Chapter 9
“Incoming ship!” someone yells from ashore.
Up ahead, people on the wharf can be seen scrambling, pulling ropes and shouting to one another across the wind that had just mysteriously picked up speed and strength. Pansy shouts orders to her crew and they obey immediately, loosening the riggings and readying the anchors.
Hermione stands with her forearms braced against the railing on the port side, fingers trailing absentmindedly over the black wood as she stares out at the city they’re quickly approaching. She can’t quite wrap her head around the fact that this is really happening. She’s engaging in her riskiest mission yet alongside her heroes—and her enemies—and the stakes are impossibly high.
Light, casual footsteps sound and Theo appears beside her. “What we’re about to do…” he whistles, sticking his hands in his pockets. “It’s insane.”
“Insane,” Hermione agrees.
He clicks his tongue. “Good luck, Granger.”
She looks at him sideways, at his lopsided smile. “On what,” she teases, “the heist or an entire day with Malfoy?”
He laughs, a loud and humorous sound, shrugging. “Both. Mostly the second.”
Hermione laughs as well, though she thinks about his words. How is it that she feels equally nervous for the heist and for her time with Draco?
The Serpent pulls in smoothly, and the size of her is incomparably larger than the rest of the ships in port. Workers rustle about loading and unloading cargo and passengers.
The gangway is lowered and the crew rushes forward, excited to touch solid land and explore an ancient city. They are all aware of the mission, they understand the vast importance. They know to return to the ship no later than midnight to get some sleep before they sail again. They disperse immediately, snakes drawn to separate prey.
Their group descends last and go their separate ways, one at a time with Pansy in the lead and Hermione and Draco in the back. Some men gesture at The Serpent and ask if they need help unloading anything, but Pansy dismisses them politely.
“Welcome to Rome,” a round, portly man with cropped sandy hair says. “I’m Ren, in case you need any assistance.” His ocean blue eyes drag over Hermione. He licks his grey lips, and an uneasy feeling settles in her stomach. Like she’s met him before in unpleasant circumstances.
Hermione nods curtly, walking a bit quicker than before. She feels a presence approach, and she doesn’t need to look over to know that Draco is now in step beside her. She shakes her head. “Pam said we don’t need to be side by side the entire time, just in close proximity to one another.”
“I actually do have ears, but thank you so much for that reiteration.”
“I’m just saying we don’t need to stay together.”
A click of his tongue. “Indeed, we don’t.”
“Unless you want to?” Hermione asks abruptly, finally looking at him. “Stay together, I mean?”
Draco blinks down at her, and her eyes follow the fair lashes as they brush his cheekbones. “Do you want to?”
He’s looking at her so intensely that it feels like a physical impact on her. She swallows, tearing her eyes away and focusing on the streets ahead. “Have you been to Rome before?”
“You’re avoiding my question.”
“And you’re avoiding mine.”
She feels his gaze on her. “No,” Draco answers finally, softly. “I haven’t been to Rome before.”
Hermione releases a breath she didn’t know she was holding. Admittedly, she’s relieved that they have an excuse to spend time together, and she questions her sanity for it. “Then we should stay together,” Hermione suggests, keeping her tone casual. “I remember some of the places I went to last time. It’s faint, but I can manage.”
“Ah, I was considering seeking a tour guide, anyways,” Draco remarks, bumping her shoulder lightly with his.
She scoffs, shoving him away firmly, though a smile tugs at her lips. “You’re insufferable.”
“Always.”
Now out of the port, they step into the main streets of Rome. Hermione feels like she’s a kid again, and the world is bright and colorful once more. Her fingers close around open air, grasping at the imaginary fingers of her mother.
The architecture is the most incredible that Hermione has seen: creamy pillars and arches and stained glass and statues, all weathered and dusted, rich with memory and history. Her tan sandals click softly on the cobblestones. The sun emits a radiant glow, a brilliant illuminator. The city is bustling with activity, with people shouting prices over one another and children running around with permanent grins.
