Hermione Granger walked down the Via del Lavatore, on her way to meet her young, and rather wild, Aunt Clara at the little café they had agreed upon for lunch. Visions of prosciutto dancing in her head, and undoubtedly, Aunt Clara would have some delicious suggestion about the menu.
Aunt Clara was quite trendy, and had bought Hermione an entirely new wardrobe once she arrived in Rome. "Italians dress well, and I won't have you sticking out," Clara had declared. Hermione now had an array of fashionable clothes, from sleek tops to flashy skirts and even flashier underwear. Her hair was now cut into something from a shampoo commercial (though, thankfully, not the before from the before and after) and Clara had trained her well in the ways of eyeliner. Hermione had delighted at the new experience of being conventionally pretty. At the moment, she was arrayed in a white, one-sleeved shirt made of flowing rayon, and a pleated, black mini-skirt. Hermione might have enjoyed the experience more had not her trendy underwear, a thong that had looked adorable on the plastic bum in the store, decided to situate itself in a permanent wedgie. All the way down the street, she subtly pulled at it, praying that no one would notice.
In between the concentration required to pick at her crack and not miss the street signs, Hermione wondered why she had been sent to Rome this summer. Her parents usually felt that summer should be family time, especially with Hermione off at school for most of the year. If they traveled, it was usually a week camping on the moors, or in a nice cottage in Cornwall. Her parents were not city people. Strangely enough, this year they had packed her off to a hitherto unknown aunt, a second cousin or something of Hermione's mother, with cheery messages of having a good time and a shiny new credit card to boot.
Normally, Mr. and Mrs. Granger were downright reactionary in their views on childrearing. "Brush after every meal." "No drinking until you are 18." (Hermione guiltily thought of all the butterbeers she had consumed during the school year, and once, just once, the thimbleful of Ogden's Firewhisky she had snuck at a quidditch victory party) "Be home by 9:30!" Not that she was ever out that late anyhow. Just once in a while, going to a movie with girlfriends or something. Nonetheless, her parents worried and fretted if she wasn't in their immediate vicinity or at school. So it was strange that they had packed her off with a rather careless distant relative in a big, and possibly scary, city.
Lovely Rome, the Eternal City. Well, at least the mosquitoes were eternal. Briefly, Hermione wondered if it was her type O blood that attracted the little beasts to her in droves, or if they did that to everyone. Clara was always reminding her not to scratch, as it would only make the spots more irritated. Not to mention harder to shave. Shaving her legs was something else Hermione had taken up this summer, under Clara's careful tutelage. Hermione was rather proud of herself. This morning, she had only nicked herself once and it wasn't even on a very noticeable spot.
Aside from mosquitoes and mugginess, Rome really was a very beautiful city. Hermione loved to see old Roman ruins in the most unexpected places, and gelaterias absolutely everywhere. Italian gelato put any other kind of frozen confectionary to shame.
Still dreaming about gelato, she walked into the café. Clara had already taken a seat.
"Hermione, darling, how was your morning?"
"Oh, fantastic. I've finally figured out my thesis for my history class next year, on how the inequalities inherent in the economic system of Scotland helped set off the Goblin Rebellion of 1628 by using an antiquated-"
"That's lovely dear, why don't you write your friends about it?" Clara said this quickly before her eyes could glaze over. Hermione, oblivious, shook her head.
"I don't think Harry and Ron would be interested in this sort of thing."
"Oh. Well, then. Maybe you would meet someone in Rome?"
"Someone interested in magical history? Not likely."
"Well, maybe not magical history, but someone with similar interests. You know, a boy . . ." Here, Clara gave Hermione a coy glance. Again, Hermione was oblivious.
"Why would I want to meet a boy? Besides, Mum and Dad would go mad if they knew I had a boyfriend."
"Well, actually, Hermione, they rather hoped you would get one this summer."
Hermione snorted. "And pigs fly."
Clara looked very serious. "Hermione . . . Is there something you'd like to tell me?"
Confused, Hermione shook her head. "No. Why?"
"Are you absolutely sure? Nothing about your . . . preferences?"
This many dramatic pauses in a conversation was not a good sign, though Hermione. "What preferences?"
"Oh the usual . . . you know, teenage things." Clara refused to meet Hermione's eyes.
"What sort of teenage things?"
"Well . . ." Clara seemed to mumble the last bit, " . . . your parents think you're a lesbian."
"What?!" Hermione's voice rose to sopranic heights. "They think I'm . . . Where would they get that idea? That's ridiculous!"
A tourist-y couple at the next table turned to glare at Hermione. Clara and Hermione ignored them.
"You do have some strange habits. You've never brought any male friends home-"
"Harry and Ron live in completely different locations!"
"You've never written home about any romantic interests-"
"I can't tell my father I'm snogging a fellow two years older than me! He'd go ballistic!"
"And you always go on about that McGonagall woman-"
"She's a professor! She's brilliant!"
Clara stopped to take a sip of her wine, looking at Hermione over the rim of her glass. "Exactly. You seem to have a crush on this older woman . . . "
"I AM NOT A LESBIAN!"
The room fell silent. The waiter had frozen in mid-service. The tourist-y couple was now open-mouthed in shock. A pickpocket took advantage of this moment to take the woman's wallet from her unattended purse.
Red-faced and fuzzy-minded, Hermione stood up with a screech of her chair. She grabbed her purse (luckily, unnoticed by the pickpocket) and stalked to the sunny street outside.