Welcome to Italy
The visit with Ron had not gone well, at all. He had all but tried to kidnap her so that they could "talk things out, like grown witches and wizards." Of course, this had only caused her temper to flare outrageously, and she nearly hexed him unconscious when she tried to levitate her belongings out of the house, only to find that he'd placed sticking charms on them. After screamed threats and lots of pointed wands, he finally conceded unhappily, and the sadness on his face nearly caused her to change her mind. But everything had been said and done already, and all she could do was give him a hug and remind him that though he was not ideal for her, he "will someday find someone beautiful and lovely that will love [him] as much as [he] will love her."
Now, Hermione was extremely stressed out. Sure, she had packed everything and everything in her power was set, but that didn't change the fact that she would be going on a trip with one of the few people in the world she disliked. As she stepped out of the floo in the office, she checked her maroon jacket for any residues of dust. None. Brilliant. She brushed a few strands of hair away from her face with her hands before walking towards the I.A.P. The International Apparition Point was a small guarded room, one of a handful in England, and happened to be situated a few ways down the hall from her and Draco's office. It had been established recently after the Ministry passed a law forbidding international Apparition without a permit. This, of course, could only be properly regulated by completely disabling international Apparition everywhere but in designated places, such as the I.A.P. The blond git was already there waiting, looking impatient as he tapped his foot on the dark tiles.
"How nice of you to fix your hair for the occasion," he chimed in sarcastically, yet she got the feeling he was rather sour that morning. Instead of the usual prim and proper clothes he wore, he was wearing a dark V-neck sweater over a white camisole that was just barely visible over the dip, dark grey jeans, and impeccable black shoes. Clearly he had taken "vacation" too seriously.
"Sod off, Malfoy, I'm not in the mood," she huffed monotonously, refusing to let him get to her today. She was really not in the mood, though. She'd already threatened to hex her mum when she was asking her too many questions about the trip—"Where are you staying?" "Do you have enough normal—er, Muggle money?" "Are you going sightseeing as well?"—and did not want a repeat of the part of her ever cheery morning where she blasted a whole through the wall. Accidentally.
Surprised at her reaction, Draco took a cautious step back. Merlin knew he'd been at the receiving end of one too many of Granger's hexes. What on earth could have her knickers in a twist today? She was getting paid to go on a paid vacation. To do research. In Italy. Any other girl would be positively orgasmic with joy! What the fuck? He watched her as she crossed her arms and brushed away her bangs from her eyes. Taking out his wand, he cast a quick transfiguration spell over his clothes, refusing to be out-dressed by the infuriating Muggle-born standing a few feet away from him.
Simultaneously, they both took a seat on the vacant chairs outside the I.A.P. They had zero authority to get inside the rooms, despite Hermione's role in the war, and therefore had to wait for Mr Delta to show up—whenever he felt like showing up—to go inside. Hermione dragged her suitcase towards her until the wheels touched the tip of her shoes, and she focused almost hypnotically on the handle. Betraying herself, she quickly glanced over at her companion, who seemed to lack a suitcase himself.
"Where's your suitcase?" she asked cautiously, hoping to not set herself up for some witty insult. "And what the hell happened to your clothes?"
He looked down at his new attire—a dark grey dress shirt, even darker tie, and matching dark green pants and jacket—and smirked. Ah, yes. Who was under-dressed now? "Transfigured them. And as for my suitcase," he brought out a thumb-sized suitcase from his pocket. "Easy for travel."
"Pocket edition," she muttered despite herself, and could not help but let out a short laugh. Oh, Merlin. Her meetings with Ron were literally driving her insane. She ignored his inquisitive stare, instead making the mistake of thinking back to her meeting with Ron. Hell. No, no, no, she was sulking again.
Draco noticed this, too. "Trouble in paradise?" he guessed, though not sympathetically. He sounded like he was gloating, almost. "Marriage with the Weasel not what you thought it would—"
"You know what, Malfoy?" she interrupted him, still not meeting his gaze. "It must drive you insane that my life is happier now than yours." Sure, that wasn't exactly the truth, but if it meant she had something to hold over him…then so be it. "Who would've guessed, seeing as you were such an angry, misguided little boy in school?"
