The most real thing

The most real thing

AN: The idea for this story came from E. M. Forster's "a room with a view". I merely made changes and adaptations for the Harry Potter universe. Anything you recognise is not mine. All rights belong to Forster and JKR.

Chapter I: Rooms and views

Hermione opened the window on the first floor of Bertolini. It was a muggle pensione in Florence. It was well known to wizarding community. Witches and wizards like to stay there while they tour Florence. She wore a deep beige travel overall. A snowy white lace chemisette caressed her throat. A matching hat was pinned to the French pleat of her bushy brown hair. The hat had a snowy white ribbon printed in a fine deep beige pattern.

'This is not at all what we led to expect,' said Madam Irma Pince, Hermione's aunt.

'I thought we were going to see the Arno,' Hermione furrowed her brow a little. Two rows of brown terraces were under the window.

'The signora clearly wrote: "south rooms with a view, close together." But instead she's given us north rooms without view and a long way apart.' Madam Pince sighed, resigned surveying the room with little interest.

'I suppose we could always conjure up a view but it would defeat the object of this trip. We might've been at home,' replied Hermione.

'We must hurry and change, dear, or we'll miss our dinner on top of everything else.' Madam Pince turned towards the door, 'She had no business to do it! No business at all.'

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'Any nook does for me, but it seems hard that you haven't a view,' Madam Pince walked down the stairs with Hermione descending after her.

'No. You must have a view too.'

They both said 'Buona sera' to the hotel maid. She was going upstairs with an armful of white bed linen.

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'What a recommendation for a place!' They heard an old woman's voice as they entered the dinning room. Some of the guests were watching them.

Miss Hermione Granger was a girl going-on to be a young woman. She had a very pretty, pale, and distinct face. She wore a youthful evening dress. An ivory-white, puffed, silk bodice gathered at the waist. It had a detailed embroidered open neckline. Her dull blue skirt was slim- vase-shaped and flaring at the hem, opening with a little train.

'Indeed, Madam Pomfrey, it is a recommendation,' a clear female voice said, 'between the squalor of London and the squalor of Plato there is a great difference.'

The signora showed Hermione and Madam Pince to the dinning table where the conversation was. The owner of the clear voice, a fashionable woman in her mid-forty, raised her eyes keenly to the new comers. Hermione looked at the British wizarding people sitting around her table. There are white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between them. The portraits of the Queen and the Prince of Wales hung behind them, heavily framed. The notice of the British church (Rev. Gilderoy Lockhart, M. A. Oxon.) was the only other decoration of the wall. Two elderly women sat across Hermione further up the table. One of them was Madam Poppy Pomfrey -

'It is only by going off the main tourist route you get to know the country. See the little towns: Gubbio, Settingiano, Galluzzo,' savoured the clear voiced, clever woman in a slow and dramatic tone, 'San Gimignano, Monteriggioni.'

- A tall young man, jet-black haired with striking cheekbones and a steady green-eyed gaze, sat opposite Hermione. He caught her eyes, his eyes intense and searching. He rotated his plate 180-degree in two or three deliberate movements, and tilted it up to her. A big question mark made up of the colourful foods. Hermione stared. -

'It is the mixture of the simple with the ancient classical.' the clever woman announced, 'that I find irresistible and inspirational.' The young man peered at the speaker, and then returned moodily to his plate.

-Madam Pince murmured to Hermione, 'I shall tell the signora give you the next south room view available, Hermione.'

'Why not to you, Irma?' Hermione countered.

'No, no. I insist,' Irma's voice rising a little.

'This meat has definitely been boiled for the stock!' hissed Madam Pince, laying down her fork. 'It has lost all its flavour,' she waved her serviette to a droning wasp -

'Monteriggioni is not only quaint, but there one meets the Italians unspoiled' imparted the clever woman between the chewing of her food, 'in all its simplicity and charm.'

'Wasn't Monteriggioni where we saw the cornflowers, Minerva?' Madam Pomfrey asked her friend next to her, Madam McGonagall. She was a tight-lipped, respectable elderly lady.

'An entire carpet of them, Oh, it was delightful!' exhaled Madam Pomfrey to the whole table, 'I find the cornflowers the most delightful of flowers. Don't you, Miss Skeeter?'

