FicWad

What Happens in Italy…

Not there but here,
(He whispers) only here,
As we are, here, together, now and here,
Always you and I.

Counting the beats,
Counting the slow heart beats,
The bleeding to death of time in slow heart beats,
Wakeful they lie.

-- From ‘Counting the Beats’ by Robert Graves.

Part One

She landed on the hard wooden floor with a thud. This, Ginny Weasley mused, was exactly why she hated to travel by Portkey. A hand pulled her to her feet, and she found herself face to face with a tall, dark and handsome man. Just her luck, really.

‘Buon giorno,’ he said, a smirk playing across his handsome features. Ginny suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. Okay, she had landed on her arse at the age of twenty-four, but he must have seen that sort of thing all the time. Right?

‘Ciao,’ Ginny said, shaking his hand. ‘Parli inglese?’

‘Yes.’ The smirk seemed to disappear to be replaced with a warm smile. Her dad had been right, it was a good idea to attempt the language as much as possible.

‘Well, I’m Ginny’ – or would she be down as Ginevra? – ‘erm, Weasley. I’m with the Daily Prophet. There’s supposed to be someone here to meet me and take me to the hotel.’

He consulted a clipboard and marked it off with a quill. ‘Ah, yes, Miss Weasley. That person will be me; my name is Gianni. On behalf of the International Association of Quidditch, benvenuti alla coppa del mondo. Now, if you’ll hand me your luggage, I will take you to the hotel.’

She followed him out of the door and was met with dazzling sunlight and much more humidity than she had anticipated.

‘It is not this warm in England, I suppose?’ Gianni asked, as he led her down the side street that the International Association of Quidditch offices were on.

‘No,’ Ginny confirmed, shielding her eyes from the sun. ‘It’s even rainy at this time of year.’

‘In July it is very sunny, very dry. Perfect weather for the events!’

They were walking briskly along a main road now, with the Muggles driving their cars more manically than Ginny had ever seen. If he saw this, even her dad would have to admit that motorcars were not very good ideas. Especially … whatever those one-man vehicles were.

Then, they turned onto a magnificent square. It was a square in the sense that it seemed to be a central point of activity, but rather than actually being in an orderly square-shape, the buildings stood in a sweeping semi-circle. There were cafés along one side and grand buildings that were curved to match the edges. There was a huge fountain in the centre, with statues of nymphs in amongst it. This was the first moment in which she was able to completely grasp the situation: she was in Italy. The weather was warm, the architecture was grand and this was Rome. How Hermione would love to be stood in her place at this moment. Her occupation as a sports journalist may have been many things, but dull it was not.

‘This is Piazza della Repubblica,’ said Gianni. ‘And that,’ – he pointed at one of the grander buildings on the square – ‘is La Vecchia Strega, your hotel.’

She followed him towards it, breathlessly. The place was so grand, all white stone, pillars and marble. It was obvious too, that the Muggles could see it. Once inside the vast, largely colourful marble foyer, Gianni handed her a Press pass along with an itinerary of Quidditch matches and IAQ hosted events. She was in quite a daze. The only place she had been to that was nearly as magnificent as this was Hogwarts, and after seven years, it had rather lost its impact.

She checked in, then took the lift up to her room, which did not overlook the Piazza, but had a lovely view all the same. After unpacking, she had a cup of tea and a cigarette and waited. Sure enough, there was soon a knock on the door. Opening it, she found her close friend and fashion correspondent Daphne Greengrass, and Ginny’s Head of Department, Gwenog Jones.

‘You’re so English,’ said Gwen in her Welsh lilt, before Ginny could say ‘hello’.

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’re in Italy, and you sit around drinking tea and smoking?’

‘Smoking’s sort of Italian,’ Ginny said before putting out the half-smoked cigarette in the nearest ashtray. She grabbed her handbag. ‘So where to?’

‘I think we all need a good cappuccino,’ said Daphne. ‘We have a long night ahead of us.’

They did not go far, but instead chose to sit outside a coffee shop across the Piazza. They basked in the sun, drinking coffee and watching the world go by; Ginny summed it all up when she remarked, ‘This doesn’t feel like work!’ Though, it was of course at this point that Gwen decided to pull her version of the itinerary out of her bag. It was covered in her own notes.

‘I suppose this is where you tell me I have three hundred matches to cover, many of them occurring at the same time?’

‘Basically? Yes.’

Daphne ordered another cappuccino and sat back in her chair, soaking up the sun. Ginny rolled her eyes.

‘At least I get to stay for the entire tournament, Daph,’ she said. Daphne shrugged.

‘But I’m going to be enjoying what I’m doing.’

‘I like Quidditch,’ Ginny said, resisting the urge to add, ‘At least I used to like it.’

