Roman Holiday

Chapter Four

“Miss Granger.” Snape wasn’t quite sure how he’d come to find himself down the street from St. Peter’s, sipping cappucino across the table from his brainiest student, but there he was. Hermione herself looked rather pleased with the arrangement; since she wasn’t allowed to use magic over the holidays, and didn’t have room to hide a Band-Aid under that outfit, much less a wand, he could only assume his compliance had something to do with her miniskirt.

Which was as appalling as it was unexpected. Not that he made a habit of second-guessing his students’ summer pursuits … but if anyone had asked him where he imagined Hermione Granger to be spending her holidays, he would have laid money that it involved a lot of books and a severe case of writers’ cramp.

He knew how to deal with that Hermione, the conscientious student, Potter and Weasley’s self-appointed protector and tutor. He wasn’t quite sure what to say to the self-possessed, unruffled girl across from him. She didn’t look the least bit afraid of him.

Not the natural order of things. Not even remotely. He scowled at her.

She raised the delicate arch of one eyebrow. “Yes, Professor?”

The table was so small that their knees were bumping. He prayed for strength. “Do you mean to tell me that you’re completely alone in the city?”

She nodded cheerfully. “For a week now.”

“Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?” he demanded. She rolled her eyes, then shot him an amused look under her eyelashes.

“For whom?” She took a leisurely sip of her mocha latte and deliberately licked the foam off her lip, never breaking eye contact. Severus felt prickles of sweat break out on his forehead.

“For YOU, you silly little girl,” he snapped, annoyed with himself. “And don’t think that flirting with me is going to change anything. You need to go home to your parents.” He dragged a hand through his hair, leaning closer so that his next words wouldn’t be overheard. “Lord Voldemort is on the loose, and we’re all targets. You more than most. Being one of Potter’s best friends and all.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Professor Snape,” she said. “Do you honestly think I’m any safer from Lord Voldemort at home with my parents - my MUGGLE parents - than I am here?” She toyed with one of the chocolate-chip biscotti on the plate between them. “If I call my parents, I’ll get my cousin in trouble. Besides, I have to finish my research project on Palestrina. For Muggle Studies.”

“You’re missing the point.” He exhaled noisily. “You’re underage and without a guardian. The last place you should be is in a foreign city, roaming the streets. Especially if you’re going to dress like that.”

“Everyone dresses like this here,” she said. “It’s the most inconspicuous thing in the world.” She leaned back, and Severus tried not to look at the way her little breasts tilted up under the thin fabric of her dress. “Though I suppose I should be flattered that you noticed. You’ve done a bit of an update yourself.” The coquettish gleam was back in her eye. “I never pictured you in black leather, Professor.”

Who was this minx, and what had she done with disheveled, bookish Hermione?

He sighed, resigned. “Do you at least have a place to stay?”

She nodded. “Giulia gave me the keys to her flat.”

“Compromise, then,” he said. “We meet at noon, every day, in the balcony of San Pietro. Miss a day, and I’ll fire an owl off to Dumbledore so fast your head will spin. I daresay he’d want your parents to know, as much as I do.”

She raised her eyebrows. “That’s the deal? I just have to check in?”

He nodded, and she grinned at him. Perfect teeth with a generous dollop of mischief.

“Okay,” she said. “If you’ll come to dinner tomorrow night.”

He started. “In your flat? Miss Granger, I hardly think -“

“Oh, come on,” she said. “We’re on holiday, and you’re dressed like a mafioso. Call me Hermione.” She grinned again. “You can still be the Professor, if you want. It’ll be like Gilligan.”

She deftly palmed the remaining biscotti, tucked them into her bag, and blew him a kiss. “Tomorrow, at noon. I’ll give you the address then.”

Trouble, Snape thought. Pure, undiluted trouble, right there. Moodily, he watched her dance out the door, throw some laughing comment over her shoulder at an obviously appreciative taxi driver. A walking catastrophe, waiting to happen. He should post an owl to Dumbledore right now.

He frowned. Who the hell was Gilligan?

**

Draco got out of the taxi at the Piazza del Spagna, tipped the driver, and shouldered his bag out onto the sidewalk.

He was here. Finally. It’d taken some doing.

Convincing his father had been the hardest part.

Lucky for him that Granger was in Potter’s inner circle. Lucius Malfoy would do just about anything to be the one who turned Harry Potter over to Voldemort.

Even if it meant springing Draco loose on the unsuspecting city of Rome.

Finding her had been easier than expected, thanks to the very handy Muggle invention known as the telephone. One call to Information, another to the Granger household, where he’d poured the charm and the upper-class accent on thick. He smiled, remembering his conversation with Mrs. Granger. He just happened to be in Rome and had planned to meet up with Hermione … how tragic that he’d forgotten his address book at home. He knew it was an awful imposition, but was there any way ….?

Simple as that.

He rang the bell for her apartment. No answer. That was okay. He could wait.

He smirked. He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face.

**

Hermione couldn’t believe it.

Draco Malfoy was sitting on her steps.

Holy shit.

She was still across the street from her building. She’d just parked the moped, and it was mostly dark by now, dark enough so that it looked like he was having trouble reading.

Only one door in. This building was older than the fire code.

What to do?

Was Snape right, God forbid? Was there some sinister plot afoot to use her as bait, get Harry into danger? She looked around for other signs of evil wizards.

The street was empty, except for a couple sucking face on the steps of the building next to hers. And old Signora Malione, Giulia’s next-door neighbor, coming back from her evening stroll.

No Voldy. Okay, that was good.

Well, she could handle Draco by himself. And she had to go home sometime, right?

She grabbed her bag off the back of the moped and headed for the steps.

“Buona sera,” she said, and his head jerked out of the book. She leaned against the railing of the steps and cocked her head. “Been waiting long, Malfoy?”

He did a double take. “Hermione?”

She shot him a look of fake surprise. “Oh, were you waiting for someone else?”

He shook his head. He looked befuddled. “No. No, just you.” His eyes ran down to her toes, up to the top of her head, then settled briefly on the four inches of bare skin between the tops of the boots and the hem of her skirt before returning to her face. “Hermione?”

“You said that already.” She gave him the once-over, mentally slapped her forehead. Her bad luck that he was cute, that he looked tired. “Look, can I help you with something?”

He hadn’t lost that glazed look. “Um, no. I just came to see you, that’s all.”

“Well, do you have a place to stay?” She looked pointedly at her wristwatch.

He patted his bag absently. “I’ve got reservations. I forget where.”

“You’re alone?”

He nodded. “You look … amazing.”

Boys.

“Thanks, Malfoy,” she said, and relented. “Look, why don’t you come on in? You can call a cab from the flat.”

He followed her up the steps like a little lamb.

Thank God for short skirts, Hermione thought, and opened the door with a flourish. “Make yourself at home.”