Draco had slipped away at some point and he returns now, sketching a mock bow and holding a thick brochure out to Hermione, eyebrows raised. “For you, tour guide.”
She swats his hand away like a fly, a challenging mist in her eyes. “I don’t need that rookie tourist map. I can do perfectly well on my own, thank you.”
He sighs, sticking the paper in his back pocket. He begins walking backwards, an invitation for her to follow him. “Where to?” He asks, cocking his head.
“There’s a bookshop I love, Flourish and Blotts,” Hermione says, walking right past him. She hears a scoff, then hesitant footsteps to catch up to her. She makes a sharp left, down an alley between two bars. “It should be over here…”
Five minutes pass, then ten, then fifteen, and Hermione’s lip makes its way between her teeth. She was sure that the bookstore was this way. But the more time passes, the more she feels utterly embarrassed. If she could just find the damn bookstore…
She dares to look sideways at Draco, and he’s holding the brochure out between them, not looking at her. She snatches it from his hand, groaning as she opens up the map.
They spend another few minutes walking in silence, though she now is following the trail that the map so helpfully draws out. They round a corner and step onto the correct street. His mouth is set in a slight curve, though he says nothing. She wants to smack that look off his stupid, stupid face. “Don’t you dare gloat, Malfoy,” She warns, crossing her arms over her chest and pressing her back against the nearest pillar. “We’re supposed to try to be friends.”
“Is that so?” He’s standing so close to her. He reaches up, his grey irises following the movement of his hand. Silver rings glint on his lean fingers as they wrap around one of her curls, tugging gently. “I gloat over my friends all the time.”
Does he know what personal space is? Hermione stares and stares at his pale hand, and her cheeks feel blazed with fire. “What friends?” She is barely able to get the words out.
Draco continues to pull at the ringlets, surprisingly soft. “Pansy, Theo, Blaise. You.”
She shuts her eyes, blocking him out. Blocking her thoughts out. “I barely count,” she murmurs.
His fingers tighten like a vice, wrapping the singular curl around his finger. His voice comes out in a soft whisper. “You count nonetheless.”
Hermione inhales, opening her eyes in hesitation. But Draco is across the way, striding towards the familiar structure, the thin black door wedged between two restaurants.
The sight of it threatens to drown her in her memories once again. She hurries over, eyes darting over the faded wood sign that reads ‘Flourish and Blotts Bookstore’. “We’re here!” She exclaims, jumping up and down.
“And you found it with no help from the rookie tourist map whatsoever.”
She glares, but her annoyance fades when the door opens and the bell jingles. The smell of strawberry and cinnamon wafts outside, a weirdly perfect combination. Then she’s up the steps and inside, spinning in slow circles to take in everything around her. The aisles are narrow and dimly lit, the only light being the hundreds of candles in their wrought iron holders along the walls. The staircases spiral upward into the darkness, stretching up to the five levels. “It’s just how I remember,” she breathes.
Hermione runs her fingers along the spines, a thin layer of dust coating her fingers.
“You like to read?” Draco’s voice is quiet, right in her ear.
She nods, her arm brushing against his. “Very much. Do you?”
“Yes,” he replies softly. “Very much.”
Hermione would have never guessed that Draco is an avid reader. Then again, he continues to surprise her. She wanders, feeling that Draco is right behind. In the aisle with Classics and Contemporary she sinks down to the floor, crossing her ankles in front of her with her back against the shelves. Draco mirrors her motions, sitting down and facing her. He’s watching her intently, and she wonders if other people can feel how forceful his gaze is. “So,” she says as a start, setting her hands in her lap. “What’s your favorite book? Or favorites, if you have more than one?”
He whistles a low note, crossing his arms over his chest. “We’re diving right into the deep questions, I see.”
“And how exactly is asking what your favorite book is a deep question?”