As she copied the appropriate parts on to her own itinerary, it became clear that Ginny was going to need an early night – no such luck of course, for it was the IAQ’s welcome ball that evening, which Ginny was told would be the perfect opportunity to interview players. She had long resigned herself to the fact that she would have to go everywhere armed with a Quill.

‘Anyway,’ said Gwen, ‘I’ve got an interview with Hassan Mostafa in half an hour, I’d best go and get ready. If you see John, tell him I want to give him his itinerary won’t you?’

‘Sure,’ said Ginny, secretly wondering how long she could leave it before she would absolutely have to pass on this information to poor John. Daphne left soon after, offering to take Ginny along on her trip to what seemed to be the Italian equivalent of Diagon Alley. She knew Daphne would prefer to do this alone and sent her on her way. Besides, it would be better for Ginny to soak up the sun in peace whilst she could. Maybe she would read, she thought. Yes, that seemed like a very civilised sort of thing to do. But she hadn’t brought along any books. Perhaps a letter home, then; everyone would want to be sure that she had arrived safely. Except, there wasn’t really anything to say, was there?

‘Dear Mum, Got here, landed on my arse. Had a fag, a coffee and a chat. Going to a ball later, but will be working, not dancing nor looking for suitable men to marry. Hope to drink lots of alcohol though. Hope you’re all well, love Ginny.’ She’d love that.

Instead, Ginny ordered another coffee, some kind of dessert (she didn’t know enough Italian for specifics) and sat back to watch the world go by. These were to be – as far as she could tell – the last moments of calm before one hell of a storm, after all.

Her coffee arrived. She let it cool to a somewhat drinkable temperature whilst she ate her dessert. When she was finished she lit another cigarette, inhaled, savouring the taste, then exhaled. It was at this point that she heard an oddly familiar voice conversing with the waiter.

‘I did pay. I left it inside! On the table!’ He sighed. ‘Inside? Dentro?’

Ginny turned to look and, to her surprise, she was faced with Draco Malfoy, a man who – miraculously – she had not seen in eight years. She had heard about him, of course; their community was small enough that everyone talked about everybody else. He had been in the offices of the Daily Prophet whilst she had been working there, even, though she hadn’t seen him (Daphne had told her about it later). She wondered what on earth he was doing in Rome. It couldn’t have been the Quidditch World Cup; that was no concern of the Malfoys, surely.

‘Yes! That’s it – so what’s the problem?’

She turned and inhaled as she surveyed him in his struggle with the owner of the café. As far as she could tell, he had paid, but the café owner’s problem was that it was in British pounds, not in Euros (at least he hadn’t thrown some galleons on the table, she supposed). They were arguing and gesturing wildly. Most of the people around them didn’t seem to particularly notice. Ginny laughed. As if on instinct, Malfoy spun towards her at the sound. Their eyes locked for a moment, and then his narrowed.

‘Weasley,’ he said, with a tone of something that sounded suspiciously like a plan. ‘Speak Italian?’

‘A little,’ she said, before taking a swig of coffee, attempting to appear nonchalant. ‘And yourself?’

‘What do you think? Get over here, would you?’

She got up, crossed the few tables between the two men and herself and folded her arms. She looked at Malfoy expectantly. The café owner proceeded to continue his rant.

‘What do you want me to do about this exactly? – Oh, don’t tell me, you spent all of your fortune down Knockturn Alley and now you need me to pay your bill?’ She took another drag of her cigarette.

‘Just explain to the man what’s going on.’

‘I don’t think he needs explaining to. You gave him British money.’

‘Merlin’s arse,’ he said matter of factly. ‘In that case …’

‘See, I knew you’d need me to pay it for you.’ She went back to the table, grabbed a couple of Euros out of her bag, and handed them to the café owner with a ‘Mi scusi per il mio amico,’ before returning to her seat.

‘Thanks, Weasley; I owe you one,’ said Malfoy, looking slightly uncomfortable.

‘Too right you do. I can’t believe you’ve yet to grasp Muggle money. I mean really.’ She kicked out the chair opposite her. ‘Sit down.’ He did so. She pushed out the pack of cigarettes. ‘Want one?’ He shook his head. ‘Sure?’

‘Okay, just one.’

He took the cigarette and seemed to discreetly light it with his wand. They sat in silence for a few moments, as Ginny finished off her coffee.

‘How are you affording this anyway?’ Malfoy asked.

‘What, coffee?’

‘No, Rome. You’re poor.’

Ginny laughed. Some things never changed. She knew that she didn’t have to tell Malfoy that her family was no longer ‘poor’, for it was not as though the media didn’t cover Ministry goings on. Though even an average income would seem poor to Malfoy, who, even with a somewhat tarnished family reputation, was allegedly richer than ever.

‘I’m covering the World Cup for the Prophet. It’s expenses paid. What about you?’

‘I’m here for the Quidditch too, actually.’

‘A fan are you?’

‘I did play Seeker for Slytherin at Hogwarts, you know.’