"Now, Weasley, I—" Draco began to defend himself angrily, insulted somewhat by her reproachful words. She had absolutely no right to judge him that way!
She held up her hand, far from finished. She was on a roll. This was everything she had let fester regretfully in her mind since the first time he called her a Mudblood—which, sure, had not been that traumatizing, taking into consideration her lack of knowledge and care in blood supremacy—and had not been able to vent out, not even to Harry and Ron, who had enough principle to hate him for all three of them. No, this time she wasn't going to bother sitting silently. "You know, I always thought it had to be something personal. That must be it. Why else would you have bullied me so much, Malfoy? Were you angry that a Muggle-born was better than you at school? That must have been the reason. Were you jealous? Of me?" An unknowing smile spread on her lips, as his eyes widened. She had hit the nail right on the head. "Oh," she finished quietly, unable to keep the glee away from her voice. She had never thought she was that good.
But Draco, Draco was angry right then. Yes, he had been jealous. Hell, his father spent more time praising her and berating him than reminding him of her inferiority. Of course, that was not to say that Lucius had idolized the Muggle-born; but it was a great insult to have a pureblood come in second-best to a frizzy-haired nuisance, also Harry Potter's friend. He knew all too well his father's feelings about that. He winced slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he thought about how his father had yelled at him for it. "Listen, Weasley, don't pretend to know anything about me!" he hissed angrily. "That is absolutely none of your concern, you understand?"
Hermione could tell he wanted to say more—God, she wanted to say more as well—but she could faintly hear Mr Delta's voice under Malfoy's angry rant. "Okay, okay, I apologize," she gritted out in a hurried low mutter. "I did not mean to upset you so." Yes, I did. "But given that we'll be travelling together in a matter of minutes—" seconds "—we have to learn to work together amiably. So," she took a deep breath. Bloody hell, here I go being the bigger person, she thought to herself, annoyed, as she suppressed a roll of her eyes. "Let's just survive the week. When we get back, we can be as horrible to each other as we want."
That, they both recognized, would not change the attitude they had had before. After all, they worked very well together. Their reports often complemented each other, and their success rate far surpassed any other research partnership in the department. Together, as is predictable, they were a force to be reckoned with. They had their occasional bickers, such as this one—though, admittedly, the others were often smaller—but they always managed to bounce back from whatever words were said.
Draco eyed her warily, but nodded in the end. After all, he needed this job. His knowledge of Dark Magic was his main redeeming quality, being able to sniff out obscure curses that the naïve Mrs Weasley would never even suspect, and there were not many other jobs that appreciated that talent. Especially not from him. Sure, his name still held power in the wizarding world—after all, his father funded over half of the wizard companies, including many Quidditch broom manufacturers (much to child Draco's glee)—but it also held fear, of the bad kind, and suspicion. Other employers would not be so trusting.
"Ah, Mr Malfoy, Mrs Weasley," greeted Mr Delta, a forced smile in his voice. Behind him, he was trailing two Aurors, one of which was none other than Harry Potter.
He grinned cheekily at Hermione and then briefly nodded at Draco. Hermione gave him an apologetic smile in return, waving. Her most recent interaction with him and his family, a dinner at his house, had not been that great. They had not been able to talk much, mainly due to James crying his eyes out and Ginny having to put him to sleep for nearly an hour.
Draco scowled; why did Mr Delta feel he needed to be accompanied by two Aurors?
Mr Delta noticed them staring, and he shrugged. "The main desk insists on the I.A.P. authorities being watched over," he explained.
Hermione bit her lip to keep from laughing. In a hushed voice, she leaned towards Harry and whispered, "Is this what the Boy Who Lived does nowadays?"
"That, and bottle-feed," he joked, laughing.
Needless to say, Mr Delta glared at the interaction. Mr Potter was married, sure, but so was Mrs Weasley, and anything could happen. "Right, well," he cleared his throat overly loudly. "I trust you have both reviewed your Muggle papers." Hermione and Draco nodded dutifully. He raised his eyebrow; he did not doubt that, but it was always better to check, just in case.