Draco blinks once, twice. Studying her. Whatever he finds in her expression, it causes him to take a deep breath. “Literature and humanity connect on countless levels,” he explains, twirling the silver band around his finger. “Asking what someone’s favorite book is… it’s asking them what they love.” He looks up at Hermione, blinking again, flashes of silver. “It’s an unobstructed view of their morals and the most important things in their life.”
He looks down, jaw clenching, and Hermione thinks he might be the most beautiful creature she’s ever seen.
All she can think to say is: “Sometimes I forget how serious and brooding you can be.”
He laughs. It’s short, over in a second, and she misses it when it’s gone.“I think that’s a question for another time,” he resolves, dropping his head back against the books.
“Alright,” Hermione relents. “Let me try to ask something simpler. What’s your favorite color?”
Draco's eyes close. “Still too deep.”
“How?”
“Next question.”
She sighs. “Favorite song?”
There’s a pause. “‘Your Song’ by Elton John is one of my favorites, though it doesn’t hold the top spot.”
“What’s the top song?” Hermione prods, just wanting to get something, anything, out of him. Surely his favorite song isn’t a problem.
“No.” Draco's eyes remained closed.
The simplest questions, yet he can’t give her answers. Her fingers curl into fists and she frowns. “Is it your life’s mission to frustrate me?”
He opens his eyes, gleaming quicksilver. “Took you long enough to figure it out.”
Hermione huffs, burying her face in her hands. She’s trying so hard to be his friend, to make this mission easier on the both of them, but how can she do that when she knows virtually nothing about him? She knows only what she can see, and she doesn’t know—as much as she’s reluctant to admit—if his physical beauty reflects his character. Hermione’s answer a month ago would have been a firm no, but so much has happened that she’s not sure of anything at this point.
A cool touch as Draco softly pushes her hands down and away from her face, his brow slightly furrowed. “Are you truly mad that I won’t answer your questions?”
Yes, she thinks. You infuriate me. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
His brows draw together further, a crease forming in his forehead as he studies her face. “Don’t be mad,” he says to her, almost a plea but not quite.
Three words from his mouth is all it takes for Hermione’s anger to simmer to a low boil. “Mad isn’t the right word. Maybe exasperated? Annoyed?” She pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her chin. “I’m really trying to make this friend thing work, but I don’t know anything about you.”
Something flickers in his eyes. His mouth opens, then closes, then opens, the words unsure on his tongue. “I… I just can’t answer those questions.”
The disappointment that fills her is startling. “Okay,” she says flatly. She breaks eye contact, fingers fumbling to grab the nearest book on the shelf behind her. She opens to a random page and starts to read aimlessly, the words not registering in her brain.
“Green grapes are my favorite fruit, maybe even my favorite food,” Draco says suddenly. Hermione looks up at him, at his half smile and the curl that has fallen across his forehead. “I’ve been smoking since I was 10 because my father said I had to be intimidating to anyone and everyone, and smoking as a child was decidedly the way to do so. I don’t wear socks in bed because it’s uncomfortable. I drink black coffee every morning because I have insomnia and I can barely sleep. And I love nail polish and I think it's a brilliant form of self expression and it shouldn’t be mainly for females.” He exhales, shoulders sinking visibly. “How’s that for getting to know things about me?”
She wishes she could capture this, this moment when she first learned the tiniest piece of who Draco Malfoy is. His eyes seem to glow.
She shifts her eyes to his hands that rest on either side of him. “You don’t have any on.”
“What?”
“Nail polish,” Hermione clarifies, gesturing to his hands. “You don't have any on.”
Draco shrugs. “I ran out,” he says simply.
She stands up. Walks out of the bookstore, though not before looking back at it one last time. Draco grumbles behind her, muttering something about following Gryffindors around.
And that is how Hermione Granger finds herself in a Roman beauty shop buying nail polish for Draco Malfoy.