‘How could I forget?’ He certainly hadn’t let any of the Gryffindor team forget it ahead of matches. ‘Wasn’t that mainly to piss off Harry though?’

‘It was my love for all forms of noble competition.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

‘How is the great and splendid Scar Head, by the way?’ He was attempting to get to her. He must have known that she and Harry had not been an item for more than two years now. Sadly for Malfoy, that wound had already healed.

‘I don’t know,’ she said with a shrug. ‘I haven’t seen him in a while. I only know what the papers tell me.’

‘It’s so sad when the hero doesn’t get his happily ever after.’

‘Harry’s a hero now? You’ve changed your tune.’

‘You’re not making this easy you know, Weasley.’

‘Well, it has been eight years; I’ve had an array of arseholes to practice on in anticipation of this moment.’

They fell silent again. Eight years. Ginny had barely realised how long that figure really was until that moment. Had it been eight years since she lay awake, curiously wondering if he’d seen her sneaking around, since he let her know that Luna was okay? It seemed all at once like it had been yesterday and a million years ago.

‘So you work for the Prophet now? That’s pretty good.’ He paused, then added, ‘For a Weasley, I mean.’

‘To be perfectly honest, I’m surprised I’m in Rome myself. It’s only really because one of the main reporters is on paternity leave and Gwen Jones sees me a bit like her protégé.’

Malfoy shrugged. ‘Sometimes it’s a case of it not being what you know but who you know.’

‘Yes, you would know all about that.’

‘All I’m saying is, if someone influential like that sees you as their protégé, don’t apologise for it. Use it to your advantage. No one gets anywhere on raw talent.’

‘Something I guess you’re less familiar with.’

‘And how would you know?’

She rolled her eyes at him. ‘Well – what are you doing for a living lately, Malfoy?’ He did not reply. ‘Exactly.’

‘For all you know I’m spending my time using my extreme talent to write highly intellectual and subversive poetry.’

She laughed to disguise the fact that this comment had softened her somewhat; it was all actually very sad when she thought about it. ‘But you’re not.’

‘No, I’m not. But I could be. I do have some business type things I want to do whilst I’m over here.’ He shrugged. ‘It might not pan out.’

‘What kind of business?’

‘I’d rather not talk about it. You know, in case it doesn’t.’

‘Sure. I get it.’

‘I don’t care if you don’t.’

Ginny grinned. This man was insufferable. He looked basically the same as she remembered, but with eight years of improvement and wear. He wasn’t as painfully skinny as he had been during the war, but neither was he some kind of muscle man. His hair was shorter, but still very blond. His skin was pale – neither of them was going to do well in the heat of the Italian summer. His eyes were the same shade of grey that she remembered (sometimes a little too vividly) though they lacked the haunted look she had last seen and had instead regained a mischievous spark.

‘I’ve got to go and get sorted at the hotel.’ She got up, collecting her things together. ‘I’ll probably see you around.’

‘I daresay you will.’ He smiled and she turned to go.

‘It was, erm, nice seeing you Malfoy.’

‘You too, Little Red.’

‘Don’t call me that.’

He shrugged. ‘As you wish … Are you going or what?’

‘Yes. I am. Bye.’

She walked across the Piazza to the hotel, shaking her head as she went. What exactly had that been about?

*

Ginny checked her midnight blue dress robes in the mirror again, telling herself that she wasn’t nervous. She didn’t quite know why she was telling herself this, though, as somehow, it only served to make her even more nervous than she had been beforehand. It wasn’t that she was nervous about interviewing the players, or making small talk with advertisers as they all sipped their champagne and tried to avoid an embarrassing incident with their pasta; it was simply that she was suddenly very aware that this was her first time going to a ball since her split with Harry. She went out clubbing and pubbing and doing normal things quite frequently, but balls? No. This remained a very upper class affair. People would be looking at her not as a journalist, but as ‘that girl who used to sleep with the Boy Who Lived’. If she could go unnoticed in the ball then she would consider the night a success (even if Gwen fired her for not gathering any quotes, which wasn’t all that likely anyway).

She looked at the situation logically: of all the people there, the only ones she hadn’t encountered over the last couple of years were the likes of Malfoy and (she hated to think it) Daphne. Did she really care what the toffs thought? She never had. Besides, she had grown so much in the last two years that she barely recognised the girl who had been Harry Potter’s girlfriend, maybe no one else would either.

As it turned out, no one did recognise Ginny as Harry’s former flame, or if they did, she was not made aware of it, even in the atmosphere. It was a ball unlike any she had ever been to before – full of people from all over the world, mixing without regards for social class or blood status.

She sat with her sister-in-law, Angelina, and various members of the English Quidditch squad to eat dinner. The food was divine, but far surpassed by the anecdotes the team shared about their training process leading up to the tournament (‘Well, it tasted horrible, but I did see the Snitch loads faster!’) – she filed them all away for future reference, already knowing that she wouldn’t be able to write them down as well as they had been told to her, even if it was her job. Angelina then regaled them with tales of George’s exploits; Ginny was struck by how little she actually saw any of her brothers these days. The job had overcome her.