'I prefer something bolder: the reckless rose, the tempestuous tulip.' The clever woman - by name of Rita Skeeter- sat up straight and tilted her head to one side.

- 'Your mother would never forgive me if I took the view.' squeaked Madam Pince.

'Mother would want you to have it,' challenged Hermione.

'On no account. The view of the Arno is yours!'

'I don't know why we're arguing. We don't have it. We have no view,' said Hermione forcefully in a hushed voice.

Their voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be told--a little peevish. Some of their neighbours exchanged glances. Mr Black, next to the young man, suddenly interjected aloud over the table, 'I have a view, I have a view, and so does Harry.' Mr Black grinned.

Madam Pince was startled. In her opinion, at a holiday hotel people should look them over for a day or two before speaking. People often should not find out if 'they are the right sort' till they have gone. Mr Black was about forty, tall and lean, with a head of short black hair. He had a pale, shaven face and a pair of grey fathomless eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, what exactly it was Madam Pince did not stop to consider. Her glance passed on to his clothes. The casualness of these did not appeal to her.

'Ah,' said Madam Pince, repressing Hermione, who was about to speak.

'My godson, Harry Potter here.' Mr Black indicated to them the young man. Harry trained his glance at Hermione and Madam Pince but didn't speak.

'You can have our rooms, and we'll have yours. We can change. Why shouldn't you have them?' decided the older man.

Shocked at this, Madam Pince, opened her mouth as little as possible, and said stiffly 'Thank you very much indeed; but we could not impose on your kindness.'

'Why?' shot Mr Black incredulously, with both fists on the table.

'You see, we wouldn't…' placated Hermione, smiling. Her aunt again repressed her with a whisper, 'Hush, Hermione.'

'Women like looking at a view; men don't,' persisted Mr Black and turned to his godson, 'Oh, Harry, persuade them.'

'It's obvious they should have the rooms,' said the godson casually, looking at his plate with raised eyebrows. 'There's nothing else to say.' He did not look at the women as he spoke. His voice was perplexed and sorrowful. Hermione, too, was perplexed. She saw that they were in for 'quite a scene'. She had an odd feeling. Whenever these godfather and son spoke the topic widened and deepened. It dealt, not with rooms and views, but with--well, with something quite different. What it was she had not realized before.

'Signora?' offered a waitress with a plate of steak, to Madam Pince.

'No, no thank you.'

Now the godfather attacked Madam Pince almost violently, 'Why shouldn't you change? We could clear out in half an hour, fifteen minutes. Its ridiculous, these niceties go against common sense, every kind of sense." Harry's brilliant green eyes glanced at the women sideways.

"I don't care what I see outside. My vision is within. Here is where the birds soar. Here is where the rivers roar.' Mr Black jabbed his thumb to his heart. Harry nodded slightly with a faint smile, head level but eyes fixed on his plate. Hermione smiled understandingly and started on her pudding. Miss Skeeter folded her arms and watched them with mischief.

Madam Pince was skilled in the subtlety of conversation. But she was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any one so bold. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked about helplessly. Madam McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey, with shawls hanging over the backs of their chairs, looked back. They clearly sympathised.

'Come, Hermione,' Madam Pince swept up and left for the drawing room. Hermione excused herself to those eccentric people opposite. She smiled a shy smile. She followed her aunt.

-'Let them have the view if they want it. Why shouldn't they if they want it?' exasperated Mr Black watching the women leaving, 'Harry, go after them.' Eyes following Hermione, Harry seemed to be smiling across something, but didn't move.

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'What an impossible person!' exclaimed Madam Pince, shooting a haughty glare to the direction of the dining room.

'He meant to be kind.' Hermione turned her head to Irma. They both sat down on a tightly stuffed long sofa.

'Oh, please leave it to me. I know how to deal with these people.'

'Irma, you dealt rudely. You dealt wrongly.' Hermione faced Irma fully.

Madam Pince sighed, 'This pensione is a failure. Tomorrow we will make a change.'

Hardly had she announced this Hermione saw a wizard by the window far behind Irma. He was stout but attractive, reading a newspaper

'It's Mr Lupin,' said Hermione. She had not yet calmed down. At once she started towards him and Madam Pince followed.

