Sistat Inter Bitu pe Marvos
Chapter Six
Repubblica Italiana

The day was bright and sunny and not a cloud could be seen in the morning sky; instead, an unblemished pale-blue expanse stretched as far as the eye could see. The sweet aromas of the forest around him clung to the air like morning dew upon grass, assaulting Harry's nose with their excellent fragrances. Sounds of jungle animals echoed off the forest canopy, and birds sang their cheerful songs whilst the bushes below them rustled with the movements of the larger ground dwelling creatures. It was a cacophony of different noises that melded seamlessly together to form music more beautiful than any orchestra could ever imagine achieving.

"Are you ready then?" The sound a Marques's voice drifted into his thoughts.

Harry turned and looked at the man. Marques was walking slowly towards him from around the corner of the old house, Harry's broomstick slung casually under his arm and a sliver hipflask held loosely in his hand. He stopped once he'd reached Harry's side and turned to his gaze toward the forest that surrounded them.

"It's days like these that I look back into the past and remember the times I spent here with Andréia," he said quietly. "She used to love being outside in the sun, tending to the animals we kept or just picking fruits from the trees." He sighed before continuing: "Still, at least there are some good memories to make the bad ones seem less bitter."

Harry stayed silent. He was in a melancholy mood with today being his last day in the Amazon. It was strange, he thought, that the first day he had arrived here he couldn't wait to get out of the place; now he didn't want to leave. He'd gotten used to the tranquil quiet of the place, and had grown to like the seclusion. Most of all, however, he'd not had to deal with Voldemort's attempts to capture him during the time he had spent here.

"I've brought your broom for you," Torres interrupted his thoughts once more. "You'll have to leave soon if you want to reach São Paulo before dark falls; it's very a long trip."

"Yeah, it is," Harry sighed, reaching over to take his broomstick off of Torres. "I bet you can't wait to get rid of me," He said, smiling to try and lighten his own mood more than anything.

"You know, I've kind of gotten used to having you around," Torres smiled back. "It feels kind of strange now that you're leaving."

Harry's mouth formed a big and silly looking grin.

"If you ever and I mean ever, tell anybody that I ever said that, Potter," Torres said in a growl. "I'll hunt you down and jinx your sorry arse all the way to Mozambique and back."

"Yes, sir!" Harry mock saluted. He knew that Torres was only joking, he had learned to recognise the glow of mirth in his eyes.

They stood in silence again for another for several minutes before Harry broke the silence. "I guess I better be getting off then," he said, and started to mount his Firebolt.

"Wait a just a few more minutes please, Harry," Torres said, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder to stop him. It felt strange, Harry thought, to hear Torres use his given name rather than his surname. "I have something I wish to say to you before you go."

Torres took a deep breath before he started to talk again.

"I get the paper out here, Harry," he started. "and so I know that the Dark Lord Voldemort is active in Britain again. I also know, well, I suspect at least, that Dumbledore would not have sent you here to be trained by me unless he wanted you to play some part in the upcoming war."

Harry squirmed on his feet.

"I also know that it was you who was responsible for defeating the Dark Lord when you were just a boy. I is for this reason that I don't think that Dumbledore just wanted you to take an active roll in the war, Harry; I think that he wanted you to lead it."

"You've hit the nail right on the head there," Harry thought, but he didn't say anything out loud.

"Just remember, Harry," Torres continued. "Remember everything that I've taught you here. Remember the spells, remember the tactics, but most of all remember what I taught you yesterday above all else; that one lesson could save more lives than you may ever realise."

Harry felt as though a lead weight had been dropped in his stomach. Yesterday's lesson had been the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. The guilt he'd felt afterwards still weighed heavily on his mind.

"I know that you feel guilty, Harry. I can see it in your eyes," Torres said in the softest voice Harry had ever heard him use. He had turned to look Harry directly in the eyes. "That guilt is a good thing. You need not worry until you no longer feel that guilt."

Harry listened, turning everything the Torres said in his head.

"I want to ask you something as well, Harry," Torres continued in a quiet voice. He'd had turned to over the forest canopy, but his eyes showed that he was again looking far into the past. "I wanted to ask you to make sure that Voldemort pays for his sins, because in the end it was he that corrupted Luís' mind and made him his servant. If not for taking my wife away for me, then for the heartache he caused Andréia when she thought her brother was dead."

Harry clasped a hand onto Marques's shoulder and squeezed slightly and said that only words that came to his mind: "He'll pay. I promise."

