to his beautiful wife. Ginny's hands were pressed flat against his back, and Harry risked moving his head to kiss her.

"Not so bloody fast, mister," she said, but there was a small quirk of her lips and her eyes gentled. Not giving up, he nudged her cheek with his nose and smiled, relaxing his grip on her waist but moving his hands slowly around her flanks and up her back. He nudged again and felt her laugh and twist in his arms, her lips finally pressing to his own. Harry felt that familiar swooping sensation in his chest as their tongues entwined and he growled happily into her mouth. He wondered if they had time before the kids got back to the flat from the nursery, but then Ginny pulled away laughing and picked up his wash bag. She swung it in her hand and walked back into the bedroom.

"Okay," she said, chucking the wash bag into his small suitcase on the bed, "there are rules about this arrangement."

Obediently, Harry nodded and grinned; he had been expecting this. As he moved towards her across the room, Ginny held up her right hand and counted off her fingers. "One...absolutely no snogging. Two...no touching beyond a quick 'hello hug'. Three...no mooning or behaving like Ronald did three years ago at The Burrow. Four..."

But Harry had caught up with her and wrapped his arms around her again, and she dissolved into a fit of giggles as he began to tickle and nuzzle her in just the way she liked.

***

Three hours later, Harry walked into Level Six of the Ministry of Magic and approached the entrance to the Department of Magical Transportation, hefting his travelling case awkwardly in his left hand and holding a copy of the authorisation letter for his journey in the other. It had been hand signed by Kingsley himself a few minutes ago.

As his trip was an emergency, Harry had decided to travel to London to catch the regular, authorised Portkey to Naples from the Ministry of Magic because of the frequent availability of departure dates, instead of waiting for the paperwork to be approved by the Department of Magical Transportation.

Harry had travelled abroad on a few occasions when he had worked for the Ministry, but he had always travelled directly from the Minister's Office with Kingsley, so travelling from the Department of Magical Transportation's International Portkey Departure Division was a new experience that he was quite looking forward to.

Unlike the dark, Gothic splendour of the Entrance Atrium of the Ministry, the ceiling of the reception foyer for the Department of Magical Transportation was far higher, with large arched recesses decorated with statues that led to the doorways of various offices and regularly spaced magical windows set into deep-set windowsills set into each side of the cavernous space. The windows, which flooded the lobby with light, showed spectacular views of various locations from around the world despite the fact that they were still deep underground. The room was about two hundred feet long and seventy feet wide. Its floor was decorated with dark grey and cream marble tiles that were arranged in a chequerboard design. The walls were covered in a fine, pale cream stucco. While the Entrance Atrium felt dark and oppressive, its glistening walls redolent with authoritarianism and the sense of magical power and responsibility, this hall gave a far more light-hearted and welcoming impression. Harry's buoyant mood continued, although his arm was beginning to ache a little from carrying his heavy bag.

As Harry followed the floating signs in the foyer for the International Portkey Departures Lounge, walking briskly towards the escalators at the end of the hall, his eyes were drawn to a series of brightly coloured, framed magical posters on the walls between the windows. Each poster exhorted the reader to travel with greater care and safety than the first. Harry's eyes lingered in particular on the image of a serious looking wizard explaining: 'Splinching Can Kill; Don't Apparate ANGRY!' In the next one along, another similarly concerned wizard advised the viewer not to use unauthorised Portkeys because 'What the Ministry does not Authorise, We Can't Support!' Another, a bright yellow poster showing a slow-moving picture of the Knight Bus, read: 'Don't Drink and Apparate; Summon the Knight Bus. Let US Do the Driving!'

When he reached the escalators at the end of the hall, Harry found himself queuing up behind two families who were marshalling their luggage and children up the moving stairway in front of them. The escalators were long, steep and narrow, rising about two hundred feet above to the International Portkey Departures Lounge.

The children ranged in age from about four years old to mid-teens. After a short time, both families were safely ascending, and Harry followed. The progress of the escalator was smooth, but still Harry saw the second mother put her arm carefully about the shoulders of her very young daughter to prevent her from wobbling on the moving stair. Her protective action reminded Harry of Ginny, and he wondered what the children back at home in Hogwarts would be doing. James and Al were no doubt chasing about the castle grounds fighting each other and causing trouble while he knew Ginny would probably be putting Lily down for her lunchtime nap just about now. Ginny would make a cup of tea and probably curl up on the sofa to read or listen to the radio while Lily slept.