'Irma, we can't change now.' said the girl, half way to where Mr Lupin was. Hermione was in a state of spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter if her aunt had permitted it. They stood in front of Mr Lupin.

'Mr Lupin?' started Irma.

'-Don't you remember us?' added Hermione.

'Madam Pince and Miss Granger? We met at Tunbridge Wells.'

'- a very cold Easter?' prompted Hermione.

Mr Lupin was obvious on his holiday. He now remembered them quite as clearly as they remembered him. He came forward warmly, 'How do you do?', shaking hands with them.

'I heard you will be our neighbour.' Hermione asked.

'Yes, I'll move into the Den at Summer Street next June.'

Just then, Madam Pomfrey and McGonagall entered the drawing room, 'We did feel sorry for you in the dinning room,' offered Madam Pomfrey.

'Mr Black was so tactless.' added Madam McGonagall.

'But he meant to be kind,' claimed Hermione. She explained to Mr Lupin, 'Mr Black and his godson offered us their room with views for ours have no view.'

'It was most indelicate.' Minerva said sternly.

'But things that are indelicate, can sometimes be beautiful,' Madam Pomfrey smiled a trifle dreamily.

'Yes-!' delighted Hermione.

'I am,' Madam Pince concluded, 'the chaperon of my young niece, Hermione, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under an obligation to people of whom we know nothing.'

'I don't think much harm would have come of accepting' said Mr Lupin lightly.

Hermione was pleased. 'There, Irma!' she said defiantly.

'So you think I ought to have accepted? You think that I have been narrow-minded?' persisted Madam Pince.

'I never suggested that.' asserted Mr Lupin, 'I would be happy to act as intermediary with Mr Black. I don't think he'll take advantage of your acceptance, or expect any gratitude. He has rooms he does not value, and thinks you would value them.'

'Irma, please!' pleaded Hermione with her hopeful smile.

'My own wishes, dear Miss Hermione, are not important compared with yours. I am only here through your kindness. If you want me to turn these gentlemen out of their rooms, I will do it.' she replied. Hermione's smile disappeared.

'Would you, then, Mr Lupin, kindly tell Mr…' asked Irma.

'-Black.' helped Mr Lupin.

'-Black, we accept his offer.' she said grudgingly.

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Hermione was reading a Guidebook to Northern Italy, she planed to memorise the most important dates of Florentine History. She was determined to enjoy herself tomorrow like a muggle. There was a rebellious spirit in her. She felt, or wanted to feel that the acceptance might have been less delicate and more beautiful.

Half an hour later, Madam Pince and Hermione entered the larger one of their new rooms. Harry was just leaving with his suitcase.

'I would like to thank your godfather personally for his kindness to us,' said Madam Pince.

The young man gazed down at them. 'You can't,' he said softly, 'he is in his bath.' Hermione broke into a smile at his words.

He then proceeded towards the door. He left an embarrassed Madam Pince in his wake. Hermione turned to watch him leaving. He also turned his head to them while walking out. Madam Pince was speechless about the bath. All her barbed civilities came forth, wrong end first. Young Mr. Potter scored an unintended triumph to the secret delight of Hermione.

'I would have given the larger room to you,' said Madam Pince, 'but I happen to know that it was the young man's. In my small way, I am a woman of the world, and I know where things can lead to.'

Hermione was puzzled. Again she had the sense of some larger and unsuspected issues.

'What ever does he mean?' Madam Pince looked at a picture frame. It was back to front on the wall. A huge hand-drawn question mark was on the back.

Just then, after a brief knocking, Harry came marching in to turn the frame to its front with a flick of his wand. When he passed them back toward the door Hermione smiled at him. Madam Pince fluttered after him to close the door. Hermione was reduced into doubling with silent laughter.

Madam Pince only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting embrace as she wished her goodnight. It gave Hermione the feeling of a fog. She reached her own room. She opened the window and breathed the clean night air. She thanked Mr Black who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno. She saw the cypresses of San Miniato. The foothills of the Apennines were black against the rising moon.

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Madam Pince, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and locked the door with most advanced charms she knew. She then made a tour of the apartment. Where did the cupboards lead? Were there any trapdoor or secret entrances? She completed her inspection of the room. She sighed heavily according to her habit, and went to bed.