"Names?"
"Alicia Knowles."
"Easton Brand."
"Occupation?"
"Anthropologists."
"Time of stay?"
"Undetermined?"
"A week," corrected Hermione, rolling her eyes. "Perhaps less."
"Probably less."
"Maybe le—"
"Most definitely," Draco snapped, "less."
"Spot on," said Mr Delta, sounding pleased with their alibis. They were convincing, and besides this was only for appearance purposes. If anything major should happen, they would be directed to the British division of the authorities, and would be able to request an audience with the Italian Minister of Magic, who would resolve everything quickly for them. They were under orders to only use their false names with Muggle authority. Wizards would recognize them, and they were suspicious enough of Malfoy without him and his research partner lying about their identities. "Well. You both, I trust, have your itineraries?"
"Yes, sir," the curse breakers said automatically.
He nodded. "Brilliant. You will arrive with Niccolo, who will show you to your hotel. You will be staying in adjoining rooms, but may lock the door if you wish to do so."
Harry and Draco snorted, not too inconspicuously, and Hermione bit her tongue. If they wish to do so? Oh, that door was not going to open if the world depended on it.
"Remember, no magic off-site or outside of the hotel unless absolutely necessary. You will arrive around 9 in the morning, their time, lest I be mistaken, so you will get the chance to have breakfast with Niccolo as he briefs you on the case. The rest of the day is all yours, though I suggest you do not go drinking at night given that tomorrow morning you will begin investigating."
Hermione nodded. Draco did too, but he was not as convinced. Hangover potions were not hard to find, especially in the land of wine.
Mr Delta nodded towards Harry and the other Auror, both of which stepped forward with their hands clasped behind their backs. "Alright," began the former, "you both know the procedure. What is left behind gets left behind. We are not responsible for any splinching or loss of limbs, however we suggest that to minimize damage you keep your arms and legs tucked in at all times."
Almost as if they had rehearsed it, the second Auror added, "To come back, you will have to wait sixty minutes while the I.A.P. is reset. Once inside the room, you must both stand on the allotted purple circles. You will arrive in the corresponding purple circles at your destination. Do you have your Muggle papers ready?" Hermione and Draco held up their hands, showing the files they were holding. "Brilliant. Off you go."
Hermione stumbled onto the purple circle in Italy, scowling as she rubbed her stomach with her free hand. She glanced down, making sure she had successfully apparated her suitcase as well. She quickly fixed her hair, patting down the rat's nest that always seemed to rile up whenever she travelled in this fashion. Next to her, Draco landed with firm feet and only the slightest of balance losses. He straightened out his tie, then brushed imaginary dirt off the shoulders of his jacket.
"Wow," breathed Hermione, looking around. The inside of the Italian I.A.P. was beautifully decorated with artwork by Renaissance wizard painters, such as Geovani Adinolfi and Acel Vinciguerra. She had only seen their paintings from afar, in museums, or textbooks and pamphlets about Italy. Never had she been in such close proximity to them, despite what was no doubt bulletproof protective glass surrounding them—though what kind of wizard would shoot at an Adinolfi?
Draco was less interested in the décor. His lineage could be traced back to Vafara Black, the painter of the piece directly in front of him, and Raison Malfoy, the patron of Vinciguerra and two other featured painters. He had grown up with original Isidore paintings lining his bedroom walls. "Well," he said in a very no-nonsense monotone, hands tucked into his pockets expectantly. He had never seen Hermione Granger rendered speechless, and here she was, hardly able to breathe as she looked longingly at the paintings.
"Vinciguerra…Isidore…Oh!" she gasped, pleased. "A Labrosse!"
Draco craned his neck to see if the paintings had descriptions, as tacky as they were. None of them did. The witch knew the painters by fucking heart.
