Chapter 9

A/N: All the characters you recognise are JKR's and not mine! Again, thanks and hugs to the incomparable beaweasley2 and clairvoyant for all their help on this chapter. Thanks also to those of you who take the time to review. It is much appreciated! This one has a particularly evil cliffie at the end of it. Ooops.

Thank you to beaweasley2 and Jay for the lovely banner!

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Chapter 9

Severus busied himself shredding the remaining roots, pleased to see that his hand was still rising and falling evenly despite the distraction of having Miss Granger watching him. He scooped the chopped roots into the cauldron on his right and stirred the mixture methodically. She had still not answered his rather mangled invitation to the Vettii dinner that evening, and as the silence continued (only broken by the rhythmical crunch of his knife through the roots), he found himself waiting tensely for her response. Should he have asked her less grudgingly? Was she going to say anything?

Dammit, he was not going to turn around.

He had nearly finished shredding the last handful of roots. To his humiliation, he began to feel his ears starting to burn as he turned his body slightly towards her to push the last of the roots carefully into the cauldron of Strengthening Solution.

He felt a puff of breath on his upper arm, and he realised with some surprise that Hermione was looking around his shoulder. Her attention was on the cauldron's contents, her eyebrows raised and an expression of intense interest evident on her face. Forcing himself to focus again on what he was doing, he continued to stir.

Gradually, the liquid began to thicken.

The silence continued to lengthen.

What is so fascinating to her? It was only a simple potion, one he had prepared thousands of times before in his life. He continued to count his stirs in time to the small transfigured metronome that was ticking quietly on the counter beside the potion ingredients. He was becoming distracted by her silence, and he risked a quick glance at her from behind the curtain of his hair. She was not moving, seemingly entranced by the swirling motion of his hand stirring the potion.

Her continued silence was maddening.

"Miss Granger, what?" he asked eventually with a certain degree of asperity.

"Hermione, Severus. Seriously, please call me Hermione. Particularly if we are going to go out to a party together." Her lips were curved into a gentle smile that was almost teasing, and he noticed again the beautiful deep amber colour of her eyes. There were flecks of dark gold in the irises. Her eyes locked with his for a beat, two beats, while his hand mechanically continued to stir the potion.

Eventually, he nodded. "Hermione, then," he said, and at her expression, he felt his face break into the smallest of smiles. Something seemed to ease between them, and he saw her smile broaden with increased confidence before he turned his attention back towards the contents of the cauldron in front of him.

"I've never seen you brew before," she said, glancing up at him rather shyly.

He had no idea how to reply to the comment, so he turned his attention back to the bubbling Strengthening Solution before him. He could still feel her attention on what he was doing like a hot prickle on his skin. Although she was still peering at the Strengthening Solution, at least the woman knew better than to lean over an active brew before it was completed. He had to stir for precisely thirteen strokes more until it was time to add the salamander blood. His left hand closed on the small terracotta pot containing the blood. He had only been able to acquire the precious ingredient in its dried form, and so the solution would be somewhat diluted. He would need to compensate for that weakness, as far as was possible, by stirring more vigorously than he would have done under normal circumstances and by giving each seventh turn a gentle counter-stir as he did so.

He watched carefully as the liquid in the cauldron began to develop a deep vermilion red colour, as the other active ingredients absorbed the salamander blood. Severus experienced the familiar, almost childish sense of satisfaction and completion that he always felt on finishing a potion. A small and equally satisfied huff of breath from Hermione brought him back to himself, and he doused the flame under the cauldron with a quick non-verbal command.

"What are the other preparations that you are going to complete?" she asked, still standing uncomfortably close beside him.

"Mmmm?" His response was carefully noncommittal. He moved away from her and busied himself fussing with tidying up around the cooling cauldron. He was really hoping that she would not pursue that line of questioning. It was a perfectly legitimate branch of potion making, but even so, he did feel a slight sense of discomfiture at the thought of admitting what he was brewing for the Vettii brothers.