Harry was pleased that his family was so content living at the castle. For many years Hogwarts had been his home and his refuge from the Dursleys' neglect, the place where he had met his lovely wife and made the sort of friends that would last a lifetime. Regardless of the war and the horrors that he witnessed within and around the walls of the old castle, it still felt like home. He certainly preferred their suite of rooms in Hogwarts to his godfather's old house, which he and his family had lived in when he had worked in London. Despite Kreacher's changed attitude and the work that had been done to modernise and brighten the property, Harry still found that there were still too many difficult memories in Grimmauld Place for him to be truly content there.

He was reaching the top of the escalator now, and he shuffled off the moving staircase, finding himself on a smaller landing area which led through a barrel-vaulted corridor to another hallway, this time marked, International Portkey Departures Lounge. Harry found himself in a long queue of travellers, still behind the families he had followed up the escalator.

After a while, the slow progress of the queue made his shoulder ache, so he dropped his bag at his feet, charming it to float alongside him as he progressed forward. When the two families ahead of him moved up to the registration counter, he had his first clear view of the room beyond.

The Departure Lounge was huge, almost as cavernous as the Entrance Atrium itself and, like the atrium, it echoed with noise. Along both sides of the hall were a series of magical benches, which expanded and contracted depending on how many people needed to sit down. The benches were mostly occupied by a variety of witches and wizards who were waiting for the next Portkey to be activated. Various open doorways led off from the foyer to smaller rooms with magical rope barriers. Shimmering in midair was a series of notices, informing the seated wizards when the different Portkeys were due to be activated and from which room. Periodically, a bureaucratic female voice made announcements, thus adding to the noise in the hall.

Apparently, he had the misfortune to be travelling on an August weekend alongside what looked very much like half the magical population of London. An orb above the registration counter turned green, indicating that he should approach the available receptionist. Taking a deep breath, Harry walked towards a vacant-looking dark-haired witch behind the registration counter and passed over his authorisation letter.

"Portkey to Naples, Italy," he said unnecessarily, as the witch seemed to be taking a very long time reading the authorisation letter. She paused in her perusal of his documentation and looked slowly up at him. Harry was reminded of Pansy Parkinson and wondered if the slack-jawed girl was a relative of the unlovely Slytherin. "Mr. ... Potter?" she asked slowly, disbelievingly.

Harry nodded, ducking his head self-consciously as he did so. Having spent the past few years in the protective obscurity of Hogwarts, Harry found it hard to return to the wider wizarding world and all the attention that his reputation brought him here. He had the absurd feeling that he should show her his scar to prove that he was, after all, who he claimed to be. He resisted the urge to do so. It was barely visible anyway, having faded to a faint silver line after the Horcrux had been removed. Eventually, the receptionist moved her hand slowly to a large metal stamp on her desk and stamped the parchment with purple ink.

"Wand please," the receptionist said in a formal tone that wavered slightly as if she were still impressed to be serving him, but trying to appear professional while doing so. She indicated that Harry should place it on the pair of golden scales on the counter, staring at his forehead as she did so. Harry pulled it out and placed it on the scales. "Wand core?" the witch asked him, checking his answer against the letter before her.

"Did you pack your own bag, sir?" she asked, still staring at him.

"Uh-huh." Harry nodded and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He hoped this process would not take long, as he could do with the loo.

"The Portkey to Naples will be activated from Room 32B in forty-five minutes. Please take a seat and keep your luggage with you at all times. On behalf of the Minster for Magic, we wish you a happy journey and a safe landing at the destination of your choice," she gabbled, holding out Harry's letter. He took it, but she seemed reluctant to let it go. He tugged it carefully free from her fingers and asked her where the nearest public toilets were. She looked astonished (Harry Potter needs to urinate!) and then directed him to a discreet side door on the left.

Harry thanked her and picked up his wand and his bag. All in all, he was very pleased about how things had gone so far. It would not be long to wait, and he'd be meeting Gabrielle at the Apparition point in Naples. He turned and went to relieve his bladder.

*********************

"Why the hell didn't you do what you were told?" Snape snarled furiously. He was white faced and shaking with rage. She could tell that it was all he could manage to keep his voice low so Pertus did not hear them. "You could have ruined everything! Everything! I don't know what Fiducius will do now that he knows you are here. I cannot protect you like this!"

Hermione knew what he was so angry about; he had lost the element of surprise that her presence might have lent him.