Chapter II: No guidebook

It was pleasant to wake up to the church bells of Florence. Hermione opened her deep brown eyes upon a lambent sunbeam upon her bed. The ceiling was painted with bronze eagles and gold lions in a forest of green hornbeam and silver-apricot trees. It was pleasant, too, to fling wide the windows. She leaned out into sunshine. There were beautiful hills and trees of olive, Lebanese cedar, magnolia and mulberry, and marble churches opposite. Close below, the Arno was gurgling against the embankment of the road.

Over such sights time slipped away. Hermione might return home remembering nothing but the blue sky and the men and women under it. So it was as well that Madam Pince tapped and came in. She reproached the girl for having left the door unlocked all night. Hermione was hanging out of the window in a loose, long, melting-snow nightdress. 'Hermione, get dressed, dear, or the better part of the day would be gone.'

Hermione put on a floor-length, pale blue summer dress with high neckline. Trimmings lined the bodice along the body curves. They ran down the front, across her shoulders and along the back. The long sleeves puffed slightly at the cuffs. By the time Hermione was ready her aunt had finished her breakfast, and was listening to Miss Skeeter among the crumbs. Hermione saw the two women off to spend a long morning in Santa Croce. She promised her anxious aunt she would not go far from the hotel.

As it happened that Hermione found daily life rather chaotic. She entered a tranquil world whenever she opened a piano. She was then no longer either indifferent or patronised. She was no longer either a rebel or a captive. The realm of music is out of this world. It would accept and free everyone equally.

Hermione was no dazzling pianist. Her scales were not strings of pearls. She didn't strike more right notes than her age and ability permitted. But, passion was there. It could not be easily labelled. It slipped between love, hatred and jealousy, and every other forms of emotion. But one thing was certain that she was not tragic. She loved to play for Victory. Victory of what and over what-- that was more than words could tell.

This quiet morning at the Bertolini found her to do what she really liked. After breakfast she opened the little upright Steinway. A few people lingered around and praised her playing. She made no reply; and they dispersed. Like every true performer, she was intoxicated by the mere feel of the ivory keys. They were fingers grazing her own. Not only by sound but also by touch, she found her desire. -

Sitting unnoticed behind Hermione, Mr. Lupin mulled over an illogical element in Miss Granger. She loved reading. She loved going to concerts, and museums. She loved her thirty-acre home of down hill gardens and lush woods in Surrey hills. She loved iced coffee and meringues. And yet one day Mr Lupin had discovered this element. It was at one of those charity events at Tunbridge Wells. Among the promised entertainment was "Miss Granger, Piano, Beethoven." He was wondering what it would be. Would it be one of the composer's light pieces? Adelaide, or the march of The Ruins of Athens? The opening bars of Sonata No. 3 disturbed his composure. He was in suspense all through the introduction. With the roar of the opening theme he knew that Miss Hermione was playing extraordinarily. In the chords that started the conclusion he heard the hammer stroked of victory. The audience started clapping with respect. It was Mr. Lupin started the stamping and thumping. It was all they could do.

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Madam McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey returned from their morning stroll. They waded into the pool of music made by Hermione's piano. In their apartment, they found Mr Black and Harry wand in hand, directing stems of blue cornflowers onto the furniture and mirrors.

'You said you like cornflowers,' began Mr Black with laughter in his voice.

'So we brought you cornflowers,' smiled Harry. He conducted some on to Minerva's hat.

'Oh, How kind!'

Mr Black simply waved a few into Madam Pomfrey's hair.

'Mr Black,' touched the women were, smiling 'Ah!'

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Lupin clapped twice after the last note sounded. Hermione turned absent-mindedly towards him.

'May I say something rather daring?' breathed Lupin.

'Oh, Mr Lupin, you sounded like Miss Skeeter. Don't say you are writing a novel, too.'

'If I were, you would be my heroine.' he took a breath, 'and I would write: "If Miss Granger ever takes to live as she plays, it would be very exciting, both for us and for her."'

Hermione smiled slightly. She detached herself from the stool, puzzled. She paced a couple of steps, then said, 'Mother doesn't like me playing Beethoven. She says I'm always peevish afterwards.'