"A minute ago, you said that you had two other 'preparations' to make...?" She was like a Niffler after a Knut! Feeling his face burn yet again (when was he going to regain control over his treacherous body?), he nodded reluctantly towards two richly decorated Samian ware jars that were sitting on the side bench underneath his ingredient shelves.

***

She walked over to them, and raising her eyebrows to ask permission, she ended the stasis charms over each one. Immediately, two lovely scents began to filter into the atmosphere. Hermione closed her eyes and drew in a breath. She could distinguish the fragrances of sandalwood and myrrh from one of the pretty ceramic containers. The other jar held a lighter and more delicate floral aroma. The smells confused her because they were so unfamiliar. It had been a long time since she had brewed any potions, but she still took care to maintain her academic interests fairly broadly, and she read Potions Monthly and other journals regularly.

"What...?" she began to ask him and heard him sigh in some irritation as he replaced the lid on the pot of dried salamander blood and walked over to where she was standing in order to put it back onto the shelf above her.

"They are... perfumes." He seemed uncomfortable, although she had no idea why. "The Vettii brothers are exporters of many items, and perfumes are a lucrative part of their business. These, though, are intended as gifts for the hosts of tonight's gathering, Aulus Vettius Conviva and his wife Marcella. They have been very good to me." He was looking warily at her, as if she might laugh at him – whether for brewing something as petty as a perfume, or for caring for some of those around him, she was not sure.

She rushed to reassure him. "Oh, but perfumes lie at the heart of certain branches of potion making, Severus! Take Amortentia, for example – the smell is a significant part of the effect. Without that element of the potion, it doesn't have the same potency at all! Professor Houbigant recently published an academic study on Amortentia in the Journal of Advanced Potion Making which clearly showed that without a sense of smell, a witch or wizard will only be mildly drawn to the object of their affection..."

Abruptly, she closed her mouth with a snap.

"I'm prattling again, aren't I?" she asked, abashed.

"I am aware of the qualities of Amortentia, Hermione," Snape said evenly, the faintest suspicion of a smile curving the outside of his lips. "I'm glad you approve of the perfumes." He looked down at the perfume jars, frowning slightly.

Hermione's attention was drawn again to the two substances, and she watched tiny writhing spirals within both perfumes mix and curl as she breathed in their lovely scents. Even though they were different, they seemed to complement each other perfectly. She found herself closing her eyes again to better concentrate on the delicious aromas.

"Actually..." His voice caused her to open her eyes, and she smiled a little bashfully at her response to the perfumes. "...I have combined some of the properties of Amortentia with the brew. It enhances the attractiveness of the wearer more... comprehensively."

"Ah," she said, not knowing what else to say. He was standing near to her, and once more, she felt that indefinable sense of missing something lodged in her chest. She saw that a flake of salamander blood had settled on his cheek by the jaw line, and that the little, bright gold chain that she had noticed him wearing on her first morning in Pompeii rolled slightly on his neck as he breathed. He was looking at her quite intently now, and her academic interest in his potion brewing began to slide sideways into another arena altogether. Before she could move or even say anything further, however, his eyes seemed to shutter, and he stepped backwards and towards the doorway, calling loudly for Pertus to attend them. With a flick of his wand, he re-established the stasis charms on the little jars.

"Now," he continued in a rather brusque manner, avoiding eye contact with her, "if you are going to accompany me to the Vettii brothers' house this evening, you might wish to – I believe women usually prefer to – bathe and... such like... I will send Pertus out for another stola for you to wear. Do you have a preference for colour?"

She stared at him. Was he really asking her what colours she preferred to wear? Did he think she needed a bath? What did he mean when he had stared like that at her before, near the little perfume containers? Why did she...? Fortunately, at that point, the more rational element of Hermione's brain kicked itself into action.

"Red," she blurted out, remembering the fleck of blood on his face.