"Some ally," he scoffed, "You cannot even be trusted to follow simple instructions that have been clearly given!"

Hermione stood very still, staring at him, her hazel eyes wide and steady.

For a moment it seemed as if she could feel his magic swell, as if his chest had began to thrum with a dark and powerful energy with each deep breath she watched him take. The power this wizard had amazed and frightened her, but she winced as he laid a hand on his ribs, as if they hurt him. She remembered his bruises and recoiled in sympathy; sympathy that vanished as soon as he said, "You... you can't be trusted at all, can you?" his voice little more than a hiss. "Blundering about, idiot girl. Fuck! Fuck!. I told you to stay out of sight, for Merlin's sake! Now he knows about you...." Snape ran his fingers through his hair and over his face, scrubbing at his cheek as if trying to erase something.

"Well, perhaps if you had told me all about your bloody Patron, I wouldn't have come back out to meet him!" She matched his anger and resentment with her own, stubbornly jutting out her chin and standing with her feet self-consciously apart. "What the hell was all that about? Is he a wizard? I thought you said that you had not contacted any other magical people here!"

"He is not magical!" Snape was standing very close to her now, his face less than six inches away from her. "I thought your famed intellect and acumen, not to mention your magical senses, would have picked up that glaringly obvious point, Doctor Granger. Did you not see him take the potion and only then transfigure the plant? Or were you too busy flirting with him to notice?" He stopped short suddenly and blinked.

"I did pick up on that fact, actually, Severus," she retorted furiously, feeling the blush creeping across her cheeks, matching the one slowly spreading across his. "I remember thinking that he was a surprisingly knowledgeable Muggle with no magical signature but a surprising familiarity with, and knowledge of, our world just before you gave him the potion that imbued him with sufficient magical strength to undertake a rather tricky Transfiguration charm that created a living form. I am not the one at fault here!"

"Are you suggesting that I do not know what I am doing?" he was practically shouting at her, and she could detect the faint trace of aggressive uncertainty in his voice.

"I don't know what I am suggesting!" she shouted back, refusing to back down, "because you won't tell me anything! I don't know exactly what is going on here, but I'm starting to realise that we seem to be in even more trouble than just being trapped inside some of the most powerful wards I have ever encountered in a doomed ancient city that is thousands of miles and years away from home. Oh, yes, and I also found out, incidentally, that you have a portrait painted of me somewhere in your home and that I am suddenly your niece! The situation is clearly more than you can handle on your own – your injuries attest to that fact," she said as she gestured at his damaged side.

She paused for a moment, recognising the importance of this moment and knowing that she had to do something to try to convince him of her sincerity. Then, some odd impulse made her reach out to touch him with one hand, spreading her fingers across the centre of his chest to try to feel his heart, her fingers catching on the pendant that he was wearing on the thin gold chain around his neck under his tunica. She felt an erratic thumping beneath her fingers, which matched the uneven rhythm in her own chest. "For Merlin's sake, please let me in, Severus. I can help you, and we can help each other to get out of here!"

He flinched at her touch, and with a frustrated growl, he grabbed her upper arms. Without thinking, she clutched his forearms defensively in return, her fingers digging into his flesh to prevent him from shaking her. His face immediately contorted with a hiss of alarm and pain, and he broke away from her, taking a jolting step backwards, holding his left forearm as he did so. He backed up against the frame of the couch and sat down heavily upon it.

She was breathing thickly, watching him as he sat gently cradling his arm. She realised with a sudden jolt that it must be his Dark Mark. The Mark had faded so much that she had not even noticed it before. There was little more than a faint silvery outline on the flesh of his arm, but as she looked more intently, she saw that the skin around it had a sickly pallor. They both watched as he stroked the old curse scar lightly with his fingertips. He seemed to be soothing it.

Once more, his hair obscured his face. She had always thought him difficult to read when she knew him before as her professor, but here and now, his body language spoke volumes. There was tension pulsing about him, as he seemed to be fighting an internal war within himself. His shoulders were stiff with pain and possibly anxiety, yet his hand moved gently on his arm. She watched the tender motion with renewed sympathy.

Thanks mostly to Harry's post-war zealotry on Snape's behalf, Hermione knew a lot about the taciturn Potions master's actions during his time as a spy for the Order. She knew that he had worked obsessively alone, not confiding in anyone, even those who had been so badly wounded when he killed Dumbledore and suffered under his tenure as Headmaster. For him to trust another person in a dangerous situation would be a supreme act of faith that would go against years of deeply ingrained survival mechanisms. She took a slow and steady breath and sat down beside him, placing her hand lightly but firmly on his right arm.

