Chapter Thirty-Three
Ginny lugged her suitcase down the stairs, where Ron and Hermione were standing. Hermione's brand-new engagement ring shone dimly in the hall light, and Ginny grinned for the hundredth time thinking about the upcoming wedding. They'd agreed to hold off until Ginny was back the next year, although Ginny privately suspected it might have been because Hermione had gotten rather nervous about the commitment.
"You're going to have a wonderful time," Hermione gushed, putting her arms around Ginny. "Maybe we'll meet up with you when you're somewhere sunny, hmm?"
"I'll look forward to it," Ginny replied, releasing Hermione and replacing her with her brother. "Bye, Ron. Take care of Hermione while I'm gone."
"Are you joking?" Ron chuckled. "Do you think Hermione needs anyone to take care of her?"
Ginny rolled her eyes and stepped back. She took what would be her last look at her brother and best friend for a long time; they looked very happy together. Ron's arm draped familiarly around Hermione's shoulders, and the brunette didn't even look the slightest bit uncomfortable. Ginny suppressed a grin. " All right, lovebirds. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. I'll write regularly to let you know I haven't drunk myself to death or gotten horribly lost in a Peruvian jungle while looking at pottery."
"Isn't that what Oliver's going for?" Hermione chided gently. Ron's face took on a slightly mask-like look; Ginny knew her brother hadn't approved of the way she and Harry had parted, but even Ron couldn't avoid how undeniably happy his sister was. Even Harry had been recovering nicely, although he'd maintained a very impenetrable distance from Ginny.
"For the most part," Ginny replied, "although I won't have any protection at all if he doesn't get down here. Oliver!" she called up the stairs. "Come on, we're going to miss our Portkey!"
"For the love of Merlin," he grumbled, appearing around the corner. "Keep in mind, lassie, it's not your house we're leaving for a year. I've got to make sure everything is in order for whomever lives here next."
Hermione smiled. Ginny knew her friend was hoping something would happen on their trip that might bring Ginny and Oliver into the stable relationship she could better understand, but, surprising herself, Ginny didn't know if that would happen - or even if that was what she wanted. For once, what she really wanted was to let things unfold naturally. "You two are going to learn about art and dancing and music and culture and by the time you come back you'll be brown as leather," Hermione said, hugging Oliver briefly. He kissed her on the cheek briefly, winking cheekily at a glowering Ron, and grabbed Ginny's suitcase in his free hand.
"Ready?" he asked. Ginny rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on, if you're already sick of me before we've left the house this trip is going to be no fun at all."
Waving goodbye to Ron and Hermione one last time, Ginny joined Oliver at the end of the street, where an unobtrusive and rather mucky-looking bean can was lying. "Very glamorous," she said sardonically. Oliver just gestured to the metal surface, which he already had a finger touched to, and looked at his watch. Obediently, Ginny pressed her finger to the can, nervous suddenly for the first time.
As if he'd read her mind, Oliver asked without looking up from his watch, "Scared?"
But before she could answer, the two of them had whirled into nothingness.
"Merlin," Ginny said lazily, "I am never leaving Italy."
A week and a half into their trip, Ginny had seen more art in Italy than she'd seen in her entire life. She'd also drunk more wine than ever, and that had helped to make the time flow in a pleasant, educational haze. For right now, however, she and Oliver were on the balcony of their small but surprisingly nice hotel; she was writing and he was painting some landscape. When she'd asked Oliver why he hadn't brought any of his supplies with him, he'd replied that he planned to buy them in every place they went to and creating a piece that mirrored the local style. Ginny thought this seemed rather like an artistic tourism, but then she remembered that she was a travel writer and had wisely kept her mouth shut.
"It is nice here, isn't it?" Oliver replied. He had paint in his hair, which was unusual considering that he was painting in the much calmer Muggle style, with paintbrushes and a complete lack of unpredictability in the paint's movement. "I'm about ready to put a down payment on a villa."
"Or a vineyard," Ginny replied. She signed her name at the bottom of her quill-printed article and read it over again for typos. She knew she had a copy editor waiting back in England, but she didn't want to be embarrassed; nor did she really want everyone to know that she was a little tipsy already. The sun hadn't even gone down yet, for Merlin's sake. "Don't you just wish we could stay here forever? Buy a little house and raise goats or something? We'd always have a trim lawn."
Oliver snickered quietly as Ginny rolled up and sealed her article. She'd bring it to the Owlery Dennis had told her about in his very informative letter of "things they'd need to know" tomorrow. He'd told them all about magical locations in different countries, where and when their Portkeys would depart (although he'd left room for them to create their own if need be), and - Ginny suspected this may not have been something his bosses had proposed he write - some of the better clubs and bars he'd been to in his less extensive, but still respectable, travels. Ginny had penned a thank you note and, after that, had hoped to never hear from the Daily Prophet again. "Are you really tipsy already, Ginny?" Oliver asked, cutting into her reverie.
"Obviously not," she replied, "I'm working."
"Can I read your article?" Oliver said, balancing his palette on the railing.
"That doesn't look safe," Ginny said, nodding at the palette. "And no, I've already sealed it. But remind me next time and I'll give it to you first."
Oliver rescued his paints from the precipice and continued his work. "Well, then tell me what you wrote about while I paint," he said. "I'd rather hear it in your own words somehow than have to order the Daily Prophet to wherever we happen to be at the time. And I think it will be more interesting if you have more wine in your body than blood."
"All right then," Ginny said irritably, "don't tease. I'm trying not to let it get to my head at least. Anyway," she continued, letting her voice drop back to its normal tone, "I wrote about David. You know, the statue. I wrote about how Michelangelo manipulated the marble with magic-"
"Very alliterative," commented Oliver briefly.