Snape snorted and indicated that she follow him out of the laboratory and towards the bath suite. She did not miss his muttered, "Gryffindor!" as they left the room.

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Harry woke up slowly in an unfamiliar bed, the thrum of the hotel room's air conditioning unit loud in his ears. He rolled over to find his glasses, blearily pushing them onto his face and squinting at the wizard alarm clock on the bedside table. The arms of the clock were facing the word 'levántate!'. He had no idea what that meant, but a quick glance at his wristwatch confirmed that he should be getting ready to meet Gabrielle down in the lobby for breakfast.

He swung his legs off the bed and pushed himself upright, walking stiff legged towards the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, washed and shaved, Harry walked down the spiral staircase to the reception desk, where, as yesterday, the red-haired dwarf in pale blue robes was sitting behind the desk.

"Harry!" Gabrielle's voice from the bar at the far end of the reception area was slightly shrill with relief. She was waving, gesticulating for him to come over.

As he smiled his good morning welcome, Harry noticed that there was a slim and dapper young wizard sitting on the bar stool next to her. His hair was swept back away from his face and tied in a silver band. His face was smooth and tanned with the hint of a Glamour, and his hands were carefully manicured. He was wearing a garish pink and green striped suit with a purple shirt, a pair of pointed green dragon hide boots on his feet. A scarlet cape had been thrown rakishly over the whole alarming ensemble. Gabrielle was looking at Harry with a mixture of helplessness and desperation. He fought to keep his face straight as he reached his friend.

"Harry, good morning," Gabrielle said, her voice slightly strained. "This is Alberto Arzillo. He likes to stand out in a crowd and is interested in Muggle 'footsball', fine art, and meeting beautiful women. Alberto apologises, but he doesn't speak any English," she added dryly.

Harry boggled at the brightly coloured wizard, who nodded his head in greeting and offered his hand.

Harry shook it firmly and smiled in return, saying, "Are you alright?" to Gabrielle out of the side of his mouth.

"Now that you are here, yes!" She chuffed out an exasperated breath. "I've been fighting him off for twenty minutes – he's like an octopus!"

Alberto glanced at Gabrielle and then waggled his eyebrows suggestively at Harry, who dropped the Italian wizard's hand swiftly and stuck both fists into his pockets. Gabrielle stood up, pulling her handbag over her shoulder and seeming to brace herself. Harry was sorry to see her stiffen, and fighting his own physical reaction to the young Veela, he moved to stand closer to her.

"Shall we get on then?" he asked.

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The gargoyle at the base of the stairs ground open and admitted Septima Vector to the stairway of the Headmaster's office. Following a morning of thorough research in the Arithmancy section of the library, as well as an enjoyable diversion into Ancient Runes and the History of Magic – areas of Madam Pince's domain that appeared to be rarely visited by the student body – she was certain that she had located the information that she needed in order to decode the mystery of the unmoving portrait. As she stepped into the beautiful office, with its soaring ceilings and Gothic arches, she wondered again at the changes that Filius had made to the space in front of her.

Under Dumbledore, her first employer, the area in front of the desk had held tall tables displaying spindly and interesting-looking magical objects that spun and shimmied and silently whistled steam. She had often wondered what all of them did. Some she had recognised as dark detectors, but others seemed to have no sensible purpose at all.

Curiosity prompted her to ask him about one particularly fascinating object. It was about six inches tall and appeared to have rings like a Time Turner, although these rings spanned constantly around a central piece of quartz crystal. The intriguing device was anchored to its little table by one thin metal spike. "Ahhh," Dumbledore said, leaning closer as if about to impart all the wisdom of the world. "This device... allows me to brew my tea for just the right amount of time. Sherbet lemon, Septima?"

When Dumbledore died and Fawkes left, Severus didn't change anything in the room apart from the removal of Dumbledore's strange little devices. The old black leather chair remained behind the same ancient oak desk that was tarnished with age and inlaid with leather and decorated with fine wooden tracery. The portraits were silent or asleep, saving the shrill and exultant tones of Phineas Black. The books also endured Snape's tenure, although Septima was sure that they were restless, and the old Sorting Hat sat, squat and still, on top of one of the bookcases, ready for the Sorting Ceremony next year.