"Labrosse was always my favourite, too," chimed in a smooth Italian voice from behind. Both British wizards turned around, alarmed, only to find a slightly older man casually leaning against the wall. An empty chair stood beside him, and they guessed he had been sitting down, waiting for them to arrive. He had dark hair and sun-kissed olive skin, and bright green eyes with thick eyelashes and brows that were not in the least unappealing. He was clad in a white turtleneck, a black, slim fit business jacket, and tight black pants with—of course—designer shoes. He stepped towards Hermione, his hand extended. She placed her hand in his, and he smiled. "Niccolo Marciante," he greeted, bowing his head and kissing Hermione's knuckles. Oh, how she wished she could fight off the blush.
"Hermione Weasley," she answered, trying to sound light despite the aggravation of having to still use her soon-to-be ex-husband's name.
Niccolo nodded. "I gathered as much. And this must be Draco Malfoy?" he asked, stretching his arm towards the blond wizard. Draco shook it, confirming Niccolo's suspicions. "I will be your guide here in Italy. Welcome to Roma!" he called loudly, sounding proud. "Sadly, we will not have much time to sightsee. The floo that connects the Ministry to the hotel is restricted, and will be shut off at 9:45, so we must hurry in order to arrive directly to the lobby."
Hermione nodded, still absolutely enchanted by the decoration. Draco noticed and rolled his eyes; she was such an enthusiast about everything. Niccolo offered her his arm, which she took, dragging her suitcase behind. Draco rolled his eyes. Niccolo could obviously learn a few things.
"So, Labrosse?" began Niccolo, raising a perfect eyebrow at her.
At this point, she wasn't interested in whether or not he was extremely attractive or womanizing. Just the fact that she was not the only one interested in the wizard Renaissance, and all the advancements—the use of heartstring cores in wands, the development of everlasting ink quills, and the creation of essence of Dittany for healing—that came of it. She thought that the artwork, in particular, was especially fascinating. "Oh, yes," she began to explain eagerly. "He was so advanced for his time. His unorthodox use of bright colours in ordinary paintings was absolutely revolutionary."
"Well, Muggle painters certainly took a while in reaching that innovation on their own," Niccolo agreed, holding the door open gallantly for her.
Behind them, Draco scoffed, extremely annoyed. Am I not here or something? he thought to himself.
"When I was a little girl, my parents used to take me to other cities during vacations. Once, we went to Paris and visited the Louvre Museum." She smiled sadly, casting her gaze downwards. Niccolo's brow furrowed; she seemed very nostalgic. "I was nine, and I had no idea about the wizarding world." She paused for a moment, gauging Niccolo's reaction. Might he be prejudiced? "I was so amazed by the sculptures, the paintings. I thought they were the greatest things in the world. And then, when I was seventeen—before the war really began—I convinced them to let me go to a wizarding museum. Labrosse was the first wizarding painting I ever saw."
"What piece?" asked Niccolo, his voice soft now. Draco fought the urge to gag. Was he really hitting on her? The bloke seemed nice, suave, somewhat handsome. He could do so much better. Besides, she was married.
Hermione grinned. "Due Pezzi d'Oro e Il Sole. Labrosse painted his love, Isadora Maddalena, with only yellows and golds. Even her obsidian hair had streaks of rose gold. He painted her dress and the background with rich purples and blues. It was breath-taking."
"Ah, yes, I have seen that one," nodded Niccolo, remembering now. "It was a tragic story. Labrosse was a French pureblood wizard. Isadora was an Italian Muggle-born peasant." Hermione's eyebrows shot up, as she had not known that Isadora was merely a peasant. By the painting, one would have thought she was a queen. She supposed that the girl had been romanticized by the painter's love for her. "He saw her once, and never again. He was her senior by twenty years, yet he fell in love with her immediately. They met for one whole day. She was just as taken by him, but had instead married another farmer." His voice became sombre, low. "Labrosse turned his wand on himself the day he found out."
Hermione bit her lip, saddened by the story. She had never known this, only that Isadora and Labrosse's love was forbidden due to their countries and heritage.
Draco cleared his throat once he realized that the trio had come to a full stop. "As depressing as that was," he began sarcastically, earning a hateful glare from Hermione, "didn't you say something about arriving quickly to the floo, Niccolo?"