'Naturally one would be… ' murmured Lupin, 'stirred up? Won't you play some more?'

'No, I think I'll go out.'

'Alone? Is that wise, Miss Granger?'

'Too wise, one might have stayed at home in Summer Street.' Lupin nodded.

Hermione reassured him, 'I'll not go far. I promise ' She headed towards the door and collided with Madam Poppy Pomfrey, 'I'm sorry,' then she hurried out.

'What is the matter with dear Miss Hermione?'

'I put it down to too much Beethoven.'

'I heard her beautiful playing.'

'Miss Poppy, you have flowers in your hair,' bemused Lupin. He showed the lady to the mirror.

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'Buon giorno, Ferdinado.' cried Miss Skeeter to the statue, 'We salute thee.'

'The bronze is from Turkish cannons, captured by the knights of St. Stefano,' announced Rita to the ear of awed Irma, then bumped her on the shoulder, 'come on!'

'Stop a minute,' commanded Rita when they approached the entrance of Santa Croce.

'Hmm?'

'Let that man goes on, or I shall have to speak to him. British abroad! It's very naughty of me, but I would set an examination paper at Dover, and turn back any tourist who couldn't pass it.'

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Hermione entered Basilica of Santa Croce alone, without a guidebook. It was a wonderful church. Of course, it contained frescoes by Giotto. She walked about over monuments of uncertain creator or date. The sepulchral slabs that paved the nave and transepts were really beautiful. The dangerous charm of Italy worked on her. Instead of asking for information, she puzzled out the Italian notices. A notice forbade people to bring dogs into the church. Santa Croce was so cold, she was glad she chose a warm dress.

'Miss, these fresco no very good.' A native tour guide approached her, 'you'll go see gli fresci di Giotto. Peruzzi and Bardi are very good.'

'No, thank you.'

'Kept the sheep on the mountain,' persisted the guide with Italian words in between his English, 'Make a picture of the sheep. I very good speak English.'

'Look, do go away, please.' said Hermione, trying to ignore him. He pleaded in rapid Italian. Hermione turned and speeded up to another direction away from him.

There she met Mr Black and Harry Potter.

'Are you looking the church? Are you through with it?'

'No,' complained Hermione, 'I came in by myself and forgot my guidebook.'

'Why shouldn't you?' said Mr. black.

'Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?' said the godson, speaking to Hermione for the first time.

Hermione was nonplussed. She was again aware of something new. She was not sure where it would lead her.

'If you've no guidebook,' said Harry, 'you'd better join us.'

Was this where the idea would lead? She took her caution, 'thank you very much, but I shouldn't. Please do not suppose that I came to join you. I don't want to cause any inconvenience.'

'Dear girl,' said Mr Black impatiently, 'Don't be silly, and tell me what part of the church you want to see. We'll go with you with pleasure.'

She gazed at Harry before replying, 'I am not silly, I hope. It is the Giotto's that I want to see if you will kindly tell me which they are.'

Harry nodded. With a look of sombre satisfaction, he led the way to the Peruzzi Chapel. There was a hint of elder brother about him. She felt like a younger sister who had answered a question right.

The chapel was already filled with tourists. A lecturing voice was directing them how to worship Giotto by the standards of the script.

'And there he is undergoing a trial… by fire… before the Sultan' said the lecturer, 'And here…'

'Ah, Mr Lockhart, Morning!' said Mr Black loudly, 'You see I lead a private tour of my own.' Hermione smiled uneasily.

'Here he is on his deathbed…' continued Mr Lockhart, after giving Black a nod.

'Mr Lockhart is our English chaplain here for Florence,' said Mr Black to Hermione.

'Observe,' said Mr Lockhart, 'how Giotto in these frescoes--now, unhappily, ruined by restoration--is untroubled by the snares of anatomy and perspective. Could anything be more majestic, more tragic, beautiful, and true? …'

'Look at that fat man in blue! He must weigh a ton, and he is floating in the sky like an air balloon,' pointed Mr Black, referring to the fresco of the 'Ascension of St. John'. Hermione tried to suppress her amused smile.