But for all the physical similarity with the office under Dumbledore, the quirky happiness that imbued the place under the older wizard simply seemed to leach away.

Vector knew little of Severus Snape's trials as Headmaster. He let no one in to his confidence during that time. Always a taciturn and sour person, he resisted her attempts at cordiality at every turn. She had witnessed him punishing students and being part of the Dark Magic regime that had dominated and subdued her school, and she had despised him for it.

At the war crimes' tribunal that had been held after Riddle's death, however, she had heard testimony from Harry Potter and those others who had witnessed the dead Headmaster's memories, as well as the testimony from Dumbledore's portrait itself. This evidence had been sufficient to allow his acquittal, a posthumous Order of Merlin (First Class), and a burial tomb that was placed near to Dumbledore's own by the lake at Hogwarts.

Vector squared her shoulders. If all she could do was to help him have a proper and functioning portrait, then it was the least she could do.

Walking more fully into the office, the heels of her boots clicking slightly on the stone floor of the office, Vector could see that the ebullient joy of the place had returned. Filius was an excellent choice to replace Snape. While many people thought that Minerva should have the prestige of the office for her sterling work as Deputy Headmistress under Dumbledore, it was clear to all the staff at school that the diminutive Charms Master had the organisational ability, the cheerful personality, and the sheer energy to ensure that the school would be rebuilt and renewed. In a rare moment of lucidity, the school's newly appointed governors agreed with the staff's wishes, and so Filius had been given the job.

The object of her reverie emerged suddenly from the side door to his office on the upper level. Filius was wearing his duelling jacket, and he bustled forwards and down the steps towards her with his familiar enthusiasm and an offer of tea.

"You have something for us, Septima?" he asked almost breathlessly as he reached the bottom of the stairs and approached her. He Summoned a pot of tea, a plate of biscuits, cups, saucers, a magical kettle, and an old-fashioned tea caddy as he reached floor level. The tea items hovered neatly behind him.

"Do take a seat, please!" He indicated that she should join him on the curved sofa, which now occupied the right hand side of his desk. It had an incongruous floral pattern and was curved to match the rounded walls and bookshelves behind it. A low coffee table was set before it. Flitwick carefully levitated the tea items onto it and settled down to fuss over the magical kettle. She sat beside him, drawing her papers in front of her as she did so.

"Ordinary tea, or something more exotic for you today, Septima?"

How does he manage to always sound so cheerful? she thought.

"Do you have any chrysanthemum tea?" she asked, lifting her eyebrows as she set her challenge. His eyes danced in return as he turned his attention to the tea caddy.

"Now... let me see," he said in the exaggerated manner of a Muggle stage magician. "Chrysanthemum tea originates from China. It is made by steeping the flower heads of the Huángshān Gòngjú, Hángbáijú, Chújú, or Bójú varieties of the plant in hot water... usually at ninety to ninety-five degrees Celsius," Flitwick tapped his wand twice on the side of the kettle, which promptly began to stir and squirm as the water heated up within it. "It is often sweetened with rock sugar, honey, or wolfberries," he continued and lifted the lid of the tea caddy. The arrangement of small compartments within the ancient box began to move and interact with each other, rather like the bricks at the entrance to Diagon Alley in London.

After a short time, one small compartment rose gingerly upwards above its fellows. It contained small yellow dried flowers and was wobbling ever so slightly, almost as if with the effort of lifting itself upwards. Flitwick smiled, picking up the little wooden compartment and flourishing the contents at Septima. She laughed and nodded her head, conceding defeat in their regular tea game. The kettle began to hiss and splutter, and Filius caught it up just before it boiled. Deftly, he poured a measure of water onto some of the flowers in Septima's cup before attending to his own cup of ordinary British tea.

