He’d spent the morning wandering the city alone, traversing the piazzas and ancient streets: exploring the grand churches of the Angevin dynasty; taking in the Roman architecture; breathing in the smells of the city: the briney coast, the roasted coffee smells wafting from the bars huddled around the packed town squares and narrow and crooked streets. He’d wandered through Gesù Nuovo, where he’d craned his neck to view the old frescoes and towering columns that had reminded him of the Manor gardens and the Malfoy mausoleum. He’d spent an hour inside the Sansevero Chapel Museum, getting lost in the details of the sculptures, staring at the Veiled Christ lying like a votive offering at the centre of the nave, bathed in the sunlight that bled from the ceiling. He stood in silent reverence behind the velvet ropes with the Muggle tourists, guidebook rolled in hand, arms crossed behind his back, taking in the curves of Christ’s body, the remarkable flow of the marble veil clinging to him like real fabric. The tilt of his head, peaceful and seductive, even in death. 