"Severus," she said quietly but compellingly, "don't you think it is time that we started to work together, rather than apart?"

*********************

Harry sat with his head in his hands, despairing that he would never get out of Britain.

The last time he had travelled via Portkey, he had been travelling with the Minister for Magic on a trade mission to Southern California. The process had been effortless and smooth, in stark contrast to the hell that he was currently experiencing.

He was sitting on one of the magical benches between a short and angry elderly witch who was returning home to Naples after visiting relatives in the UK for the holidays and a young family who was clearly inexperienced in travelling with children. Harry paused in his musing to thank the planets for Ginny's family, who had so much experience in travelling with babies and youngsters that they had bomb-proof preparations for doing so. Clearly, the young witch and wizard had never heard of drawing pads and permanently charmed Nintendo DS computer games. As he shifted sideways to avoid the wailing infant who was currently throwing a strop simply because he was bored, he jolted his angry neighbour on the other side who directed a tirade of irate Italian in his direction until he was in no doubt what she thought of him.

He checked his watch. The Portkey was now nearly two hours overdue. This was owing to – Harry had been informed by the receptionist who he had eventually gone to speak to again – 'local difficulties' at the destination site in Naples. What those 'local difficulties' were she really could not say, although she did hope that he was having a nice day. He had not been able to send a message to Gabrielle (now that he had checked in, he was not allowed to leave the Departure Lounge for 'security reasons'), and he was just hoping that she would still be waiting for him when he arrived.

He returned to his seat, apologetically insinuating himself back between the angry Italian witch and the helpless parents and their offspring. With a heavy sigh he pulled a handful of parchments out of his rucksack and turned over the front page.

Before he left Hogwarts for the Apparition Point outside the school gates, he had visited Minerva to see if she might be able to shed any light on what Hermione was working on before she had disappeared. Harry had explained in a somewhat embarrassed fashion to his old Head of House that he was searching for clues to her disappearance. Smiling, Minerva had pressed a number of academic journals into his hands, all written by Hermione during the last five years. "Hermione always sends me copies of any article she writes," the Head of Gryffindor had said with a proud tilt of her head and her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I am sure that you will find some of them very...," her eyebrows had wiggled suggestively, "... instructive."

Experimentally, Harry had opened the front cover of the article on the top of the sheaf of papers. Underneath the title The Development of Eastern Mystery Cults in the Early Roman Empire: an Arithmantic Perspective, there was a short dedication. For STS, it read, to keep this memory alive. "What's that?" Harry had asked, frowning at the words in his hands.

"Oh, Hermione always signs her papers like that." Minerva had shrugged. "It's her signature dedication. Odd, really, that she can't seem to let Severus go."

Sitting uncomfortably on his section of the bench, Harry returned to Hermione's most recent academic article with a sigh. Turning past the initial title page with its baffling dedication, Harry's eyes caught a few choice words, and his eyes widened fractionally. "Castration ... Orgy ... Phallic structures," he read. What in Merlin's name was she working on? His eyes fell back to the pages.

Much of the paper was taken up with a detailed site report from her most recent excavation season in Pompeii, written in technical language which baffled him, but Harry's attention was drawn to what seemed to be a particularly lurid description of an animal sacrifice to a goddess called Magna Mater or Great Mother. Hermione's neat script carefully described a small underground chamber, long and narrow, with a deep pit dug at the far end. A sturdy metal grid had been placed over the pit. Hermione suggested that this was evidence of a bull sacrifice called a taurobolium. An accompanying illustration showed the bull's throat being slit open and its blood pouring down through the grid to bathe the naked initiates below.

Hermione went on to maintain that while the other taurobolii took place with wooden slats preventing the animal from collapsing on top of the initiates below, this one seemed to be preventing an even larger or heavier creature from crushing the worshippers. Either way, the moment of the sacrificed creature's death appeared to coincide with the ecstatic release of the mystery. Harry wondered, with some confusion, what kind of 'ecstatic release' Hermione could have been talking about.

Bloody hell, History of Magic was never like this at school! Harry thought to himself, carefully moving his reading matter away from the suddenly interested eyes of his elderly next-door neighbour who was ogling, with increasingly horrified offence, at another picture from the article of unclothed initiates dancing around a central figure who was wrapped in a snake and carrying a weird-looking staff.