He meant those words, too; he meant them with the whole of his heart.

"You look after yourself."

"I will."

"Good luck, Harry. And remember: if I ever hear that you told anyone what I said earlier, I will kick your arse."

No more words were said between the two. Harry mounted his broom and kicked off high into the air. With one last wave to Torres he cast the spell to give him his heading and set of at a leisurely pace towards São Paulo.

The house was just a tiny speck on the horizon when Harry turned his broom back towards it and sat for a minute gazing at it.

"Good luck to you, too," he muttered, as he remembered the short note he had written before the sun had risen that morning. That note now lay in Marques's little box of memories.

The Phoenix has risen from the ashes. It flies now over Britain, the guardian angel of its people. Hogwarts is where you'll find it.

With the house now behind him and his goodbyes said, Harry's mind turned, not for the first time, towards what Torres had taught him the previous day. Torres had been right when he'd said that it was a lesson that he would not like.

"But I had liked it, hadn't I?" he thought solemnly.

He remembered the feeling of power that had swept through him. The warm, tingling feeling in his veins as the magic inside him moved at speed. The power he felt as it rushed from his feet and through his body, and then down his arm to meet with his wand and manifest itself into a ball of coloured light. He had loved it; that feeling of absolute power it granted.

He remembered the way that it had made him feel exhilarated, and the way it had made him feel like bursting out into a fit of maniacal laughter.

It had felt like was like he was a god.

But then he also remembered how it had all come crashing down on him as soon as it was over, the way his stomach had squirmed and threatened to eject its contents onto the ground in front of him. He remembered wanting to fall to the floor and weep at the memory of what he'd done.

His stomach had soon stopped threatening to eject its contents and actually done as it had been promising. He couldn't believe what he'd done. He couldn't believe the words that had come out of his own mouth. He couldn't believe, didn't want to believe, that it had actually felt good to do it.

"But it had, hadn't it?"

He'd loved the feeling it gave him. He'd smiled as he'd said the words. He'd smiled as he felt the magic rush down his arm and towards his wand. He'd smiled as a ball of sickly green light had erupted from his wand and flown towards the helpless target.

He'd smiled as he watched the poor defenceless animal fall down dead.

For the first time in his life he realised why the Death Eaters enjoyed saying those two words so much.

Avada Kedavra.

The Killing Curse.

He'd cast it and he'd enjoyed doing it.

The flight to São Paulo went by uneventfully; Harry just enjoyed looking at the scenery. Before he knew it he found himself being directed to the Department of Transport (as Harry had named it, he couldn't understand the writing on the signs) by a somewhat elderly looking Brazilian man.

He arrived at the Transport Department to find that it was the same place that he'd arrived. They must use the same place for both incoming and outgoing portkeys; he didn't want to even contemplate the accidents that had caused over the years. There was a woman sat behind a neatly organised desk wearing an even more neatly organised uniform, Harry made his way over to her.

'Excuse me,' he said, gathering her attention. 'I'd like to buy a portkey if that's possible.'

'Destination?' she asked in a voice so heavily accented that it took Harry a while to figure out what she'd said.

'Oh, erm, Rome.' Rome was the closets place he could get to the Vatican City.

The woman took her wand from her breast pocket and casually tapped a small black box on her desk. She then proceeded to talk so fast in Portuguese that the words seemed to blend together.

'One moment, please,' she directed at Harry, changing the language she was speaking so fast that it startled Harry.

Exactly one minute later by Harry's timing a small cylindrical baton appeared on the desk. He paid the clerk his fee, picked up the baton, and instantly felt the sensation of hook pulling him by his navel; he didn't think he'd ever get used to that.

Thankfully the sensation didn't last too long. He landed (on his arse as per usual) in a similar looking room to the one he just left. The room was bright as every available surface had been painted white. A women sat behind a desk, a huge emblem on the wall behind her. Harry decided that this must be something of a wizard thing as he remembered that the Brazilian coat of arms had been hung in much the same place.

The emblem was made up of a white five-pointed star with a red border surrounding it, it was superimposed onto a five-spoked cogwheel that stood between and olive branch on its left and a branch of oak on its right. The branches, in turn, where bound by a red ribbon bearing the legend 'Repvbblica Italiana'.

'Passport, please.' Harry's observations were interrupted by the Italian Welcome-Witch. He had his passport in his pocket ready as he didn't want to have to root around to find it. The Witch merely scanned it through some strange looking silver contraption and handed it straight back to him while bidding him to enjoy his visit.