‘How is George?’ Ginny asked, in all seriousness, as laughter faded into chatter.

‘He’s fine,’ Angelina nodded, ‘but he asked me to keep an eye on you.’

‘I don’t think I need keeping an eye on,’ said Ginny, but she smiled.

‘I know – just tell him I did if he asks.’

Without notice, the band struck up a fairly fast paced tune. Ginny and Angelina sighed, knowing what was coming next. Everyone moved into the centre of the room, allowing for their tables to vanish. It was time to find a partner and dance. Over the next hour or so, Ginny found herself spinning around the room with the Italian Minister for International Cooperation, the Ugandan Keeper, Oliver Wood, and a reporter from the New York Prophet. She was certainly networking, as Gwen pointed out when Ginny stopped for a drink.

‘You can go anywhere, just by dancing with the right people.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said – Ginny spun around in surprise at having him interrupt – Draco Malfoy. ‘She doesn’t think it’s a good idea to use connections to her advantage. Such a Weasley.’

‘Ah, Mr Malfoy, so lovely to see you again so soon – and you’re already giving out opinions on my career … What do you do for a living again?’

He turned his head away from her, apparently looking towards the band, which promptly began a waltz. ‘Tonight – I’m a dancer.’

Ginny looked at Gwen. ‘Did you just hear that?’ Gwen nodded with a smirk and nudged Ginny closer to Malfoy. She sighed. ‘I suppose you’re going to show me how the professionals do it, then, are you?’

‘Call it a thank you for earlier,’ he said, offering her his hand. She took it, her heart racing too loudly. She could have sworn that she was creating a drumbeat for the waltz on her own as they moved to the centre of the ballroom.

‘You still owe me, Malfoy,’ she said as Malfoy placed one hand on her waist.

‘Just let me know how to repay you, and I will.’ He took her remaining hand in his and they began to dance. ‘You’re pretty good at this.’

‘My repertoire is limited, but I’m good at what I can do.’

He smirked. ‘I bet.’

She chose to ignore the implications. ‘So, meeting you twice in one day. Coincidence.’

‘I suppose when we’re both staying in this hotel, and both invited to this particular ball, the chances of us meeting did rather go up.’

‘And the chances of us dancing?’

He spun her around with the swell of the music. ‘Well, they went up when I saw you standing alone wearing that dress.’

‘I was standing with Gwen.’

‘Semantics.’

‘Are you flirting with me, Malfoy?’

He rolled his eyes. She was suddenly very aware of how close they were, of the feeling of both of his hands on her, and that she hadn’t been concentrating on her steps at all for some time. Their eyes locked and he squeezed her hand very gently.

‘You’re not too quick to catch on are you?’

‘I just – Weasleys and Malfoys don’t flirt, remember?’ He spun her around again; the impact of their reconnection sent a jolt through her. The impact of this all too familiar feeling was troublesome, to say the least. The fact that the cause of it was Draco Malfoy – that it was Draco Malfoy again – was even worse. Yet here she was, feeling like her insides were Apparating from one dance step to the next. ‘Why are you …’ She didn’t know quite how to end the question.

‘How about we just dance?’

‘It’s only okay to chat on your terms?’

‘We’re not chatting.’ She would have rolled her eyes, but his voice was more intense and had more of an effect on her than she had anticipated. ‘Let’s dance.’

‘We are dancing.’

And then the music stopped, and they weren’t. Ginny snatched her hands away under the guise of wanting to join in with the applause of the crowd. She took a sidelong glance at Malfoy, who glanced back at her, then, as the next song began he turned on his heel, leaving her alone amongst the other dancers.

Ginny swiftly moved to the bar, grabbing herself something strong, knocking it back, and then getting a not-so-strong drink. She surveyed the room for a moment, finding she could not identify anyone that she knew. She headed out onto the balcony, for some fresh air and what she hoped would be clear thoughts. The city sparkled at her. It was unlike London in almost every way – not better, just so completely different that it was almost another world. The sound of the traffic was muted here (by magic, she presumed) so it was easy to take in the landmarks that were lit up in the distance. Ginny sighed – it was all so much grander than she was. She wished she had her handbag with her; she could feel it was time for a cigarette. She was about to go and hunt it down, when she heard a familiar voice just inside the door.

‘Who’s that girl you were dancing with, Zabini?’

‘She’s on the French team I think. Got a French accent anyway.’

‘Nice. Pureblood?’ Ginny sighed. Whether it was Malfoy being prejudiced or her heart racing as he took her hand to dance, some things never changed.

‘She’s a Mudblood,’ said Zabini, who Ginny unfortunately remembered from school.

‘You going to fuck her and have done with it, I take it?’

