Chapter Two
Ginny sat on the beach, the crystal clear water tickling her feet as it lapped up against the shore. As she sulked, children chased each other into and out of the water while men and women—both topless—lounged in chairs and on towels. Every bronze body glowed with health and sun. Ginny tugged her towel closer around her shoulders, protecting her blinding skin from exposure. She stood out like a sore thumb, and children occasionally ran past her, laughing, pointing, and waving. She smiled and waved back.
She had wanted anonymity, but even though she'd received just that, she still drew eyes. No one recognized her, of course, but her red hair was about as unnatural to the people with whom she shared the beach as a Squib was among wizarding society. Not being able to speak a word of the language didn’t help, either.
A beach ball flew past her ear and landed in the water in front of her, bobbing as the gentle waves rocked it farther out into the sea.
“Signorina! Signorina, per favore! Mia palla!”
Behind her, a gaggle of children laughed as a little curly-haired girl—who had to be no older than four—called to Ginny with tears in her eyes. Ginny had watched for the past hour as the older children teased the girl by chasing her into the water, of which she seemed to be afraid, and Ginny understood how she felt. Her brothers had teased her relentlessly as a child; she’d learned to stiffen her spine and hide her fears and tears from Fred and George, but it was nice to have a defender every once in a while.
Ginny smiled and the girl sniffed loudly, holding her tears at bay even as her lips trembled. The ball had drifted farther out into the water, and as Ginny walked out into the sea, the wind and the waves turned the simple retrieval into a game of chase. The children on the shore laughed as Ginny ran after the ball, but the little girl’s cheers spurred her on. Finally, she pounced on top of the ball, wrapping her arms around it as she fell face first into the water. Ginny’s throat burned as she choked on seawater, but when she reached the shore again, the girl’s smiling face was worth it.
“Grazie, signorina!” she called as she ran off with the ball, her siblings and friends racing after her to continue whatever game they were playing.
“Er, prego!” Ginny called back, recalling one word she’d heard uttered by waitstaff at the restaurants and cafes she’d frequented since her arrival in Italy a week ago.
"If that's the way you handle a ball, it's no wonder your Quidditch career ended."
With the sun to his back, Blaise Zabini emerged from the sunlight, and Ginny struggled to make out his face. Blinking, her mouth fell open, not because of what he'd said—though those words would register later—but because he was here just as Ginny was despairing in her isolation.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, gaping. It didn't matter that she hadn't seen him since he'd left Hogwarts, that she and he were merely acquaintances, not friends. He was a familiar face, a piece of home. And here he was on a tiny rock of an island in the middle of the Mediterranean, insulting her Quidditch skills as if they were good friends.
He smiled, but one corner of his lips lifted a little higher than the other. She might have called it a smirk, but his eyes were open and friendly, so instead she accepted it as a grin. He stopped in front of her, put his hands on his hips, and looked Ginny up and down. She'd dropped her towel in the sand when she'd gone after the beach ball, but now she picked it up and covered her swimsuit-clad body from his gaze. Her cheeks were already burning red from the sun, but she could feel herself heating up out of embarrassment from the inside.
"No snappy comeback? You Weasleys were always too easy to bait, if I recall correctly."
"What?"
He waved the question away, and answered her previous question. "My father's family is from here. What are you doing here?"
But all Ginny could do was stare wordlessly. How did she explain to this man she knew only by reputation what she was doing in Italy and how this holiday had come to be? Better yet, should she explain?
Blaise laughed and reached for her bad hand, tucking it in the crook of his arm in a gentlemanly fashion—a polite but familiar gesture to which she didn't know how to react. He seemed to read her hesitancy perfectly, though, because as he led her away, he said, "Come on. I think we need a drink."
Water. Ginny thought he'd meant water when he'd said they'd needed a drink, but Blaise led her to the outside bar near the parking lot, and then spoke some words in Italian to the bartender before two beers were placed in front of them.
"It's three in the afternoon."
"Never too early for a friendly drink."
As they claimed two stools at the end of the bar, the reality of the situation hit her, and she asked again with bafflement, "What are you doing here?"
"I already answered that question," Blaise said. "I think it's your turn."
"I'm on holiday," she replied.
"I see," he said, clearly humoring her as he smiled into his drink. "And what brings you to this godforsaken island?"
"Blasphemy! It's absolutely lovely here!" Ginny exclaimed in outrage.
"Of course it is. This archipelago is also one of the top summer tourist destinations in Italy. May through August, this island becomes congested with not only Muggles, but traveling Muggles, and they're about as annoying as that Creevey kid was with his camera."