It was only when Harry turned to leave the room that he noticed there were two exits, and seeing as this was his first visit to Italy he had no idea which way he was meant to go. The Welcome-Witch, apparently noticing his hesitation, informed him (in broken English) that the door to his left led into the Italian Ministry of Magic building and that the door to the right led into the magical district of Rome. Harry opted for the door to the right as he had no need to go into the Ministry.

Once outside he stood for a few minutes to take in the scenery. The magical portion of Rome was very much like Diagon Alley in the sense that everywhere he looked there were people hustling and bustling around market stall and shops, but very different at the same time. The streets here were narrow and hilly, awnings made from magically woven material hung from the walls of shops and out over the streets. The smell of food clung to the air and Harry's stomach rumbled. He noticed a small restaurant just down the street with tables and chairs outside it and started to head towards it. It was a warm day and perfect for sitting outdoors.

Hagglers shouted out to try and get him to buy some of the wares as he past them, but the only thing he was interested in at the moment was food. He stopped, however, when he saw a market stall selling various different newspapers and noticed the logo of the Daily Prophet out of the corner of his eye.

And so it was that ten minutes later Harry Potter could be found sat over a half finished plate of food staring down unblinkingly at the front page of the Daily Prophet.

Two moving pictures providing a stark image of the contrasting news the paper would undoubtedly contain. Headmistress McGonagall and a small blond witch stood side-by-side waving and smiling at the camera. The headline above it announcing 'Hogwarts Headmistress announces plans to increase DADA funding'. Below this innocent looking picture was one of the illusion of a snake slithering through the open mouth of a human skull, eerily bathing the still smouldering ruins of a destroyed house in sickly green light. The Dark Mark. Voldemort's mark of terror.

He would have liked to return to his native land at that moment and begin his search for Voldemort's remaining soul fragments. He would have liked to feel the exhilaration of casting the killing curse once more and watching, uncaring, a Voldemort crumpled to the ground and embraced the death he deserved. He wanted it more than anything, but knew that he couldn't. He was not yet ready, going in search of the final battle at this time would only bring about his own end. He was not yet ready.

Weekly War Report

By Arnold Spendrandof

Several months following the announcement by the Ministry of Magic that Britain is now in a state of war, Daily Prophet correspondent Arnold Spendrandof continues his weekly updates on the progression of the war.

It is without pleasure that I inform you of several raids on the homes of Ministry personnel this week, all of which were left uninterrupted by the severely stretched Auror forces. When asked why the Auror forces were not called upon to protect the innocent citizens of this country by an enraged Mrs. Cresswell, wife of Dirk Cresswell who was Head of the Goblin Liaison Office until his untimely death during a raid on his home by Death Eater forces this week, Minister Rufus Scrimgeour informed the congregated press that Auror forces had been mounting an attack on a known Death Eater hideout. It was later confirmed by a Ministry of Magic spokeswomen that this raid was unsuccessful and the lives of two aurors were lost in the attack.

It with profound sympathy for his family and friends that I must announce the death of Charlie Weasley. The circumstance surrounding his death are unknown to us at this time. Charlie had been a well known for his support of the forces of the Light and fought valiantly in many battles. He shall be missed and remembered forever by those of the Light.

Harry felt his heart pang after reading this. The Weasley family had been good to him over the years, he couldn't imagine the heartbreak they must be going through at this period in time.

It is also with regret that I must inform you that the Ministry of Magic has announced an inflation in Death Eater initiates. It marks the single biggest increase in estimated initiates to date. Furthermore, an informer to the Daily Prophet has informed us that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has gained the support of several Magical half-breeds. Perhaps the most unnerving of these reports is the one that speculates the securing of several Vampire clans to the Dark Lord's service.

In a speech to the nation last night, Minister Rufus Scrimgeour made a plea for the citizens of Britain to remain calm, and to leave their homes only in the most dire of circumstances. He also announced that he had proposed a bill to the Wizengamot that would allow the Ministry to draft members of the British public to 'reinforce' the depleted Auror squads.

Please be on guard my fellow citizens, for in this time of war one must be constantly prepared for the worst.

Harry stared into space for a long time after reading the article. He couldn't believe the state of things in his home nation. It didn't look good at all. But most of all he felt the sadness of the death of Charlie Weasley. The memory of Mrs. Weasley and the boggart at Grimmauld place jumped into his head. He really couldn't imagine the feeling of loss Charlie's parents must be feeling right now.