‘That’s the plan.’

‘Always the best way, I find.’ The two men shared a laugh. It was at this point that Ginny decided to leave, for the conversation was making her feel almost ill.

She left the balcony in search of her bag. She could feel Malfoy’s eyes on her back and had trouble resisting the urge to ask him his policy on blood traitors. On her way, she bumped into Gwen, who informed her it was past midnight and they should all be leaving if they wanted to get the pre-match coverage in the morning. Ginny decided to ignore the fact that Gwen headed straight for the bar after having said this; instead she located her things and headed for the lift.

Only half a day in, Italy had been much more than she’d expected. Much of it had not even been on Gwen’s trusty itineraries. She would need her sleep if she was to take a whole month of it.

*

There were three matches on the opening day of the world cup. Gwen would cover Italy vs. Peru, John would cover France vs. Spain, and Ginny would have the pleasure of watching Luxembourg vs. Norway. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was the least anticipated of the three matches, mainly because Luxembourg was in such good form whilst Norway had never been anything to write home about. Unfortunately, she would have to write home about it as it was her job. She hoped that it would last long enough to provide her with material to write an article. Whilst she appreciated being at the tournament at all, Luxembourg predictably trouncing Norway was not back page material.

As it turned out, Norway managed to hang on for seventy-three minutes before the Luxembourgish Seeker caught the Snitch. Ginny managed to get an interview with the Seeker after the match and later used it to pad out her article (which she wrote on the hotel’s roof terrace, only partly under the influence of alcohol).

It carried on much this way over the next ten days: Ginny writing articles that no one would bother to read past the headline and score, not getting time to think, let alone really see Italy beyond its Quidditch stadiums. The only people she saw were Gwen and the various reporters from around the world in the press boxes at matches. Her mother had started sending frantic letters, having not heard from her at all, but Ginny only managed to find the time to scribble her a note telling her to check the sports section of the Prophet because that clearly showed she was alive and run off her feet.

This changed, though, when she was asked to cover the match between Wales and Uganda. It was the final match for their group and one that would determine which team would advance to the knockout stages. Wales were the clear underdogs in the match-up, but in Ginny’s professional opinion, they might make it with a quick catch. Gwen was desperately nervous about the whole thing; at the last second she declared that Ginny should cover the match because she couldn’t bear to watch. Some of the players had been on the team when she herself had been captain; it was too close for comfort. Ginny was thrilled. She would get her name, and her writing, on the back page for sure now – unless it was an embarrassing defeat for Wales and Gwen decided to bury it.

She made herself comfortable in the press box of the medium sized stadium which was just outside Naples, nestled in the hills around Vesuvius. She had her Quick Quote Quill set to ‘Record: No Bullshit’ (or at least that’s what she called it), and she had a box of Every Flavour Beans at her side. She watched the crowds filing in, even spotting a few people she knew. The last of those being Malfoy, who came into the press box ten minutes before the game was due to start.

‘Hello, Weasley,’ he said, coming up behind where she was sitting. The reporters around her were giving him sidelong glances: it was not only in Britain that the Malfoy family had a certain reputation.

‘And what are you doing here?’ Ginny asked, spinning her chair around to face him. He was holding a bottle of wine, which he held out to her.

‘I wanted to officially be out of your debt. I thought perhaps this would do that.’

‘You know I’m working, right?’

‘Well you don’t have to drink it now, do you?’ He put it down on the desk, next to the Every Flavour Beans. ‘Save it and drink it when you’ve got something to celebrate. Oh – and let me know what you think.’

‘Thanks, Malfoy.’ She smiled: considering the fact that they hadn’t seen one another since the start of the tournament, he could well have just avoided her and never paid her back. She wondered what had caused him to come over all noble on her.

‘Now we’re even.’

‘Yes. Don’t worry. You are no longer under the burden of being in debt to a Weasley.’

‘Excellent. Normality is restored.’ He winked, and she looked at him sceptically. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t wink?’

‘No, you shouldn’t.’

‘So enjoy the match.’

‘I will do my very best, considering.’

‘Come on – stop feeling sorry for yourself.’ He headed for the door. ‘Don’t forget to let me know what you think of the wine, okay?’

She nodded, wondering why her opinion on his wine choices mattered to him so much. He nodded at her, and swiftly ducked out of the room. She wondered if maybe he was here with Zabini; perhaps they had come looking for young Muggle-borns to bed. She shook off the thought for it wasn’t important now. It shouldn’t have been important to her anyway. She could see some people still glancing at her and resolved to ignore them. The match was a far more exciting prospect, she thought; she would do her best to enjoy it despite the chronic note taking.

‘Exciting’ did not come close to describing the match, in the end. As it happened, much of the time it was anything but. Both teams were putting up a fight, displaying resilience that Ginny had not known existed until that day. Eighteen hours later, she was still in her seat, trying her best to describe the match and keep track of the points. It was probably the long and tense nature of the match that led her to eat all of her Every Flavour Beans, smoke twenty cigarettes and drink the entire bottle of wine that Malfoy had given to her.

