A/N: I understand that I currently have two other stories that are slowly being shuffled along. However, one cannot ignore the muse, particularly when it comes to an ADD person's muse. It jumps all over, you see. Terribly impossible to control. However, rest assured, I have chapter outlines for both Fire-Breather and Better Tomorrow. The outline for Fractured Meridians is going to be a little tougher to complete, given the amount of new characters I will be introducing, but it is also coming along nicely. Either way, I have not abandoned any of my Harry Potter stories. They will be completed, albeit slowly.

I also have two other ideas for HP fics brewing, so I cannot promise this will be the last whim I follow through on. I am far too impulsive. You understand.

I hope you all enjoy my writing and I look forward to your reviews.

- Coddiwomple

DISCLAIMER: JK Rowling wrote the holy series. I am simply paying worship.

PROLOGUE

Now bordering twenty-one, needing a haircut, and seriously lacking in proper sleep, Hermione Granger – now under the assumed alias of Jean Grimke – dusted her hands off on her apron. She had come to Italy, intent on blending in. She found the one café with the most English-oriented employees, got a job, chopped off a head of full-bodied curls to just under her ears, and got straight to work.

The weight of the unknown bore down upon her shoulders daily. She had more backup plans for her backup plans than she had during the war. Blending in, of course, was not that easy. Hermione was somewhat savvy with the language, but she was hardly a professional. Apparently, her beauty was what got her by on most days. Because she was young, lovely, and sweet in demeanor, many people gave her a break for fumbling over her tongue in broken Italian and poor accents.

Hermione had already surmised that she would only work here for a week or two, but the comfort here was too enticing. She was already pushing it, really. Three weeks meant a pattern. She avoided patterns at all costs. Next, she would be aiming for Amsterdam. If she should run into trouble too quickly, then she would aim for Japan, just in case they were already aware of her next step. Perhaps she would even dye her hair black. The darkness never brought out her features very well, but it would be enough to keep her inconspicuous and unrecognizable. She had even tanned as much as she could so her paleness would not give her away.

"Closing up early, Luca?" Hermione asked, hardening her R's and L's so she would sound more like the American she passed herself off as. It was more difficult than she had originally thought, but in time, it was becoming easier. Occasionally, she forgot herself and used her original accent, which caused her to come up with the excuse that her mother had been British, and her father had been American. It was a horrible excuse. In reality, if that were the case, she would have only had an American accent, but Luca appeared more interested in calling her bella than acknowledging where she hailed from.

"Si, bella," he replied finally, in his smooth tone. Hermione was already busying herself with bussing tables and turning off the 'OPEN' sign on the door. She could feel his eyes on her and though she was flattered, she shivered with the knowledge that a man so sweet had no business becoming tangled with the likes of her.

She was turning the lock on the door when Luca spoke again. He was a handsome man, pushing half-a-foot over her in height, which she appreciated. Hermione liked taller men. There was still a terrible language barrier between them, but Luca was sweet. Generous. Kind-hearted. Loyal. He longed for romance and love, where Hermione longed to stay hidden from the world. This was where she came to the painful awareness that he was completely out of her league. Settling down with someone was not on her agenda. Not until she found a way around her most pressing issue.

"I wonder, bella," he began, still wiping down the counter and the register. When Hermione turned briefly to face him, he had his attention on his work, politely keeping his gaze to himself. Ever the gentleman. "If you would have that… er… date… with me. Friday, yes?"

In spite of the impending rejection she would have to put into place, Hermione smiled to herself. Cheeks tinted red and her breath hitched in her throat. It was not often that she was capable of staying in one place long enough to even garner a compliment from the opposite gender, let alone a date. There were no trysts, no kisses, no intimacy… Merlin, there wasn't even hand-holding. She never let it go beyond passing adorableness. It could not go beyond that.

Still, it was so painfully pleasant to be wanted, whether physically or intimately. She was never one to purposely seek out male attention, but she was, after all, a human woman. Wanting to feel wanted was an instinct – a part of her DNA. Love was not her main goal in life, but even the opportunity presenting itself – though it would never grow past infancy – was all she needed to keep a sliver of fire flickering dimly in her gut.

It had been so long since she had been wanted, even in a friendly manner. She was harshly reminded just then that she didn't have Ron and Harry. She responded to that reminder with a clenched gut and a chin pressing to her chest, missing them so terribly that her heart physically fumbled against her ribcage and refused to beat in regular rhythm.

"Every Monday, you ask me that question," Hermione said finally, forcing a small scoff to escape her lips as her head began to raise. "And every Monday, you know what the answer will—"

She froze. She fumbled harder. Hermione's jaw dropped wide mid-sentence and her tongue almost shriveled up and clawed back down her throat in her own fear.