"-and how beautiful it was. I wrote about how big it was, since he'd wanted to combine the legend of David ironically with his experiences with the giants of Perugia. I wrote about how the light from the windows sort of framed the statue without shining on it directly, and how the Muggle tour guide told a completely different story from the one you whispered in my ear while he talked about the Pope's guiding influence. I wrote about how that night we went out and twirled our spaghetti and I wondered how a people that loved such mutable food could create such an implacable piece of art. And I mainly wrote about how Muggles may not have our magic, but they do have magic somehow. The way they recognize great art and fill buildings with it, the way they keep making food for themselves even though sometimes it's unbelievably difficult or complicated, the way they hire tour guides to explain to the curious masses in basic Italian how a man made something that lasted hundreds of years after he died…"
As Ginny trailed off, she looked over at Oliver. His eyes were fixed on his canvas, but his paintbrush was fixed in his hand, a foot away from the surface. "Come look at my landscape," he said abruptly, "and then I'd really like you to kiss me, if you wouldn't mind."
Ginny froze. They'd had a very peaceful and symbiotic time in beautiful Italy, and, though she'd be lying if she said the thought hadn't crossed her mind, nothing outside platonic friendship had happened between them. Oliver had made one comment about saving money by renting just one hotel room, but it had had the air of something that was released into the ether and forgotten. This command, however, was much more difficult to ignore. Unsteady, she rose from her chair and felt dizzy for a moment; the rapid change in elevation and the alcohol she'd imbibed went to her head rapidly, but when her vision had cleared again she walked over to stand next to Oliver.
His painting was beautiful. The greens and browns of the houses and trees stretched both beyond the railing and over the canvas. The blue sky and few thin clouds were rendered carelessly enough to be perfect and wind-blown. Ginny caught her breath with difficulty; how could someone so talented and receptive to beauty be interested in her?
Slowly, she turned to face Oliver. "It's lovely," she said. "Beyond lovely, really. I just don't know a better word for it. You're an excellent painter."
Oliver smiled softly, bringing his paint-damp hand up to her cheek and brushing his fingers over her ear. "Now I really want to kiss you," he said. "It's not every day that someone pays me a compliment like that." He moved closer to her, lips a little apart, but he seemed to be holding back, waiting for something.
Ginny took a breath for strength. "Well?" she asked, trying for defiance but ending up mostly with breathiness. "Are you going to kiss me or what?"
Oliver's smile widened, and he needed no more encouragement. He bent fully to meet her lips, unreserved this time. He ran his tongue along her bottom lip, drawing his right arm around her waist to pull her closer to him, and she responded with parted lips. Oliver, somewhat hesitantly, moved his tongue against hers, slow and sensual; Ginny mirrored his movements, hoping to give him at least some of the feeling he was giving her. She slid her arms around his neck, tangling her fingers in the sandy brown hair at the nape of his neck, bowing her body completely against his. Surprising her, Oliver swept one warm hand and arm under her loose top, moving his fingers gently and carefully against her back. Ginny didn't try to pull away. When Oliver broke the kiss finally, it was only so he could work his way down her jaw and neck, kissing every spot he could find, tracing a path of heat under her skin as he went. Still his fingers worked slowly, maddeningly, on the smooth skin of her back, sometimes moving to play on her sides, always finding their way back to her spine. Ginny moved her hands tentatively to the hem of his shirt, pulling it up so she could finally press her fingers to the firm skin of his hips and back. Oliver exhaled sharply, hot breath against her neck and collarbones.
"You have such small hands," he murmured, running his hand down her arm while still keeping firm hold of her waist. "I like it when you touch me like that."
"I like it too," Ginny said breathlessly. It was very difficult to speak with Oliver's lips pressed against the depression at the base of her throat. "You're so warm. You're so good at this." Her voice cut off into a small moan, and she felt a little embarrassed when she felt Oliver chuckle through the skin of his back.
"It's hot when you moan like that," he said, laying some of Ginny's fears to rest. She blushed instead, and started to pull away. She was wary of things going too far too quickly; maybe her brothers' constant teasing about boys had finally made its way into her psyche. Oliver frowned, pressing one last kiss to her neck before moving to look at her. "Did I do something wrong? Is this too much?" He moved his hand from under her shirt but still held her waist lightly.
"Well," Ginny said, voice a little squeaky, "um, no. You didn't do anything wrong. In fact … you're doing everything right. That's … that's sort of the problem."
Oliver chuckled again, and Ginny liked feeling the sound ripple under her hands but she felt uncomfortable. She took her hands out from under his shirt and placed them somewhat awkwardly on Oliver's shoulders. "No fucking the tour guides, hmm?" he asked.
Ginny laughed, more to cover her own sudden fear than anything else. Is that already what Oliver was expecting? Then again, she'd be lying if she said the thought hadn't crossed her mind… She shook her head, both at her own rather inappropriate internal monologue and at Oliver's remark. "Not so much that," she said, "as no fucking the tour guides until I feel ready."
Oliver nodded. "I understand," he said, "but I really hope you're okay with doing that every so often."
"I doubt I could pass it up," Ginny replied.
AN: I hope this somewhat longer chapter makes up for my absence, dear readers! Things have been a little crazy here in college, but if it's any consolation, I've probably missed this story even more than you have! I've told myself that I'm going to try to update more regularly, but as Mary Poppins says, that's a bit of a piecrust promise: easily made, easily broken. I really am going to try! Writing is good for me; and, as you can probably tell, the tale of Ginny and Oliver is drawing to a close. It's been a good run, all! Hope you've enjoyed this last chapter; not too steamy yet, but we're getting there. ;)-TheGoldenAge