After Myfanwy Lloyd had caught the Snitch, securing a place in the knockout stages for Wales, Gwen discovered Ginny slumped on the desk, muttering at the Quick Quotes Quill.

‘Ginny. Ginny, time to get up.’

She snapped upright in her seat. ‘I’m working – I am – Wales won.’

‘I know, and now it’s time for you to go home.’

‘But I need to write the article,’ said Ginny; there was no way she was going to let all of her effort lead to nothing.

‘You can write the article back at the hotel. After some sleep.’

‘No, I can do it now: it’ll make the Evening Prophet.’

Gwen seemed to consider this. Ginny knew that they needed to get the story out before it became a day old and she was willing to start hallucinating to do that. Gwen nodded.

‘Okay – do it. But just a first draft. I’ll edit it for you before sending it back to London. I don’t want you to burn out completely.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t. As long as unlimited amounts of coffee are covered in my expenses.’

‘They are.’

‘Then let’s do it.’ She stood up, immediately having to steady herself by grabbing on to Gwen’s shoulder.

‘You’re in no fit state to Apparate. We’d better get you a Portkey.’

Ginny let out a series of noises in protest, but knew it was pointless. The sooner she was back at the hotel, the better.

When she arrived, she immediately set up on the roof, ordering a pot of coffee and spreading her notes out on the table in front of her. She told herself she couldn’t possibly be all that tired, because she’d had the good sense to do a Charm in order to prevent the papers flying away in the wind. It was ten in the morning, so there wasn’t many people up on the roof with her; she assumed all those who had been to the match had gone to bed, tired from one of the longer matches seen in a while. In three hours and just as many pots of coffee, Ginny was finished. She took her first draft (which was technically a second draft) to Gwen, returned to her room, took off her clothes and fell into bed. She slept for sixteen hours without stirring.

*

The following morning, Ginny met Daphne, Gwen and John for breakfast. She helped herself to large portions, having not eaten properly in what felt like forever. The three Quidditch reporters were relaxed and relieved: they had another two days before the knockout stage of the competition was due to start. Daphne, meanwhile, was sulking. She had to return to London later that day and had not found the time to go to all of the shops that she had wanted to. Ginny suggested she come back for the final.

‘As if I’m getting time off for that,’ said Daphne, folding her arms and swishing her blonde hair. ‘As if I’d want time off for that!’

Ginny laughed. ‘Fine then. I’ll enjoy the closing ball without you.’

‘Without my shoes you mean.’

‘That too.’

As Ginny sipped her coffee she noticed Malfoy approaching their table. He greeted Daphne with a kiss on each cheek and waved a hand at Ginny. He knelt down next to Daphne’s chair. The two spoke in low voices. Ginny drummed a hand on the table and exchanged a glance with Gwen. After a few minutes Malfoy stood up and made to leave, before turning back as if he had just remembered something.

‘Did you like the wine?’

‘Yeah, it was … well, I drank the whole bottle so it must have been pretty good.’

‘Okay. Well, places to be, so …’ He seemed to drift out of the room, apparently lost in his thoughts about the places that he had to be.

‘What was that about?’ said Gwen, looking pointedly at Daphne.

‘He wants me to have lunch with his mum at the weekend, she’s lonely.’ Daphne shrugged.

‘Oh my god, Daph, that’s such a blatant lie,’ Ginny said. Daphne shrugged. ‘You’ve been whining about having to have lunch with Narcissa Malfoy for at least a fortnight.’

‘That was a different time.’

‘No, it wasn’t,’ said Ginny. ‘Come on, ‘fess up!’

She looked at Ginny and bit her lip. ‘He asked me to do a favour – bury some news.’

Gwen leaned forward, more interested than ever. ‘Well if he wants you to do that, then it must be worth printing.’

‘Erm, no, it’s not much of anything, really. May as well not print it and print something more worthwhile.’

‘Would you get to the point?’ asked John from behind his newspaper, which he was apparently only half reading.

‘He was contacted by one of the girls on the gossip column – they wanted him to comment on something that someone had sent to them, you know, a “spotted” type thing.’

‘What was he doing?’ Ginny asked, delicious scandals flying through her mind.

‘Giving you a bottle of wine.’

Ginny raised her eyebrows and nodded. ‘Yeah, that was at the match. How is it news, though? Why does he need to comment on that?’

‘I guess … your various connections and past relationships …’ she trailed off, looking as though she was bracing for impact.

‘Are you kidding me?’ Ginny asked. ‘I’m over all that – why isn’t anyone else? Are Harry and I both going to have to marry other people before the speculation and gossip goes away? It has been two years, guys.’

‘I know, Gin, but people like to read that stuff.’