She couldn't have seen it. She could not have been found already.

He could not have been here.

When in doubt… run.

Ah, that little voice. The paranoid one that frantically forced her to bolt into action the moment things seemed even a sliver out of place. Her fingers were already fumbling with the string of her apron, jerking it open and ripping it off of her so quickly that the tie around her neck messed up her short hair, making it stick up on end. She could already feel her temples teeming with sweat. Fear was beginning to settle into her lungs, making oxygen painfully scarce.

Run. Run, run, run.

"Bella?" Luca prompted, his deep brown eyes now boring into her spine. Hermione abruptly turned away from the window to face him. Even with all the tanning she had done on the roof of her apartment building, she looked white as a sheet. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Luca looked confused.

She needed to make this quick.

Oh, for goodness sake, RUN!

"I'm sorry, Luca, I have to go. I—I'm not feeling well." She had forgotten her American guise just then. It didn't matter now. "You can close up without me, can't you?"

Hermione did not even grant him a split-second to respond. She had grabbed her bag and practically vanished into thin air, towards the back door. It was the route she normally took to get to her car, but this getaway would require much more speed than anything an engine could provide. She heard the lock in the front door of the shop slam into its unlocked position. The entrance to the lovely little café had shot open.

Hermione had no time to regret leaving Luca alone in the wake of her troubles. In a mess of limbs, fresh exhaustion, and pure fear, she Apparated away from the scene with an intense CRACK!

Luca had dropped a dirty espresso cup. It shattered on the floor. He wasn't sure what startled him more: the fact that the entrance to the humble café appeared to shoot open of its own accord, or the deafening snap that rattled the very air near the back of the building, where Jean had disappeared. He had half a mind to dip down behind the counter and hide, but it was too late. Footsteps could be heard approaching, the lights were flickering, and since the entire front of the shop was made of breakable, transparent glass, hiding was a fruitless mission. He had already been spotted.

Once upon a time, Luca had enjoyed going to the movies every Friday night. He usually went for the action or supernatural genres. Whenever a scene would arise where someone was about to be attacked in a supernatural film, there were always outward elements that contributed to the fear of the moment. The music would intensify, a storm would be raging, or there would be loud noises jarring the main character to the point where they could not find the source. It was always deafening, and Luca attributed whatever intensity he might have felt to those elements.

Those beliefs were stripped away instantly as he was faced with the paralyzing sounds of silence. Goosebumps pricked along his skin, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and the silence was so overwhelming that he could feel a cry of panic beginning to swell up in his chest. Nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. The summer air was dead on the street, the door that swung open had stopped twisting on its axis, now noiseless as it slowly swept through the air. Luca almost felt as though his sense of hearing was becoming more acute – almost inhuman.

Had he possibly heard the tapping of a pebble being kicked along the sidewalk? What about the clearing of a throat?

Luca had not even realized how hard his hand was shaking until he reached up to slide his fingers through his dark brown hair.

He jumped when there was another CRACK through the air that ricocheted upon the surfaces of the other buildings, carrying both ways down the street. It sounded like thunder and the front lights of the café flickered a few times before going out. In the doorway, a tall young man appeared. Pale complexion, platinum blonde hair, and a deviously calm, sophisticated, and ultimately bemused expression as his cold, steely eyes raked along each surface of the humble café. Surely a storm had been coming. There was no way someone had the ability to just… appear… like that.

Right?

The blonde aristocrat crossed the threshold of the place, crinkling his nose as he regarded the walls, the tables, the faded and chipped trimmings. Luca shrank against the back counter, as though he were attempting to blend into the backdrop like a chameleon. The blonde man had not even bothered to regard him, tightening his grip on the handle of what looked like a carved stick. Luca's eyes narrowed in confusion, awe, and fear. What on earth was that thing supposed to be? Why had this man not said anything yet? What could he have possibly been looking for? Could this have to do with the sudden fear Jean had expressed, or the reason she disappeared so quickly in the first place?

That swell of panic was beginning to burn the inside of Luca's throat, daring him to express concern, worry, fear, or pleas of mercy from a force he simply could not understand. Something was not right in this atmosphere and it made him feel so painfully… helpless.

"We—we are closed, signore," he managed finally, gulping rather loudly.

The blonde man spoke, but did not look at Luca just yet.

