Beneath the Tuscan Sun
The train rumbled gently beneath them as Florence faded into the distance, the rolling Tuscan countryside stretching out beyond the windows. Hermione had her nose buried in a book, as always, while Draco sprawled beside her, long legs stretched out in a way that made it abundantly clear he had no concern for personal space.
“You do realise,” he drawled, flicking the corner of her page just to be irritating, “that you’re on holiday? Reading about medieval magical theory is hardly the most riveting way to enjoy Tuscany.”
Hermione huffed and swatted his hand away. “I’m enriching my understanding of the region’s magical history, Malfoy. Some of us enjoy learning.”
“Merlin help me, Granger, I’m aware,” he sighed, shifting to look out the window. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy the scenery instead of—what is this? A Comparative Analysis of 14th Century Magical Practices in Northern Italy? Thrilling.”
Hermione ignored him and turned the page. “It’s fascinating, actually. Did you know that Lucca had a secret society of magical cartographers who enchanted maps so they could only be read under moonlight?”
Draco made a show of rolling his eyes. “Oh, be still my heart. Truly, what a scandalous history.”
She smirked and elbowed him. “Oh, hush. You’re the one who insisted we take this trip.”
He turned to look at her then, his usual teasing glint softening for just a moment. “Yes, I did,” he said, quieter this time. “And I don’t regret it.”
Hermione’s breath caught slightly at the sincerity in his voice, but before she could dwell on it, the train lurched, and Draco’s arm knocked into hers.
He recovered first, smirking. “Careful, Granger. I know you’re eager to get close to me, but there are other ways to go about it.”
“Oh, please,” she scoffed, nudging him back. “I’d sooner kiss a Blast-Ended Skrewt.”
Draco grinned. “We’ll see.”
Their first stop was Siena, just in time for the Palio, the city’s legendary horse race. The narrow streets were alive with vibrant banners, their colours marking the different contrade—ancient districts whose rivalries had spanned centuries. Crowds of excited spectators filled the Piazza del Campo, where the race would take place.
Draco looked unimpressed. “Are we really going to stand in this mess of people just to watch some horses run in a circle?”
Hermione shot him a look. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you not want to experience authentic Italian culture?”
“I prefer my culture with fewer elbow jabs from overly enthusiastic old men,” he grumbled as someone jostled past him.
Hermione laughed. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, here you are, willingly spending time with me,” he pointed out smugly.
The sound of drums signalled the start of the procession, and soon, the horses and their riders paraded into the square. The energy in the crowd was electric, and despite his earlier complaints, even Draco seemed drawn in by the excitement.
When the race finally began, Hermione found herself gripping Draco’s arm as the horses thundered around the track, the crowd shouting in a frenzy. The race was over in mere moments, but the celebrations that followed carried on long into the night.
Somewhere between the cheering, the celebratory wine, and the warmth of the summer evening, Hermione realised—she was happy. Not just content, not just distracted from work, but truly, inexplicably happy.
And the maddening part? It had everything to do with Draco Malfoy.
Their next stop was Greve, just in time for the wine harvest festival. The town square was bustling with winemakers showcasing their best vintages, laughter and music filling the air. Hermione eagerly dragged Draco through the various stalls, sampling everything from aged Chianti to freshly baked focaccia.
Draco, however, was much less enthusiastic when they reached the grape-stomping area.
“Oh, absolutely not,” he declared, crossing his arms as he eyed the large wooden vats filled with grapes.
“Oh, absolutely yes,” Hermione countered, already tugging off her shoes.
Draco took a step back. “Granger, I am not sticking my feet in a vat of squashed fruit.”
“Oh, come on, Malfoy, don’t be such a snob.”
“I am exactly a snob, and I have no shame about it,” he said dramatically. “Do you have any idea how disgusting that must feel?”
Hermione smirked and climbed into the vat, letting out a laugh as the grapes squished beneath her feet. “Oh, it’s wonderful. You’re missing out.”
Draco made a face. “It looks like a crime scene for fruit.”
“Scared, Malfoy?”
He narrowed his eyes. “I hate you.”
“You love me,” she quipped, grinning.
To her utter surprise, Draco faltered.
It was only a moment—barely noticeable—but his expression shifted, something unspoken flickering in his eyes. Hermione’s breath caught, but before she could dwell on it, Draco huffed and removed his shoes, rolling up his trousers with the air of a man facing execution.
The moment he stepped into the vat, he let out the most dramatic groan.
“This is vile,” he announced. “I feel violated. The grapes are—why are they so cold?”
Hermione burst out laughing, nearly stumbling. “Oh, stop whining and just stomp.”
Draco lifted his foot with exaggerated horror. “It’s seeping between my toes, Granger. This is unnatural.”
By now, several people had turned to watch Draco’s suffering, amused by the spectacle of the well-dressed wizard looking utterly betrayed by the concept of grape-stomping.
Hermione grinned. “I think you’re having fun.”
“I think I’ll need therapy after this,” he deadpanned.
And despite his protests, he stomped.
It was in a quiet medieval village, days later, that Hermione truly realised what had changed.
They were walking through the cobbled streets of San Gimignano, golden sunlight casting long shadows across the ancient towers. Draco had bought them gelato, and they were lazily strolling through the nearly deserted square.
She looked at him—really looked at him.
The lines of tension he always carried in London were gone. His usual sarcastic sharpness was still there, but it was lighter now, more playful than defensive.
And he looked at her differently too.
Less like an old rival.
More like someone who mattered.
It hit her like a tidal wave.
She was in love with Draco Malfoy.
It wasn’t a slow realisation. It wasn’t something she had been questioning or debating. It just was.
She must have been staring too long because Draco turned to her, eyebrow raised. “Granger, if you keep looking at me like that, I’ll start thinking you fancy me.”
She snorted, masking the way her heart was racing. “Don’t flatter yourself, Malfoy.”
He smirked. “Oh, I do. Regularly.”
Hermione rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
And as they wandered through the sun-drenched village, she knew.
She wasn’t going home alone.
As the sun set over Tuscany, painting the sky in hues of rose and amber, Hermione and Draco stood at the edge of a vineyard, glasses of wine in hand.
Draco tilted his head towards her. “So,” he said, his voice softer now. “Do you regret it?”
“Regret what?”
He looked at her. “Saying yes.”
Hermione took a breath.
“No,” she said simply. “Not for a second.”
Draco reached for her hand, fingers intertwining with hers.
They stood there, watching the last light fade, knowing that when they left, they would be leaving together.
Because this wasn’t just an escape.
It was the beginning of something real.
And neither of them wanted to let it go.