‘He gave me the wine to pay me back for paying his bill at a café the other day when he had no Euros. That’s it. But you know what? Fuck them. Let them print it. Let them think what they want.’ She got up, grabbed a croissant, and threw her handbag onto her shoulder. ‘I’m going out to see some culture, or whatever. Seriously Daph, don’t go to any trouble for my sake. Because I don’t care.’

She stormed off without waiting for a response, painfully aware that her reaction had made it clear that she did care.

*

She had found great difficulty in trying to use the buses in Rome, not only because she was not used to travelling that way, but also because she was not used to being so crammed in that she missed her stop more than once. Eventually she gave up and got off at a random stop. Of course, it turned out that this would be the precise moment that a large number of Muggle tourists would choose to disembark, leaving the bus fairly empty. Ginny sighed, took out her bottle of water, wondering what was nearby that could cause so many people to make a dash for it.

She turned around, and all became clear. There before her was the most beautiful thing Ginny had ever seen. The remains of the Colosseum, one of the things she had most wanted to see when in Rome, and she seemed to have just stumbled onto it. She stood for a moment, admiring the way the round structure stood imposingly in the middle of this modern city, as a reminder of everything that once had been and the things the city’s people had to live up to. The pieces of its side that were missing struck a chord of sadness, for she knew that it had not been time but people who had caused it, who had plundered the grand archways for their spectacular statues. She closed her eyes for a moment, and in her head the people flocking around it were not wearing shorts and t-shirts; she herself wore not a shred of denim, but rather a white stola and palla. The sun beat down on a hot July day as she headed to the marble-covered Colosseum for the day’s events, her wand held proudly in her hand, visible for all to see, wizard and Muggle alike. And then she opened her eyes to find that her cropped jeans felt hot on her skin, that her wand was safely in her bag, and this giant of a structure was only half as magnificent as it once had been.

Ginny sighed and headed over to the entrance, pulling her Wizard’s Guide to Rome from her bag as she went. When she had paid and entered, she overtook a crowd of excited tourists and headed off into the ruin to see what she could see. Starting at the top, or as high as a person could get these days. The second tier allowed Ginny to see deep into the centre, where the Gladiators and their opponents had once roamed beneath the arena floor. A passing tour group had where the Emperor’s box would have been pointed out to them, making Ginny’s heart race with the sheer history of it all. She moved to the nearest archway letting the cool breeze blow her crimson hair back behind her. She could see the Forum Romanum from there, the centre of the city’s ancient culture, now reduced to random pillars and rubble. Something about it just pulled on her heart, a desire to go back to see it all for real, for what it had been at its best. But there was no magic that could do that without dire consequences, and so she was forced to settle for this moment, this wind, this point in time.

With these thoughts in mind, she sadly drew back and turned to head down to the next level, to experience all of the building. She looked down at her guide for some, well, guidance, and in doing so collided with a person apparently doing the same thing – judging by the smack of the two books falling onto the stone floor. She picked them up, discovered that both books were the Wizard’s Guide to Rome; as she met the person’s eyes she realised it wasn’t only his book that she recognised.

‘Malfoy, really, must you follow me everywhere?’ she asked without missing a beat, though she suspected her eyes betrayed her in how surprised she was.

‘Modest, aren’t you?’ he asked with an arched eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t do anything of the sort. I’m here for the culture.’ He moved to the archway where she had stood a moment previously and peered out. ‘It’s odd, isn’t it?’ he asked, turning to face her, leaning against the ancient stone.

‘What is?’ She moved to join him at the arch and, looking out, smiled at the children chasing one another on the grass below.

‘This whole thing.’ He gestured around them. ‘It feels odd – off – to be standing in it. Like we shouldn’t be here.’

‘What, you mean because we’re British? Or because we’re, you know …’ She made a subtle wand motion with her hand, and he shook his head.

‘It just doesn’t feel like it was meant for us.’

‘Really? I don’t feel that way at all.’ She rested a hand on the stone with a sigh. ‘I feel oddly connected to it.’

They began to walk together, moving slowly around the tier of the seating, and then down on to the one below. When they were on the lowest level they moved as close as they could to the centre of the arena, looking down on the tunnels and corridors. At the other end there were some men building a wooden floor, presumably to make the area into a stage.

‘I think I’ve figured it out,’ said Ginny, breaking the silence as she turned to look at Malfoy.

‘Figured what out, exactly?’ he asked apprehensively, squinting due to the brightness of the sun where they stood.

‘Why I feel so connected to this place, and you feel like you shouldn’t be here.’

He smirked. ‘Do tell, Weasley.’

‘Seriously – humour me here.’ She nudged him in the side, playfully. ‘This place, it’s a relic of a time where there was no real Us and Them. It was just people; some people could to magic, and some couldn’t. That’s it. And that’s something that speaks to me as a time we should hope to see again. To me, it’s hope, it’s beauty and it’s what all of us should be doing.’