It was with a mournful expression on his face that he returned his eyes to the paper.

Hogwarts Headmistress announces plans to increase DADA funding

By Tina O'Reiley

On Wednesday evening Headmistress Minerva McGonagall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, along with Professor Smith who teaches Defence Against the Dark Arts at the school, announced plans to increase funding for the Defence Against the Dark Arts curriculum at the school.

'In times of war such as these,' Headmistress McGonagall told the gathered reports. 'it is our duty as teachers to prepare our students to defend themselves against attack. As such, I am pleased to announce that extra funding for the Defence Against the Dark Arts department has been kindly donated by Professor Smith.'

This donation comes just weeks after angry parents demanded the removal of Professor Smith from the teaching staff of the school. Even following this generous donation several angry parents continue to demand her removal from the school.

'Professor Smith has worked diligently for this school and has maintained a high level of grades in the children she has taught,' McGonagall responded testily when questioned about this. 'the fact of the matter is that Professor Smith should not be held accountable for the actions of her son.'

This is one of several statements in support of Professor Smith that Headmistress McGonagall as given since the shocking revelation that Zacharias Smith had been confirmed a Death Eater by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Professor Smith was also asked whether the rumours of a long lost family heirloom being returned to her possession were true; all of these questions were answered with 'no comment'.

Harry put down the paper and drained the rest of his coffee; it was getting late and he would have to leave soon. He was glad that McGonagall was taking the training of her students so seriously, but he was also shocked at the revelation the Zacharias Smith was a Death Eater. Sure the boy had been snobbish during the time they were at school together, but Harry would never have expected this from him.

Harry stood up and looked around the busy street. The war had not affected these people, they were free to go about their daily business like nothing was out of the ordinary. He somewhat resented that. Before reading the paper he had been contemplating spending the day looking around the shops here, but he no longer felt like it. He just wanted to find Ieuru and get on with his training. The sooner he could finish his training the sooner he could get back to Britain.

With one last look around the street he apparated to a shady corner of the Vatican City.

Before him stood a building so tall that Harry did not doubt that the dome atop it played a prominent role in the skyline of Rome. Capable of holding up to sixty thousand people and covering and area of nearly six acres it was, quite frankly, a building of epic proportions. This really was a beautiful place. Fountains spurted water high into the air and statutes stood looking down on those below.

Everything here was big, Harry observed with a glance over his shoulder at the one-hundred-and-thirty-one foot obelisk behind him.

He was wearing his invisibility cloak, not wanting to be seen walking around the Vatican City with a huge trunk that contained things of a magical nature, so it was an invisible Harry Potter that started walking towards the entrance to the basilica.

An inscription was carved above the entrance which translated into: 'In honour of the prince of apostles; Paul V Borghese, a Roman, Supreme Pontiff, in the year 1612 and the seventh year of his pontificate', along with statues of Christ, John the Baptist, and eleven of the apostles. Harry glanced down at the leaflet he held in his hand for this information, it was a copy of 'Guide to St. Peter's Basilica' he had found on the floor soon after he had apparated into the city.

Thankfully the doors were open, but it took skilful manoeuvring on Harry's part to remain undetected by the muggles around him; many of whom were milling around taking photographs of every nook and cranny.

Harry made it to the Altar of Transfiguration soon enough, but was forced to bide his time due to the vast amount of people in the building. He looked down at his copy of 'Guide to St. Peter's Basilica' and flipped through it to the section on the Altar of Transfiguration in an effort to pass time.

In this chapel it is possible to admire a mosaic reproduction of one of the world's most famous paintings "The Transfiguration" showing Christ on Mount Tabor, Raphael's last painting (1483-1520).

It shows the Lord in a nimbus of bright light, raised in the air with the prophet Elias and Moses, the lawgiver, while the three favoured apostles, Peter, James and John gaze on this heavenly scene from earth, wishing that it would last for eternity.

The upper portion of the picture reveals the tranquil ecstasy, the celestial serenity and peace the Lord grants only to those who are with Him and who seek to be with Him. The lower part contrasts strongly with the upper. The figures are agitated; they look at the possessed boy whose father is holding him. All are troubled, and they seem to be seeking a human solution to ills of the spirit. Only an apostle, indicating the Lord on the Mount reminds them, the disheartened and discouraged, of the source of salvation.