Now Ginny bristled, the spell of Blaise’s familiarity fading swiftly. "Colin died, Zabini. Don't talk about him that way!"
She recalled Colin's camera sitting on her bed in her hotel room as well as the look on Dennis's face when he'd given it to her. At the same time, her face burned in shame for being one of the tourists that this man despised.
As she stood to leave, he cried, "Wait!" She only stopped because of his stricken expression. "I'm sorry," he said. "That was completely rude and disrespectful. I forgot that you were friends. Please, don't go."
Ginny didn't know why she wavered; she should have kept walking, but she sat down because he seemed sincere. In her lap, she flexed her hand, squeezing it into a fist and releasing as if letting go of her tension.
"Let's try this again, shall we?" he asked. At her curt nod, he held out his hand and continued. "Ginny Weasley from the Falcons, right?" She nodded again, and accepted his hand for a brief shake. "I'm Blaise Zabini. What brings you to La Maddalena?"
She took a long sip of her beer and wished for her pack of cigarettes—which she'd carelessly left back at the hotel as well. "Oh, you know," she said, "I just love to take pictures of the sea. Got any fags?"
Ginny's legs disappeared at the ankles, swallowed by the inky black water. Even though La Maddalena in May was balmy, the sea hadn't quite caught up with the warming weather. As Ginny dipped her feet in and out of the icy water, she couldn't imagine being anywhere else, even if her companion was Blaise Zabini—an unexpected but surprisingly pleasant turn of events.
An afternoon and evening of alcohol and nicotine had brought Ginny out of her cloud of loneliness—and loosened her tongue.
"I mean, why does she have to act like my mother?" she asked, her swinging arm just missing Blaise’s head.
"Whoa there," he said, steadying her before she fell off the pier into the water.
"She's supposed to be one of my closest friends, but she gets along better with my mum than she does with me."
"Well, Granger always did seem to have a stick up her arse."
"She can't help it. She is dating my brother."
He choked on his beer, his splutters mixed with laughter. “What was her excuse before that, then?”
“She was friends with him!”
When Blaise’s second wave of laughter ended, he patted Ginny on the back, nearly sending her face first from the pier into the water. “You know, you’re not so bad.” At Ginny’s affronted look, he added, “I mean, you were pretty popular back at school, but I always assumed it was because you were pretty. I never knew you had this bite.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, then,” she replied. She set her empty bottle down between them, and then clasped her hands in her lap, the good one massaging the bad one out of habit.
Blaise seemed to change his mind about what he was going to say next, distracted instead by her hands. Gesturing with his own nearly empty bottle, he asked, “Does it hurt?”
She shook her head, but it was dark and perhaps he couldn’t see the motion clearly. “No. I don’t feel anything.” She raised her hand in the air, her fingers splayed as much as possible, but the fingers still curled in a claw-like gesture. Averting her eyes, she dropped her hand again, her throat tight and her eyes stinging.
Blaise reached for her hand, pulling it towards him, and then he flattened her fingers between his hands, gently rubbing her skin. “Do you feel that?” he asked.
“No,” Ginny said softly, holding her breath as if breathing for all these years had been the reason she hadn't felt the pain.
“Not even my heat?” Blaise asked, his lips turning up into that crooked almost-smirk again. Somehow his face had inched closer to hers, or maybe hers to his? And it wasn’t the humidity that made her skin prickle with gooseflesh, that was for sure.
“Nothing at all,” she breathed.
Then he swiftly pulled away and climbed back onto his feet with all the steadiness of a newborn unicorn. “Come on,” he said, offering Ginny both of his hands and pulling her until she was standing. “You’ve kept to yourself long enough. Time for a little sight-seeing.”
Ginny giggled, partly because his good mood was infectious, but mostly out of embarrassment. “It’s nearly ten at night!”
He tucked her hand in his arm and patted it as they descended back down the pier to the beach. “Tomorrow can’t come soon enough, then.”
The next day, Blaise met Ginny at her hotel, and, arm in arm, they set out for a day of adventure. The hilly streets were so narrow, they were more like alleys. When cars raced down them as if they were major thoroughfares, Ginny and Blaise had to flatten their bodies against the walls of the buildings on either side of the roads to prevent their death by squishing. By the time they reached their destination, the piazza, Ginny’s heart was racing. Blaise bought her gelato—one scoop of strawberry and one of pistachio in a waffle cone—to soothe her nerves, which worked instantly.