"I did, yes," agreed Niccolo, nodding dutifully as they turned a corner. Hermione glowered at Draco over her shoulder. She had finally been able to have a nice, intellectual conversation with someone, and of course he had to sabotage it! Niccolo dug through his pockets even as they passed several Ministry workers. Hermione did her best to nod politely, not knowing sufficient (or any, as a matter of fact) Italian to be able to respond. Draco nodded as well, though, since he was all but fluent in Italian, more of lack of manners than of vocabulary.
Finally, they arrived at a great fireplace with the familiar green flames. As far as appearances go, this was one of the most luxurious fireplaces Hermione had ever laid her eyes on. It was pure marble, with occasional golden flecks—very Italian Renaissance, she thought to herself gleefully. She was hardly able to contain herself from running a hand softly over the perfectly sculpted floral designs, instead contenting herself with maintaining a firm grip on Niccolo's arm.
"The hotel is L'Incantato Uno. I will floo over first, Signora Weasley will come after, and Signor Malfoy will be third. Well," he said, extracting his arm from Hermione's, who let go as if he had burned her skin, "off I go." He grabbed some of the powder sitting inside a golden vase next to the fireplace. "Ciao!"
With that, he stepped into the flames, throwing the powder and shouting, "L'Incantato Uno!"
Hermione watched as he vanished in a burst of the green flames. She, too, picked a handful of powder and dragged her suitcase into the tickling flames. A moment before she threw the powder, however, she was stopped by Draco's surprisingly warm hand gripping her arm. "Let go, Malfoy, I could have seriously hurt you!" she snapped. I ought to have done that, actually.
His eyes were dangerously narrow, and she guessed that he was not going to spare her feelings in his next words. For his part, he was too angry to let this go. Sure, he had often been the culprit in similar, typically more severe situations, but he had mistakenly thought that she would have more class than that. "First off, Weasley, he looks to be thirty years old. Thirty. And second of all, have you forgotten that you are fucking married? What would the original Weasel think of this little flirting you've got going on?"
Hermione's brows furrowed sadly, though not for the same reason he predicted. No, she was wounded because she knew suddenly that Ron would grieve no matter where she found her next partner—because, God forgive her, she was not going to stay a single divorcee forever. That said, she really did not think Draco Malfoy, of all people, should have a say in how she manages her broken marriage. "Listen, ferret," she hissed back at him, "I am not flirting with him. I am having a nice, intellectual conversation! I feel sorry for you—really, I do—that you would not recognize that if it were right in front of you, as it is! And also, I hardly think you are one to tell me how to behave myself in my marriage! That is none of your business, you infuriating git!"
"Insufferable bint," he spat back, angry that she insinuated that anything was wrong with his marriage. Sure, it was crumbling, and he already found a next wife, but it would still be nice to not be reminded of his fickleness every minute.
"I—why, I should—urgh! L'Incantato Uno!" she yelled, throwing down the powder and vanishing, too, in a swirl of emerald.
Waiting for her at the hotel's lobby was Niccolo, as he had said he would be. He was casually leaning against a white decorative pillar, though it was rather small. He was carefully examining his nails, endlessly amused by the shouting that had come through the fireplace. He thought I was flirting with her—ha! he thought to himself, smirking as he shook his head. When she all but stumbled out of the fireplace, he rushed to grab her arms, keeping her from falling. She unclipped the bun holding up her hair, and shook it out, deciding it had been up long enough. He scowled slightly; he had a sudden urge to help her with that mane. Instead, he opted to help pull out her suitcase before the blond wizard landed on it.
"Are you alright?" he asked, dragging it up to his feet. She nodded, straightening out her jacket. With her fingers, she brushed her hair away, huffing as she did so, and grabbed the handle to her suitcase. "I heard you and Signor Malfoy arguing over the floo. Sorry for eavesdropping," he added sheepishly. "Is everything under control? Perhaps I should not be so friendly—I really did not mean anything by it, even though you are beautiful—so as to not upset your husband?"