'Remember,' said Lockhart, 'the facts about this church how it was built by faith in the full fervour of medievalism, -'

'Built by faith indeed, ' exclaimed Mr. Black too loud for a chapel, 'That simply means the workers weren't paid properly.'

Lockhart's voice faltered considerably. The audience shifted uneasily, and so did Hermione.

'Pardon me,' walked Mr Lockhart up to Mr Black, in a frigid voice, 'the chapel is somewhat small for two parties. We will trouble you no longer.' His audience filed out after him in silence.

'Mr Lockhart' called Mr. black. 'There's plenty of room for all of us. You don't have to...'

Soon Mr Lockhart could be heard in the next chapel, describing the life of St. Francis.

'Sirius has that effect on nearly every one,' smiled Harry to Hermione, 'He's only saying what he thinks.'

'I hope we all are,' said she, smiling.

'He is telling the truth because he loves them. But people find him odd, and are offended or frightened.'

'How silly of them!' said Hermione, though in her heart she sympathised, 'I think that with a little tact--'

'Tact!'

Harry threw up his head in disdain. Apparently she had given the wrong answer. She watched him, the singular creature of a kind, pace up and down the chapel. For a young man his face was chiselled, and hard. When the shadows fell upon it, it sprang into tenderness. Healthy and muscular, but he gave her the feeling of greyness. A depression might only find solution in the night. The feeling soon passed. It was unlike her to dwell on darkness, of silence and of unknown emotion. She re-entered the familiar world of rapid talk.

Mr Black and Hermione together watched Harry brooding. The tour guide came to try his scheme on Harry. Harry took one look of him, dropped to his knees in front of a marble tomb. He closed his eyes, holding his hat under his cleft chin and refused to move. Hermione smiled at the scene.

Mr Black anxiously watched his godson, 'Harry has brains, but he is very depressed.'

'But why should he be?' inquired Hermione.

'Well, may you ask. It's the way we are living,' said he, 'free from the superstition that leads men to hate one other in the name of God.'

To this Hermione found no answer and uneasy, 'I must go, my aunt would be most anxious...'

Quite suddenly Mr Black busted out, 'I don't require you to fall in love with Harry, but please try to help him. If only anyone could stop him from brooding. On what? The things of the good and the evil, and the universe. Do you believe in this world's sorrow?'

Miss Granger shook her head. Her brow knitted 'No, I don't, not at all, Mr Black.'

'Well, there you are. Then make my boy realise that at the side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes. And a Yes and a Yes!'

Hermione beamed. She became protective and anxious, 'has Harry a particular hobby? I mean, I generally forget my worries at my books and the piano. Collecting frog cards did no end of good for my cousin Ron.'

She collected herself, 'You must excuse me, Mr Black. My aunt will be most anxious if I don't get back this instant.'

Mr Black sighed, 'poor girl!'

'Poor girl? On the contrary, I think myself a very fortunate girl. I'm thoroughly happy, and having a splendid time,' huffed Hermione, 'Thank you very much. Good-bye.' She matched toward the door.

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'Look at that adorable wine-cart!' Miss Skeeter turned to look at the owner, 'how he stares at us, dear simple soul!'

'I love these dark alleys' said she, close to Irma.

Rita dashed to the right along the sunny Lung' Arno. How delightfully warm! But a wind down the side streets cut like a knife didn't it?

'They're all peasants, you know. Come along!' said she, seeing Irma's nervousness.

So Miss Skeeter proceeded through the streets of the city, short, fidgety, and playful as a kitten without the grace of the kitten. It was a treat for Madam Pince to be with any one so clever and so cheerful. Rita sported a blue military cloak, such as an Italian officer wears. It only increased the sense of her frolicking.

Then Miss Skeeter darted under the archway of some white bullocks, and she stopped, looked around, and she cried: 'I do declare, We are lost!'

Madam Pince took out her guidebook.

'No, Madam Pince, you will not look into your guidebook.' said Rita, 'Two lone females in an unknown city. Now, this is what I call an adventure.' She nodded twice while Irma put away her guidebook, 'We will simply drift.'

They wandered arm in arm.

'One has always to be open, wide open. I think Miss Hermione is.' chatted Rita.

'Open to what, Miss Skeeter?'

'Physical sensation.'