Across from the piazza, an open area around which shops and restaurants were located, the sea sparkled as ferries made their way from the La Maddalena port to Palau on the island of Sardinia and back again. They ran with approximate regularity, about every twenty minutes or so, and Ginny, mesmerized by the boats, the gentle rocking of the waves, and the warm breeze, wondered what it would be like to ride one.
Blaise discerned her interest and led her to the dock where they bought tickets and waited for the ferry to unload before they boarded. He took her all the way to the top deck, and even though there were plenty of benches available for people to sit, Ginny stood at the railing, as close to the front as she could get. As the ferry cut through the water, the wind picked up, and it was a little cold despite the warmth. Ginny’s hair was a Jobberknoll’s nest by the time they arrived, but a grin was stuck to her face like a Permanent Sticking Charm, and Blaise’s laughter at her expense only made her giddier.
Blaise was a charming and knowledgeable escort. He pointed out shops he thought she might have been interested in, and when she was interested, he took her inside. So used to living from paycheck to paycheck, she didn’t buy anything, even though she had more than enough to live on and splurge for this trip, but she kept certain items and shops in mind for when she was ready to buy souvenirs.
They stopped at a pizzeria, where Blaise bought “American pizza.” Then they ate it on a park bench near a playground. Ginny laughed out loud when they opened the pizza box to find that the topping that made the pizza “American” was french fries.
“You look a lot better than you did yesterday,” Blaise remarked as Ginny picked a thickly cut fry off her slice and popped it in her mouth.
“What was wrong with the way I looked yesterday?” she asked.
“You just didn’t seem very happy. You looked like you were at a funeral.” He pondered for a moment, a sly grin shifting his expression from somber to mischievous. “In your swimsuit. Now that’s an inappropriate scenario if I ever heard of one.”
For some reason, the fact that Blaise had noticed her emotional state made something pang inside her, as if she were empty and someone had struck her just to hear the thud. A sense of urgency washed over her, making her body seize the same way her hand did on occasion. If her unhappiness was so noticeable, why hadn’t anyone said anything to her? Did she hide it so well that her family and friends had never seen her suffering? Or did they notice and just didn’t care?
“I haven’t been happy for a long time,” she admitted.
“Since you injured your hand?” he asked.
Suddenly the pizza became unappetizing, and it took more effort than it should have to swallow down the lump in her throat. “Maybe. I think so.”
Blaise stood up, and she watched as he walked toward the playground where a flock of children played and laughed.
“What are you doing?” Ginny asked.
“When we were children, we were never unhappy, and do you know why?”
She shook her head.
Blaise reached up and grabbed two rungs on the monkey bars. He was tall enough that his feet never left the ground, but he pulled them out of the way and hung there in front of her. “Because children play. They’re not afraid to laugh in public, or scream. They say exactly what’s on their minds, and disagreements are quickly resolved and forgotten. You were the happiest when you were playing Quidditch because your job was to play, and now you feel like all the fun’s been sucked out of your life.”
How did he know all this about life and about her? Was she that transparent?
Climbing up onto the play structure from the monkey bars, he entreated her, “Come on. You can have fun even if it’s not Quidditch!”
It only took Ginny a moment to put the pizza box aside and join him on the slides.
As the day passed, Ginny smiled and laughed more than she had in ages. She didn’t think about her hand or let its spasms affect the fun she was having. Blaise had an infectious personality that made her feel like she was playing Quidditch again. Being in Italy no longer felt like a prison away from home, but like the thrilling adventure she’d hoped for all along.
By the time they returned to La Maddalena, the sun had set, and one of the best parts of the day had been watching the sun glow bright orange on the water from the top of the ferry again. After setting sail, they drank cappuccinos from the small cafe located on the second floor of the boat and watched as the Palau port was swallowed by darkness as they left it behind.
“I had a great day,” Ginny said as they walked through the piazza, dodging children, soccer balls, and vendors.
“Good,” Blaise replied. “I’m glad.”
There was a balmy breeze, but despite the warmth, Ginny had a chill. Next time they spent a day together, she’d have to remind herself to wear something a little warmer for both day and night temperatures.
Which reminded her… “I can’t believe I didn’t notice before that you’re wearing Muggle clothes.”
He wore his T-shirt and dark denim jeans confidently, as if accustomed to wearing such clothing. “Not all places are as segregated as England is. Wizarding populations are either smaller or more spread out in other countries, so it’s harder to hide whole villages and buildings like we do in London.”