Before he could read any further, the apologetic voice of the receptionist, magically magnified, announced, "Attention please, Transportees for the International Portkey to Naples, Italy. Your Portkey will be departing immediately from Room 32B. Will anyone who is intending to travel via this Portkey, please come forward. Thank you. The Ministry of Magic apologises for the delay in this transport."

Scrambling to his feet, Harry hurriedly stuffed Hermione's papers back in his luggage and followed the small crowd of his fellow travellers to the relevant room.

In the centre of Room 32B, on a small table dramatically lit from above, was an articulated table lamp. Beside it, an officious little wizard wearing a dark blue set of robes and a peaked cap waited for everyone to file into the room.

"Good afternoon, everyone," the Portkey wizard intoned in a faintly nasal voice. "Please ensure that you have a firm hold of your luggage as you approach the Portkey and place your finger somewhere upon it. Travellers with young children are requested to ensure their safety by holding on to them very tightly." This prompted a flurry of panic from the young family, as the mother attempted to swap the luggage that she was holding for their son, whom the father was carrying. The father, in turn, tried to grab the bag without dropping the infant until he was certain that his wife had him firmly in her arms, and in doing so, he accidentally bumped the Italian-speaking witch's ample bosom. Unfortunately, the infant, who was therefore jostled around, began howling again at his treatment, and the Italian witch smacked the father on the head with her handbag, swearing loudly at him in Italian.

Harry looked with some desperation at the Portkey wizard. Please, please let me get out of here! Harry thought earnestly, swearing once again that he would never travel by a regular, authorised Portkey ever again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Portkey is due to activate in...," the wizard consulted a large magical fob watch, "ten seconds, nine, eight, seven, six ..."

Harry hurriedly placed his fingers on the cool metal of the lamp and watched the Portkey wizard flourish his wand. The table lamp glowed blue and trembled briefly, marking its activation as a Portkey. Abruptly, he found himself to be travelling.

Harry quite enjoyed transport by Portkey. During his time working for the Ministry, Harry had become comfortable with the initial jarring sensation that resulted from touching the Portkey, and he was also now able to remain upright and cycle his legs carefully so that he could control his landing, which in this case was in a small clearing of an urban park.

Immediately, he felt the change in temperature, and the sun seemed to be so much fiercer on his face and neck. His fellow travellers were picking themselves up off the grass, either wailing loudly, arguing about who was carrying what, or remonstrating angrily with the luckless relative who had been nominated to meet his aged nonna. As he got his bearings, Harry saw a tall, lovely silver-blonde witch, striding purposefully towards him with her hands outstretched in greeting and her eyes shining with recognition.

"Harry!" she called out, rushing to embrace him tightly.

Harry experienced the heady rush of physical intoxication that meeting Gabrielle Delacour usually caused. Carefully, he squeezed her back, before (mindful of his promise to Ginny) stepping backwards. He knew he was blushing, but he hoped, as always, that she would not call attention to his embarrassment. Unlike her sister, Gabrielle was quite self-conscious about her Veela heritage and certainly did not enjoy the attention that she attracted from men and wizards as much as her older sister. Harry took a deliberate breath and pulled his suitcase in front of him in an unconsciously defensive gesture. "It's so good to see you again, Gabrielle," he said smiling, feeling his heart rate even out as his body got used to being so close to her. "I'm sorry I'm so late. There was some sort of a problem with the Portkey. Thanks for giving me a hand. Fleur said that you knew the area around Naples quite well?"

"But it's my pleasure, Harry." Gabrielle smiled charmingly in response. "I studied for a while near to Napoli, so I know the city well. Fleur said that you had never been to Italia before, so you would be happy for me to translate for you and help you to find your hotel. I had some vacation time due to me, and so it was easy for me to be here for you."

She placed her hand on his arm, and Harry felt his body betray him once again, but if she noticed his discomfort, Gabrielle did not comment. Instead, she smiled once again, and Harry was bathed in the warmth of the sun and her friendly affection. "It is so lovely to see you again Harry; welcome to Naples! Shall we get a coffee?"

*********************

"It began a few months ago," Snape's voice was low and quiet. He was still looking down at his arm, his fingers now stilled over the remnants of his Mark.

Hermione sat quietly and waited for him to tell her more. She realised that her heart rate had increased, either from fear or from anticipation, she could not tell. She stifled a breath and waited.