In the middle, the kneeling woman symbolizes the Church and its task of bringing peace, hope and faith to the victims of evil. Raphael died young; he was only 37. In his final delirium he asked to see his painting for the last time. His friends brought it to him, and placed it on the bed in which he died on Good Friday, 1520.

The same painting was carried at the head of the funeral procession to the Pantheon where the great artist is buried and awaits his own transfiguration.

Harry scratched his head; he thought it was a good painting and all, but he was willing to admit that he would be a lousy art critic – it was all just brush strokes and paint to him. A glance around the room told him that there was still no chance of him saying the password undetected, so he resigned himself to a long wait.

It was late in the evening when he was finally able to utter the password to the painting

'Gussu Belisama,' he said, his voice was not loud enough to attract the attention of anyone that might be nearby.

The painting before him swung open to reveal an arched doorway. Harry took a deep breath and cautiously stepped forward. As soon as he was beyond the threshold of the door it slammed shut behind him, plunging him into darkness. It was now safe, he assumed, to remove the invisibility cloak. Once visible again he cast a lumos charm to reveal a crudely cut set of stairs that descended into the darkness. With the same cautiousness that he had stepped through the door he started to on his way down.

The air was musty and the atmosphere was cold. On either side of him the walls were so close that his shoulders brushed against the bricks. The further down the steps he descended the lower the ceiling came to his head. It got to a point were he was dubious that he could continue, and then the steps ended and he found himself facing a door.

He stood bracing his nerves for several minutes before he pushed the door open and walked into a large room.

'Hello?' he called out into the darkness whilst walking further into the room. 'Hello? Is anybody here?'

"You are not supposed to be here," said a soft melodic voice called out from the darkness. It was a voice that was almost hypnotic in its tone. "No man has entered this place for many years. You are not welcome here. You must leave!" The voice never changed in tone and Harry found himself turning towards the exit without even thinking about what he was doing. The voice came from all directions at once, as though the darkness itself was talking to him.

He had walked half the distance back to the door before the fog lifted from his mind and he turned back towards the room once more. Even through his fear he found his voice and injected as much confidence as he could muster into it. "I come in search of Ieuru!" His voice reverberated off the walls of the room, he had spoken much louder than he had meant to. His confidence was lifted slightly by his inability to detect fear in his voice.

"Then you have come to the right place, human," the voice answered back. "but no human enters the sacred Hall of Belisama uninvited. By coming here you have condemned yourself to an early death."

The sound of steel being scraped across steel pierced the darkness - it was a sound not unlike that of a knife being drawn from a scabbard - and suddenly the darkness felt like it was looming over him; like thin fingers were pulling at him from every perceivable angle. Panic rose within him, he had never witnessed nor heard of a phenomenon such as this. Coldness delved to the very marrow of his bones and his knees buckled beneath him so that he collapsed to the floor. He thought of spells he could cast but there was no point; his wand arm was pushed, hard, by an unseen force and his wand fell from his grip.

He couldn't breath. The air seemed to have been drained of oxygen and his chest felt like it was being slowly squeezed; tighter and tighter until he thought his ribs would snap. He lay on the floor taking desperate breaths to prevent himself from suffocating.

Then his mind exploded. Memories streamed forward as though called before being cast away. Memory after memory after memory; starting from his earliest childhood and working forward in time from there. The pain in his head was excruciating and unlike anything he had ever felt before. Desperately he tried to remember everything he had ever learnt about Occlumency, but the pain drove everything but the memories from his mind.

Just as quickly as it began it stopped.

The fog around his mind cleared to reveal the figure of a man looking down at him sprawled on the floor. He was robed in white, with a lean form. But perhaps the most shocking thing was that this was no human. Words Harry had read earlier that day jumped into his mind: Perhaps the most unnerving of these reports is the one that speculates the securing of several Vampire clans to the Dark Lord's service.

The man that stood before him was undoubtedly a Vampire.

'I am the one whom you seek, Harry Potter. I am Ieuru,' the Vampire said whilst looking directly into his eyes. Slowly Ieuru moved his eyes up Harry's face before they came to rest on his scar. 'Sistat Inter Bitu pe Marvos,' he muttered in a voice so low that Harry barely heard it.

Harry barely had time to register these words before he saw his own wand pointed directly at him.

'Avada Kedavra!'

A/N: For information concerning the website I share with Le Rob (where chapters tend to appear first) please visit my bio page.

Also, a big thank you goes out to Rob for beta reading this chapter for me.