'Ah-' Irma covered her heart and then her mouth with her hand.

'I will let you into a secret, Miss Irma.' whispered Rita, 'I have my eye on your niece, Miss Granger.'

'Oh, for a character in your novel, Miss Skeeter?'

'The young English girl transformed by Italy.' Her eyes flicked from left to right, 'And why should she not be transformed? It happened to the Goth.' Rita fixed an ominous look to Irma.

They went pass some street vendors. The Italians greeted them, which delighted Rita, but unsettled Irma.

Suddenly Rita stopped. 'The smell! A true Florentine smell. Inhale, my dear!' called Rita, and she checked on Irma, 'Deeper! Every city, let me tell you, has its own smell.'

Madam Pince covered her nose with her handkerchief when Rita turned to set off again.

Chapter III: The beginning

The air became brighter. The colours on the trees and hills were clearer. The Arno lost its foam and began to twinkle. There were chromatic streaks of blue, green, and grey among the retreating white clouds. Patches of shining rainwater were upon the earth. The dripping facade of San Miniato glistened in the afternoon sun.

Hermione was never so sure of her mind after her music making. She played hours on end during the earlier rain. She wanted something big. She believed that it would come to her. In her heart strange desires were springing up. She grew to love the heavy winds, vast panoramas, and green expanses of the sea. She thought of the world. How it is full of life, beauty, and war. A radiant crust of blue, green and white built around the central fires. It spins towards the receding heavens. Before the show ends she would like to go there as her true self.

This afternoon she was peculiarly restless. She would really like to do something, something her mother disapproved of. She went out alone and visited Alinari's shop. There she bought prints of Botticelli's 'Birth of Venus' and Michelangelo's 'David'. Arts of course signify the nude. Giorgione's 'Tempesta,', the 'Idolino,' some of the Sistine Chapel's frescoes and the Apoxyomenos were added to her purchase. She felt a little calmer. She bought Giotto's 'Ascension of St. John,' some Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas.

She spent quite a small sum on the photographs. Yet the gates to freedom and liberty seemed still closed to her. She was discontent. It was new to her. 'The world,' she thought, 'is certainly full of wonderful things. If only I could come across them.' Mother was right. Music had left her impractical, and touchy, 'Nothing ever happens to me.'

She entered the Piazza Della Signoria. The great square was shining in the sun. Neptune loomed high, half god and half ghost. His fountain splashed noisily. Human and satyrs potter around its marge. An ordinary person at such a time and in such a place might be content with life. Hermione wanted more.

The sculptures under the Loggia Dei Lanzi caught her breath. The decapitated head of Medusa hung in Perseus' left hand, the short sword in his right and his nude male body roared in her head. The beautiful 'Rape of the Sabine' threw her in a crescendo to a resounding triple-forte. It was the hour of the heat. Unfamiliar things became real.

She fixed her eyes to the tower of Palazzo Vecchio. It rose out of the lower shadow on the palace like a pillar of gold. It seemed no longer a tower. The earth no longer supported it. It was an unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its brightness mesmerised her. It was still dancing before her eyes when she turned and started homewards.

Then something did happen.

Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering. They had shouted. They sparred at each other. One of them pushed another to the ground and kicked him. He was hit at the stomach by the latter. He frowned. He staggered towards Hermione and stared at her. He seemed have an important message for her. He opened his mouth to deliver it. But he collapsed. A fountain of deep red came out of his mouth and oozing down his unshaven chin.

That was all. People glided out of the heat. They blocked the fallen man from her. They bore him away to the fountain. She caught sight of Harry Potter, a few paces away. He looked at her across the spot where the man had been. How very strange! Across something he grew dim. The palace itself grew dim. It swayed above her. It fell on to her softly, slowly, noiselessly. The sky fell with it.

----------

She thought, 'what happened?' and opened her eyes.

Harry Potter still looked over her, but not across anything. He was fanning her with his hat. She had complained of boredom, and look! One man was stabbed, and another held her in his arms. They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. Her right side leaned to his chest. His left arm was around her back and waist. He must have caught and carried her here.

'How are you now?' he asked gently, with concern.

'Perfectly well--a-absolutely well,' nodded she. Straightening up, she moved a little away from him.