"Well, Septima, what have you discovered?" he asked finally, shuffling backwards onto the seat to be more comfortable before levitating his tea into his hands.

Vector took a slow sip of her tea and revelled in the delicate, floral taste before turning her attention to the Headmaster once again. "Okay, Headmaster," she began, "I think the answer to our little problem might be linked to a theory about the afterlife from the Ptolemaic Dynasty...."

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Hermione was in heaven. The deep square bath was filled with hot water, and as she massaged the astringent, pine-scented concoction that Snape had gruffly referred to as "hair soap" into her scalp, she delighted in the feeling of being truly clean for the first time in days. She wiggled her body in sheer enjoyment at the sensation of the suds and bubbles from the soap on her skin, lathering her arms, neck, and body with slow enjoyment. There was no sound in the room other than the noise she was making in the bath, so she could hear Snape – Severus, she corrected herself – working in the lab across the hallway. She pictured him carefully decanting the two perfumes, as well as checking the condition of the cooling Strengthening Solution, tapping the side of the cauldron in order to check the consistency of the liquid. The muffled clanks and knocks that she heard from next door were the noises he was making as he cleaned up his utensils and other equipment.

Eventually, the sounds from the laboratory ceased, and Hermione realised reluctantly that she had better get out of the bathroom in case he wanted to wash himself. Grudgingly, she stood up, wringing out her hair before climbing out of the bath. She wrapped a large linen sheet around her body, still luxuriating in the emollients that he had provided as the rough material swept over her skin. She twisted another smaller one around her head in a makeshift turban. She wondered if he was still downstairs, although there was no sound coming from next door.

"Severus?" she called experimentally, "Are you still down here?"

He was still downstairs, for he shortly appeared through the doorway to the bathroom wiping his hands on a small rag. When he saw her, standing in the room in front of him wrapped in her linen sheet, he made an odd sound in the back of his throat, and he turned his head quickly, averting his eyes. Belatedly, she realised what she must look like to him, her skin flushed and pink from the hot water, her nipples clearly evident through the material wound around her. Hastily, she wrapped her arms around her chest and fought the accompanying surge of crippling self-consciousness as she did so.

"The bathroom's free," she said, hearing her own voice sound unnecessarily loud in the modest vaulted room. Snape snorted in response, but he seemed to relax a little, a more familiar expression of exasperated superiority returning to his face.

"Why do you have your own bathroom suite?" she continued curiously, her eyes drawn once again to the mosaic skeleton with its gaping mouth on the floor. "Don't you like going to the city baths?"

"I would have thought it was obvious," he replied smoothly. At her blank expression, he explained, "I have no desire to sit in a seething mass of bacteria, particularly given the injuries I often sustain."

"Oh. Right, yes." She blushed furiously, angry with herself. Of course, no plugs – Roman baths might have been filled by aqueduct and pipe, but they were all emptied by hand and bucket. No public baths would be emptied more than once a day, and there was some evidence that it was even less frequent than that. She felt like an idiot again and did not want him to know it. She looked across at him again and flashed another embarrassed smile.

"And you always were a very private person," she added.

"And that also." He inclined his head in a mocking bow, smiling slightly. Straightening, he drew his wand and pointed it at the bath.

"Evanesco," he commanded and then added, "Aguamenti."

The bath began to fill magically from the base upwards once again.

"Well," she said, "um, I'd better get dressed.... Has Pertus found a stola for me to wear?"

"It is hanging up next door in the antechamber," he answered. "I have placed some other... feminine products... in your room for you to use, if you wish to do so. Will you require anything else?" he asked, and she saw his eyes flicking with brief longing to the hot water ready for him in the bath and then back to her. As she walked past him into the changing room, he moved out of her way but not before her elbow brushed against him. She felt him pull away slightly at the contact and felt oddly, and briefly, bereft.