"I wonder if you can help me with something," the aristocrat began, ignoring Luca's statement. The head of white-blonde hair turned in a sinister and casual manner to face him. The coldness of the Englishman's countenance shot paralyzing chills up Luca's spine. "I'm looking for someone – a young woman. She would be approximately…" he held up his hand to mid-chest height for emphasis, "this high, slim, petite, brown hair, brown eyes…"

Instantly, Luca connected the dots. In spite of his fear, the inquiry allowed him to swallow down his nervousness. So this was the cause for the bella's untimely and unfortunate disappearance. For whatever reason, she was running from this man. Judging by the state of the blonde's harsh, unyielding demeanor, Luca could not say that he blamed the poor beauty. She was far too warm to be trapped in a room with so much ice.

"Bella," Luca murmured, shaking his head. His own eyes assessed the blonde before him. In turn, the blonde aristocrat did the very same, practically sneering. Whether he was judging the pet name Luca had picked for her, the affection with which he said it, or the sudden protectiveness that flashed across Luca's eyes… Luca got the feeling that this blonde was now very far from the prospect of asking nicely.

"So you know who I'm talking about," the blonde stated, still sizing Luca up. "I was informed that she was working here last. Tell me… when was the last time you saw her?"

"The bella was scared. She ran from this place a week ago," Luca replied, jerking his chin up towards his opponent and lying defiantly. The men were breaching similar heights. He was unafraid. "I have not seen her since."

The blonde scoffed, twiddling the finely-carved stick in his hand smoothly. He appeared more calm than any man Luca had ever seen in this position. Having the occasional break-in over the last few years, normally the criminals were a bit more skittish. Not this man. The aristocrat held himself like a man of power and poise. Even fidgeting with his wand, he was tenaciously relaxed. His expression, combined with the paleness of his flesh, made him look as though he were carved out of stone. The only things that brought his visage to life was a glittering mischief reflecting in his eyes.

And evil.

Heaps and heaps of evil.

Luca barely managed to suppress a shudder. The blonde tilted his head curiously at the stiffening of the shopkeeper's posture. He appeared to notice the full effect of his presence, but though the inquisitorial nature may have been on his face for a moment, he grinned in spite of it. The aristocrat's teeth were white, straight, and the canines appeared a little more jagged than usual.

No human being with such angelic features could have ever appeared so demonic.

"Is that so?" The blonde drawled, taking one last look around the shop.

There was a flick of the crafted stick in the air, and Luca felt a force drive into his chest, slapping his helpless body against the wall. Luca's world spun out of control. The air zapped from his lungs. By the time he had managed to compose himself, the aristocrat had appeared directly in front of him, pressing the tip of the stick to his throat. Though this would not have been threatening in any other situation, Luca could not stop the tremors of fear resonating through him from the action that had just taken place, nor could he desist sputtering curses of astonishment in his native tongue.

"Let's try this again," the blonde began, still eerily calm, but slowly adopting a sneer on his face. "Just over five feet, slim, brown hair, brown eyes… you've seen her. Recently." He placed an anvil of emphasis on the last word. Luca felt his throat constricting and could not figure out if it was because of his own terror, or because of whatever force it was that kept him pinned in place against the wall. "Keep in mind, should you tell me a lie, it will be the last thing you ever do."

Luca choked on his own words, too panicked to find the correct translation in English. He sputtered out something in Italian. The aristocrat applied more pressure to his throat.

"Say it slowly," he commanded.

"Th—the girl ran. J—just now," Luca managed in his native tongue, his adams apple bobbing in his throat rapidly as he tried to catch his breath. There was a look of satisfaction on the blonde's face, which only made Luca feel incredibly ashamed of his own confession. He had betrayed Jean. His heart began to sink like lead into his shoes.

"Thank you." And with that, Luca was dropped onto the floor of his shop, rubbing his throat and attempting to gather himself.

The blonde was heading to the door just as Luca found his courage.

"The beauty," Luca began, rubbing the ache from his neck as he watched the blonde stiffen. Luca staggered to his feet, staring down the white demon's head as it slowly turned in his direction. "Why is she running from you? What is she to you?"

The blonde appeared to bristle at the mention of beauty. If Luca had thought that his expression could not have grown colder, the look on the aristocrat's face as he turned around proved otherwise.

Luca found himself unable to stop the onslaught as the blonde popped in front of him again. Twig brandished threateningly in his face.

"My wife," the blonde replied, staring down the shopkeeper intensely. Luca gulped, but he had no time to reply. The blonde murmured something that sounded like…

Oblivious? Obliviate?

…

What was he doing, sitting on the floor? Why did his neck hurt?

Now alone in the café, Luca shook off his confusion and went to lock the entrance.

He had a movie marathon at home to get to.