Snape sighed quietly, straightened his back and turned to face her. "But I suppose it began even earlier than that," he amended. "Fiducius was always ambitious, and even with all my personal experience, I did not realize how corrupting that ambition could become. Marcus comes from an old family. Naturally, he had harboured political ambitions since childhood. You will have noticed that he is rather old to be a humble Aedile, no doubt." Hermione nodded, so Snape continued, "His family was closely linked with the family of Poppaea Sabina..."

"Emperor Nero's second wife," Hermione interjected, unable to stop herself.

Snape scowled. "Of course. Do try to control yourself, Granger, I thought you wanted me to talk to you? Perhaps you would rather continue this sorry tale?" He raised a long eyebrow at her, some of the old sarcasm returning to his expression.

Hermione held up her hands in apology and a polite invitation for him to continue.

Snape took his time returning to the subject, drawing out the moment to irritate her further. Hermione refused to rise to the bait and waited (with gritted teeth) for him to carry on.

"Very well." Snape cleared his throat. "When Nero was murdered in the year 68, his family and supporters fell from power with him. Fiducius could not stand again for local office. Suddenly, his hopes of a glittering political career had faded to dust. He did not take the sudden loss of status and power well." Snape's faced twisted into a small grimace. "I owe Marcus Fiducius a life debt. When I came to the city, he sheltered me, gave me money and helped me to establish my home and business. Without him I would not have survived those early weeks here. I owed him my support and thought he was a true friend. For many months after Nero's fall from power, Marcus was inconsolable. He suffered the loss of his local prestige badly. I did what I could to encourage him to endure the period of his family's political disgrace. After all," the faint trace of a sneer crossed his features, "I have some experience of being hated and resented by my peers." Snape stared out across his garden.

"Ever since I have known him, Marcus has been looking for a way to regain his authority and revive his ambitions. He is eager to explore all the means to enhance his power, and he is quite ruthless in exploiting every opportunity to do so."

"Is that where that potion came from?" asked Hermione quietly.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Granger," he admonished her. "Patience."

Despite her irritation at his supercilious attitude, she suddenly knew that he was enjoying having the knowledge of something that she did not. It was infuriating. He was reading her expression and becoming progressively more amused by her frustration. She watched him watching her. The tension increased between them as the silence continued. It turned the air thick and heavy, laden with expectation. I'm not going to blink, she found herself thinking absurdly. I'm not. He can bloody well speak first.

Oh, come on....

Snape snorted. "There is another element of the situation that you perhaps should know." He shifted carefully on the couch and winced, his hand moving reflexively to his ribs, as the movement once again aggravated his rib injury. He looked at her again haughtily. "What does the famous Know-It-All of Gryffindor Tower know about the cult of Sabazios?"

"Sabazios? The Thracian deity?" Hermione asked. "Hang on, what do you mean? His cult is here? That's very interesting... I found evidence of some of the eastern mystery cults like Cybele during last year's excavation season..." Her voice died out in the face of his intense stare. His eyebrow was raised once more and Hermione felt a small quiver of fear thrill through her body.

"What I mean, Granger, is that the actual deity is here, now, in the city. Sabazios is the 'Master' that Marcus was referring to, just before he left." Snape's brow furled into a scowl as he spoke. "Not powerful enough yet, though; he has still not realised his full magical potential, but he is very dangerous. He is an extremely powerful magical force already."

"Where... where is he now?" Hermione stammered rather stupidly, almost looking around her.

Snape smiled grimly, his mood darkening. "Fiducius has him hidden in one of the empty water cisterns in the north section of the city. He is contained for now – fed, contented and ... growing. When Sabazios appeared in the city with his supporters, Marcus quickly learned of it and saw Sabazios as a means to regain his prestige and become more powerful."

"What do you mean, 'more powerful'?" asked Hermione, although she probably already knew the answer.

"Marcus believes that he has been cheated out of his political inheritance," Snape said, his voice colourless. "His aunt rose to be the wife of an emperor. As a young man, Marcus met Nero himself when the emperor visited Pompeii, and the experience completely shaped his life." Snape darted a look at Hermione and watched her expression.

Hermione was processing the information he was throwing at her with her customary speed, quickly aligning all the pieces together with what she'd discovered at her dig in the modern world.