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Driving in Naples was quite simply the most terrifying experience of Harry Potter's life. He was sitting perched on the back of Alberto Arzillo's magically-enhanced Vespa motor scooter, desperately clinging to the underside of the seat, and hanging on for dear life. The three of them were riding the mad spluttering machine through the streets of the huge Muggle city at a frightening speed, skipping between pavement, tramway, road and, for a few heart stopping seconds, railway track with such abandon that Harry, who had passed his Muggle driving licence in the UK, was entirely unable to understand what driving rules actually applied in the city.

As they hit a section of cobblestones, Harry became acutely aware that he was squashing Gabrielle up against Arzillo's back, but he was in no position to give her more room. Gritting his teeth, he tried to concentrate on the road ahead. The tiny machine bucked and weaved as Alberto navigated through a bewildering variety of winding alleyways. He dodged cars, potted plants, restaurant signs and, on one occasion, a furious elderly woman. Taking one corner particularly fast, Harry thought that they would surely crash into an oncoming car, but with a sickening squeeze, they passed it by. It seemed that the little Vespa was under a similar charm to that of the Knight Bus in England.

This was not particularly reassuring.

Fighting nausea, he shut his eyes and began to recite the names of Ron's current team-mates and their positions on the Quidditch pitch. Another rough jolt and accompanying swerve caused him to let out a squeak of fear. Remember you're a wizard, remember you're a wizard, he chanted desperately over and over to himself in his head, casting a silent Shield Charm over the scooter and trying frantically to remember what other spell might help them to survive the journey with their internal organs in the same order and place that they should be. This was even worse than when Quirrell had tried to kill him in 1991....

The stomach-churning journey continued for almost half an hour until eventually the scooter emerged from the maze of the city's streets and onto the smoother and wider roads that took them out of Naples and towards Pompeii.

"Can't you tell him to slow down?" Harry bellowed in Gabrielle's ear as the wind whipped around them and the scooter picked up speed in the traffic. His hands were cramped with the effort of keeping his seat. Gabrielle leaned forward to speak into the ear of the driver, who shouted something unintelligible in reply, nodded vigorously, and eased up on the throttle. Harry looked up – on the gantry above them he saw that they were passing a blue road sign directing them off the motorway towards Pompeii. With a screech of brakes, Alberto banked the little machine steeply and took the turn. Harry's yell of surprise and fear was lost in the noise of the mad yammering of the scooter's engine.

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Hermione's hands closed reverently on the beautiful new stola that she had found draped over one of the changing room benches. Trying not to put images to the sounds of Snape's bathing routin, which she could hear through the archway to her right, she picked up the new dress and turned to allow the light from one of the magical skylights in the room's ceiling to illuminate the fine golden threads that were woven through the russet-coloured material. The stola was of the same shape as her midnight blue dress, a simple piece of sleeveless cloth, to be gathered at the waist with a belt and worn with a shawl. The material of this dress was finer, however, and it flowed through her fingers as she weighed it in her hands. On the shoulders, twin brooches of a fine filigree design in gold pinned the garment together. With one final look towards the bathroom, she daringly dropped the linen sheet and, unable to resist, slipped the new stola over her head. She smoothed the beautiful fabric down and caught up the fine twisted skein of dark brown wool from the bench to tie as a belt.

She was conscious of how luxurious the fabric of the dress felt against her bare, sensitised skin. The dress reached down to the floor and was modest, but also pleasingly soft and yielding on her body. She took a few steps, experimentally swirling her hips as she did so, and was pleased by the way the material whirled around her legs. One problem remained, however. No underwear, she thought, looking down at her chest, and I need some! Looking down at the bench again she saw two pieces of narrow linen cloth lengths which she belatedly recognised as simple Roman undergarments, a strophium, or breast cloth, and the material with which she should be able to fashion a subligaculae, a simple loincloth as worn by Roman women. Hermione raised her eyebrows at the challenge ahead, but decided that she would remove herself and all her clothing to her room in order to attempt to create the undergarments she needed. And if she got stuck, well, magic would always be able to assist her.