Hermione was frozen on the spot the moment he admitted he had been eavesdropping, but when he mentioned her husband she felt her knees buckle under her weight. Was everyone going to play Mr Morals with her? "It's alright, my husband and I…well, we are in a strange situation at the moment. But, um, it would not worry him. Not that I think you were, you know," her cheeks turned red under her sputtering. "I mean, I didn't think you were flirting or anything, and I went on this trip to get away from my husband, for a bit."
Niccolo looked bewildered, but decided not to say anything else, even as Draco Malfoy tripped out of the fireplace. "Fucking Italians," he muttered angrily, smoothing his hair back with his fingers. Hermione narrowed her eyes at his language, and Niccolo raised an eyebrow.
"Signora Weasley," he began, but she quickly stopped him and told him to call her Hermione. "Alright, Hermione, if you were trying to, er, get away from your husband for a bit…why is he—I mean, why would you bring him along?"
Hermione cocked her head to the side, confused. Draco, however, caught on to the meaning immediately, and looked at her. As soon as realization dawned on her, she stared at him, and a couple of seconds passed before she guffawed and he pretended to dry-heave. "You—you think—oh, Merlin!" she laughed loudly, letting her head fall back as her chuckles racked her shoulders. "Oh, God no! My husband is Ron Weasley, not Draco Malfoy!" She calmed down a fraction, and turned to look at Draco, only to erupt in more laughter.
Draco thought he was going to be sick. Him, married to her? "If I were her, I would count my lucky stars to find a husband like me!" he declared arrogantly, glowering at her.
She finally was able to stand up straight again, the laughter in her having died out. "Wha—really, now?" she asked, starting to get offended. "Well, if I were you, I would count my lucky stars to find a wife that won't just want you for your endowed wallet!"
Niccolo had to physically restrain himself from bursting out laughing at the little confrontation. Were they always like this? He crossed his arms tightly, trying to hide the fact that his almost imperceptible belly was rising and falling quickly with his suppressed laughter.
"Endowed wallet? If I were you, I would—"
"Alright, let's not fight in the lobby," said Niccolo, finally stepping in the middle and holding his arms out between the couple. He glanced over at the witch at the desk, who looked scared by the racket they were displaying. She was an old friend, and would therefore not be kicking any of them out soon; but he still disliked disrupting her lobby. He took Hermione by her elbow and, dragging the suitcase behind him, led them down a corridor towards their room. Draco trailed behind them unhappily.
With a flick of Niccolo's wand, the door to Hermione's room swung open, to reveal a modest little compartment. It was smaller than her room at the Granger house, but equally as practical. It was obviously an en suite, with a small closet with six cabinets and a bathroom with a low shower and a simple toilet. A single light bulb flickered miserably overhead, its dim yellow glow hardly aiding her. This, however, was one of the few complaints she had of the room. Otherwise, it was very…cosy. The bed was, as expected, a low twin with a plump mattress and matching, cream-coloured pillows. The closet consisted of a metre-long rack a couple of metres above ground, along with four thick wooden cabinets. Admittedly, it was no Holiday Inn, but it was comfortable and—as she reminded herself—temporary.
"You may get comfortable in here," Niccolo told her from the doorway, a hand on the knob. Draco stood behind him, looking as impatient as ever. "There is a tour of the city that departs in a couple of hours. They stop for lunch at a vineyard on the outskirts of town, and go past the banks of the river. You can check out the site for a while if you wish."
"Thank you," she told him earnestly, pulling her suitcase to stand in front of the closet. "Will you be going on the tour as well?"
"Me? No, I am occupied with a date this evening," Niccolo revealed, grinning a bit sheepishly. She smiled at his comment; Draco, on the other hand, glared at him. "And just so you know, it is a Muggle tour, so I do advise that you be discreet."
Hermione couldn't hold back some good-natured teasing. "Ooh, who is the lucky lady?" she cooed, laying the suitcase down and fishing for her wand in her pocket.
"Lady?" repeated Niccolo, sounding oddly bewildered. "Oh! No, that is not exactly my preference," he admitted, winking at Hermione as he disappeared from the doorway with a miniature salute.
Hermione, who had finally found her wand, hexed the door shut on Malfoy's incredulous grin.