He picked up one of the goblets in front of him and drained it. She continued to watch him silently. She knew that he could practically hear the wheels turning in her mind. Replacing the goblet on the low table, he sat back again carefully, and apparently keeping his emotions under control, he continued his explanation. "Marcus plans to be Emperor of Rome, Hermione."

He paused and she nodded in understanding, silently urging him to continue. "He is from a high-born family. He is very intelligent and does not lack imagination. He understands that Vespasian only gained the throne after Nero's death because he was able to mobilise the support of the army and took decisive action against his rivals. With Sabazios and his followers behind him, Marcus could control an army that will be easily strong enough for him to overthrow Vespasian's son and take control over the Empire. As you know, the first few months of a new reign is always a delicate time. His son, Titus, is not quite secure. Other families, like the Fiducii, were out of favour in Vespasian's regime. If Marcus acts quickly, he may well succeed in establishing himself as a new emperor with Sabazios' help. History is made by those who take their moment." His face twisted into a sardonic smile. "Carpe Diem, 'seize the day', Miss Granger – the Romans practically invented the sentiment."

"Why can't Sabazios simply take power for himself, if he's so dangerous?" Hermione asked.

Snape almost laughed. "Does a god want to restrict himself to a mere human empire? I suspect that his ambitions are even greater. For now, I sense that he will be happy to rule through Marcus. The power behind the throne, so to speak."

"Where do you fit in to this picture?" she asked quietly when he paused again.

"I went along to an initiation ceremony to humour Marcus," Snape replied, and there was an air of embarrassment emanating from him now. "I think he wanted to show me off to his new friend. There has been any number of new religious cults in Pompeii in the past few years since the earthquake of 52 AD, one charlatan after another – Mithras, The Great Mother, Isis, people coming together and using religion as a means to achieve group relief and shared fulfilment. Imagine my... surprise... when I attended the meeting and realised that Sabazios was actually magical, and more than that, I knew he had malignant intent."

Hermione realised that he was flushing at the memory of his misjudgement.

"So, Marcus took me to meet Sabazios, and we recognised each other's magical signatures immediately. It was like being flayed. It reminded me of the first time I met The Dark Lord. I could tell that Sabazios was weak but I could sense that he was gaining strength. His Legilimency was excoriating; I was not expecting it, and he ripped me bare. In a moment he saw everything that I was – that I could command and accomplish – and because I was unprepared, I was undefended." Snape's head had dropped and his hair once more had fallen forward to cover his face. There was another period of silence, but Hermione knew that there was more.

"What did Sabazios ask you to do?" she asked.

"The Metamorphagus Potion," Snape said bluntly. "You have seen its effects. Sabazios wishes to enhance his own powers, and he also wishes to gift magical abilities to his followers."

"But," Hermione objected, feeling like she was permanently catching up on this conversation from far behind, "magical abilities are innate. You are born with them, or they are passed down through generations. You can't manufacture a wizard, for Merlin's sake!"

"I theorised that magical abilities might be found in the genetic code – a recessive gene, so to speak – so I sought to create a masking potion to overlay the non-magical genetic code. I did not think it was possible to achieve a satisfactory result but was obliged to try."

"And you succeeded," Hermione said flatly.

"I did not think it would be possible, but yes, I succeeded in a limited way."

Hermione frowned. "The potion that Fiducius took...it gave him the ability to cast spells. How strong is it?"

Snape shifted, easing his side again. "Strong enough," he said eventually. "But it does not last beyond a few minutes and cannot be taken again for some hours."

"But you are making it stronger and more long lasting," she said.

"Yes. I have found a way to stabilise the bonding of the organic compounds."

"You are making it possible for Sabazios to have his army." She felt as if her heart had stopped. "Death Eaters. Oh God, that's what you're doing – you're creating a new race of Death Eaters! Why, for fuck's sake?"

Snape turned to look at her directly, and she was revolted to see the quirk of amusement appear again on his features. The sight of it made her stomach clench. She tasted acid in her gullet and fought for control. How could he do this? After everything we had fought for against Voldemort! After I had believed in him, had tried to save him, had mourned desperately for him, had never forgotten him.... She blinked back the sudden angry and frenzied tears that sprang to her eyes. Snape was still watching her with that damnable-fucking-sneering...

"–Because, Miss Granger," Snape answered her, interrupting her thoughts as they raced through her mind and her hand tightened on her wand, "and again I find myself rather disappointed by your dullness – because I know where we are and I know the date, Miss Granger. I know the date."