He took another look at her and stood up, 'then let's go home. There's no point in our stopping.' He held out his hand to her. She peered at it and didn't take it. The cries from the fountain had never ceased. It sounded empty now. The whole world seemed pale and lost its original meaning.

'How very kind you've been! I can go alone, thank you.' His hand was still extended.

'Oh, my photographs.' she looked up at him and furrowed her brow to the blazing sun.

'What photographs?'

'I must have dropped them out there, in the square.' She bit her lip once and looked at him innocently, 'Would you be so very kind, ah-?' He turned to look at the square and then smiled at her. He set off to retrieve them. As soon as his back turned, Hermione got up, and tiptoed softly down the arcade towards the Arno. She had not walked ten steps.

'Miss Granger!'

She stopped her hand over her heart, like a child being caught.

'You're not fit enough to go alone.' Harry strode back and his brow was knitted lightly.

'Yes, I am,' retorted Hermione in a quiet but clear voice.

'No, you're not.' said Harry firmly and indulgently.

'But I'd rather go--' said she, a young girl again.

'Then I don't get your photographs,' said he patiently. His eyes were on her intently. He coaxed gently, 'besides, that way you'd have to fly over the wall. Now, please, sit down. Don't move till I come back.' She watched him go and sat down on a nearby bench.

In the distance she saw men with black hoods as in dreams. They were moving the wounded on to a cart. The palace tower had lost the shimmering. It joined itself to the earth. Harry picked up the envelope and turned his head her direction. She was still waiting for him. He went to see what had become of the victim. The black hooded men pulled the cart away with the wounded covered. The transgressor howled in grief, taken away by the officers. Harry cleaned the blood off his hand under the fountain.

What would she say to Mr. Potter when he was back from the sun-lit square? Oh, what happened? Hermione thought. She as well as the dying man was crossing some invisible boundaries.

Being strong physically, she soon overcame her shock. Harry returned. She stood up without his hand. Wings seemed to flutter inside her. She walked with him steadily enough towards the Arno.

She talked of the Italian over the incident. It had made her faint five minutes before. Surprisingly, it was an easy topic. They were close to their hotel. She stopped and put her hands on the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise and folded his arms.

'Isn't it extraordinary? I mean, Italians are so kind, so loveable. And yet at the same time, so violent.' She smiled at him. He glanced at her, deep in thought. She leant her elbows against the parapet. There was something magical in this place at this time. It radiated an eternal comradeship. She put her elbows on the parapet too.

'Mr Potter?' asked she. He turned towards her frowning slightly, as if she had disturbed his pensive. 'I've never been so ashamed. I don't know what came over me.'

'That's perfectly natural. I was shocked myself,' assured he.

She had to explain, 'Well, I owe you a thousand apologies. And, I want to ask you for a great favour. You know how silly people are, gossiping, women especially, I am afraid. You understand what I mean?'

'No' said Harry simply.

'I mean, would you not mention it to any one, hmm-, my foolish behaviour?' He didn't reply. He was deep in his own thoughts again. Then he drew out something from his pocket and threw it into the stream on the river.

' --What was that?'

'Things I didn't want,' he said vaguely.

'Harry, where are the photographs?'

He was silent.

'I believe it was my photographs that you threw away.'

'I didn't know what to do with them,' he admitted boyishly, and his voice was anxious. Her heart warmed towards him.

'They were covered with blood.' Then the boy morphed into a man, 'There! I've told you.'

'Something tremendous has happened.' He gazed at the horizon.

She ignored her own ominous feeling, 'Well, thank you, again.' she continued, 'how quickly these accidents happen, and then one returns to the old life.'

'I don't.' claimed he, ' I mean, something's happened to me. And to you.' His vivid-green gaze turned to her.

Moving her elbows from the parapet, she watched the River Arno. It was cascading some new melody to her ears. It was rushing below them almost white in the advancing rapids. He had thrown her photographs into it. He had told her the reason. He was trustworthy and intelligent. He was frank and kind. He respected her. It was useless to say to him, 'And would you--' and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms. He remembered it just as he remembered the blood on the photographs. Today was not exactly about that a man had died. Something had happened to the living. They had come to a junction. Childhood merged into the branching paths of youth.