“That’s both frightening and amazing,” Ginny said. She tried to imagine what it would be like to walk down a street and not know who was a wizard and who wasn’t. “No wonder you look so comfortable in those clothes,” she added. “It’s… surprising.”
“Were you expecting me to spit on Muggles who had the audacity to look me in the eye?” he asked in good humor.
“Maybe not to that extreme, but yes,” Ginny admitted.
Blaise laughed. “Maybe you shouldn’t judge a man by the House he was Sorted into… eleven years ago.”
“If it wasn’t statistically supported that Slytherins grow up to become evil, I wouldn’t be so shocked that you can be decent towards such a plebeian group of people as Muggles,” she teased him back.
“Please, tell us what you really think,” a voice behind her said.
Blaise's face erupted into a shocked smile. “Draco! You’re early!” he cried out, and as Ginny turned around, the two men met, grasped each other’s hands, and patted each other on the back.
On the tiniest island Ginny could exile herself to, looking at her with a shuttered expression, stood Draco bleeding Malfoy, her benefactor and the last person she wanted to see.
"What are you doing here?" Ginny asked, rooted to the spot and unable to look away from Draco's face. Of all the places he could have chosen for a holiday, he had to pick the one tiny rock on which Ginny was hiding!
"I come visit Blaise here every summer," he replied. His impassive expression faded, turning into bewilderment. "What are you doing here?"
"You said Italy was nice this time of year! Where else was I going to go?”
“I never expected you to end up here, though. How did you even find this place?”
Ginny blinked, and her cheeks reddened. “Well, I spent a couple days in Rome, but there were so many people there. So I bought a map of the country, closed my eyes, and pointed to my next destination. It just happened to be here.”
“I can’t believe this,” Blaise said. “Are you two friends?”
“No!” both Draco and Ginny answered.
Blaise held his hands up. “Okay, okay. I think we need drinks. I can already tell this night is going to turn into a headache.”
He led them to a cafe that bordered the piazza and chose a table outside. As soon as the three of them sat down, a waiter arrived to take their orders.
“Una birra,” Blaise said.
“Vino rosso, per favore,” Draco said next.
When it was Ginny’s turn, she glanced at the three men before her, a bit baffled and definitely embarrassed. “Er, water?”
When the waiter looked as embarrassed as Ginny felt, Draco jumped in and translated for her. “E una bottiglia d’acqua. Grazie.”
“You speak Italian, too?” Ginny asked.
“Not very well. Just enough to order food!” Blaise said, with a nudge on Draco’s arm. “Now, can someone please tell me what’s going on here? If you aren’t friends, how do you two know each other?”
Ginny explained her career woes, but she let Draco explain the part about the money, as she felt uncomfortable even admitting that she’d taken it in the first place. She shouldn’t have let him give it to her; she didn’t need his charity.
“But why make such a big gesture for someone you barely know?” Blaise asked, voicing the question Ginny had been wondering since she’d received the letter informing her that Draco had deposited 1,000 Galleons into her Gringotts account.
“Because I can, Blaise,” he answered tetchily. “Now drop it.”
When their drinks arrived, Ginny wished she’d ordered alcohol instead of water, and Draco surprised her by pushing his glass of wine in her direction. “Here. I’m not in the mood for this.”
“I’m fine with water,” she replied stubbornly. How many times could she accept gifts from him before he started demanding payment in return? Actually, she wasn’t sure that he didn’t expect his 1,000 Galleons to be repaid, which was one reason she had dreaded meeting him face to face again. With him sitting in front of her, a real, physical presence in her life once again, she had to accept the fact that she took his money and ran with it. Even if he’d meant it as a gift, it wasn’t appropriate.
“It will just go to waste if you don’t drink it,” he insisted as he poured himself some water from the tall glass bottle the waiter had deposited in the middle of their table.
Ginny was conscious of Blaise watching them, his eyes narrowed slightly. Now that Draco had arrived, was her nice holiday coming to an end? Would Blaise behave differently around her? Would he be more cautious and aloof? Or would he stop spending time with her, period?
Before she knew it, she was withdrawing a cigarette from her purse and lighting it, and at Draco’s longing look—an expression that made her lips twitch up into a smile for how pitiful it was—she offered him one as well.
“How long’s it been since your last cigarette?” she asked, feeling a little more at ease, less tense.
“How long’s it been since the last time I saw you?”
Instead of feeling insulted because of the implication in his answer, Ginny laughed.
An hour or so later, both men escorted Ginny back to her hotel and didn’t leave until she waved at them from a window, safe inside. It had been a long day, but Ginny hadn’t felt this optimistic in ages.
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