‘Whereas to me …’

‘To you the ideal has always been wizards – pureblood wizards – on top, Muggles somewhere else, if at all. That’s what unsettles you about this place. The idea that to go back in time to its heyday might mean you weren’t automatically top of the tree. You hate the idea of working for anything, Malfoy.’

They stood, looking at one another, considering this for a moment. ‘If your theory is true – and I’m not saying it is or it isn’t – but if it’s true, then why am I even here?’

She shrugged. ‘Bored?’

‘Okay, off the record?’ She nodded. ‘I do think it’s something to strive for. And maybe what unsettles me is the fact that two thousand years later, we’re so much more behind than these people were.’ He looked out into the centre of the arena. ‘They may have enslaved one another and had brutality and all of that – but I can’t help but feel that they knew what they were doing better than we do.’ Turning back to her, he motioned a head back to the outer edge of the arena. ‘Come on, plenty more to see.’ Apparently that particular conversation was over.

Soon enough, they were outside the Colosseum itself, into the shade of its outer tier. Ginny walked along the outside a little way and sat down on the floor, her back against the cool stone. Malfoy followed her, sitting a couple of inches to her left. Further along there was a queue to get into the building that stretched out into the sun, and opposite them were Muggles dressed as Roman Centurions, shouting things in Italian Ginny could not understand. She got out her bottle of water, sipped from it, then offered it to Malfoy, who took it gratefully.

‘Do you ever think about that year?’ she asked, carefully studying the Muggles in costume rather than looking at him.

‘Of course I think about it. It was, well, so many things happened. I’m still having trouble processing it, to be honest.’

‘I don’t mean in general. I mean … do you ever think about me?’ She turned her head to look at him now, but he did not look back at her in turn, instead looking intently at the water bottle in his hands.

‘I do. Occasionally. It’s not – I haven’t been hung up on you for the last eight years if that’s what you mean.’

Ginny’s heart was racing. Why had she even begun this conversation? It was not one she thought she would ever have.

‘That’s not what I mean. I just wondered. I still think about you sometimes. How things turned out. How weird everything was – is.’

‘Well you made your choice, and I had to accept that, didn’t I? There’s no “what if” for me to think about because I didn’t have a say.’

‘It was one kiss, Malfoy, and Harry and I were so …’

‘It’s a little late for explanations, don’t you think?’ He turned his head to look at her now. She couldn’t seem to tear her eyes from his.

‘Yes. You’re right; it is.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose I just miss those days, in a way. The danger, excitement – finding out you were someone I could connect with rather than just the guy that bullied my boyfriend and my brother all those years.’

‘To be fair I did bully you a bit too.’

‘Oh yeah, to give you credit, you did.’ She grinned. He handed the water bottle back to her and she slipped it in to her bag.

‘You’ve grown up, Weasley. Quite well, too.’

‘Thanks. So have you – I think. You’re rather inscrutable.’ She meant it, and the fact that he smiled in response to this statement made her stomach flip over yet again.

‘I do try,’ he said quietly. ‘For example, I can bet you’ve absolutely no idea what I’m thinking right now.’ The way his eyes lingered over her lips as he said it gave Ginny an uncomfortably likely idea of his thoughts; she was very aware of just how close together they were sitting.

‘I think I have some idea,’ she said.

‘You do?’

‘Yes, and I can prove it too.’

He looked sceptical. Ginny looked him hard in the eyes and decided that she was definitely right. There was only one thing to do: surrender. She leaned in towards him, pausing at the last possible second before their lips would touch to notice his eyes fluttering closed. And then they were kissing; their lips caressing each other slowly, reclaiming a memory almost lost. Malfoy shifted, and then he had a hand on her neck, and one on her waist. Ginny grabbed at his shirt and held on to it tightly; she did not want the moment to pass: the feeling of his tongue on hers was too good.

But the moment did pass, of course, and Ginny found herself looking at Malfoy and gasping, her hands still holding his chest. He looked as shocked as she felt. She pulled her hands back, clearing her throat. The easy banter they had enjoyed previous to this moment had completely evaporated, leaving Ginny with a racing heart, rosy cheeks and worst of all: awkward silence.

They stared at one another and then: ‘I’m sorry,’ said Malfoy, before she had chance to. ‘I don’t – that was – just…’

‘Yeah. Caught up in the moment.’

‘Needed to happen really.’

‘It’s good we got it out of the way.’

‘Exactly.’ He nodded, pensively. ‘I was going to take a look at the, erm, the Forum. You’re free to come along.’

‘Yeah, I mean, sure, I was going to, too, so…’

They got to their feet and brushed off their trousers before heading off in the direction of the Forum. It was easy to concentrate on the ruins, to read from the guidebook and marvel about how incredibly historical it all was. They spent the remaining hours of the afternoon discovering the treasures of the city as if nothing had happened. Almost.