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

"Harry? Are you okay now?" Gabrielle's voice was rich with amusement as she patted his back soothingly. Harry retched again, fruitlessly, then straightened up, pushing his glasses back up his nose into place. They had parked the scooter in a dusty car park across the road from one of the entrances to the archaeological site. As soon as the wretched machine had halted, Harry had practically thrown himself off it, onto legs that felt like they had been hit by a Jelly-Legs Jinx.

He had then been sick. Twice.

Alberto and Gabrielle had found this rather amusing.

"Come on, Harry." Gabrielle laughed at his offended pout. "I will buy you a bottle of water so you can clean your palate." Harry opened his mouth to protest that he could simply cast an Aguamenti Charm when he realised how surrounded they were by people. The car park was full of tourist buses, and large groups of Muggles were milling around them, talking to each other in a variety of different languages. He nodded mutely, shooting a look of dislike at Alberto, who simply laughed again at him, tossing his ridiculous cape over his shoulder and gesturing for them to follow him towards the entrance to the site.

"I still don't see why we couldn't have Apparated here," muttered Harry mutinously as he stumbled after the diminutive Italian. Gabrielle laughed again. "This is Italy, Harry! You really have to have the full experience while we are here. And besides," she added, "there are so many people around here that we would have been seen."

They crossed the road and walked past a series of market stalls that were all selling the same guidebooks, mini-plaster statues, and other tourist tat. Gabrielle bought a small plastic bottle of water and gave it to Harry. Gratefully, he took a swig and then offered it to her.

"Have you got one of those things back in Rome?" Harry asked.

"A Vespa? Oh, yes, of course!" Gabrielle smiled. "It's the only efficient way of getting around Italian cities." She laughed again at his rueful expression.

Arzillo began to talk excitedly to Gabrielle as they drew closer to the ticket office. She nodded and fired back a few short words of acknowledgement, then turned to her friend. "He's going to get us in and find out exactly where Hermione was working on the site. This may take some time." Gabrielle rolled her eyes with amused experience. She prodded Harry in the ribs, directing him to a series of granite benches to the side of the entrance piazza.

The Italian wizard drew a handful of parchment from beneath his cape and marched, cocksure and confident, towards the nearest ticket booth.

Twenty minutes later, Harry was wondering why they did not just Confund the ticket sellers and walk through the bloody doors. The conversation between Alberto and the ticket sellers had now progressed to swapping amusing remarks as they shared tiny cups of bitter Italian espresso coffee.

He huffed in annoyance again, his leg twitching with impatience. He looked away from the entrance booths and towards the market stalls once more. A welcome breeze drifted through, bringing some relief from the scorching heat of the afternoon, and Harry watched as it caused the Italian flags that were hanging off the sides of the nearest market stall to shuffle and flutter.

"Harry...." Gabrielle had been watching the escalating conversation at the ticket booth. Harry turned his attention back to her and saw her expression move from confusion to a frown. He followed her gaze to where she was watching Alberto. Harry watched as the small wizard gestured theatrically towards them and leaned in towards the ticket seller, clearly asking for more information.

"What?" Harry asked.

"Something's wrong," Gabrielle said, standing up. Harry followed her to where Alberto was. As she approached him, the diminutive wizard broke away from the woman in the ticket office and spoke rapidly to Gabrielle in urgent Italian. Frustrated, Harry watched Gabrielle query something and Alberto repeat himself.

"What, Gabrielle? Is it Hermione?" Harry fought to keep his voice from rising with concern. He put his hand on her arm to get her attention.

"Si, si, aspettate, Alberto," Gabrielle held her hand up to forestall Alberto's next comment and looked at her friend. He face was sombre and her eyes were bright.

"Hermione is not missing, Harry. Alberto has found her." There was a beat of time in which Harry's heart seemed to freeze in his chest at her expression.

"I'm so sorry," she breathed.