They shoved, pinched, and sneered at Ginny as she densely proceeded to Gate 4A. Her ticket tightly in her hand, she glanced left and right, hoping for a sign or some sort of help in her unbelievably difficult endeavor. Just only five minutes ago did a small Muggle girl threw a small sheet of paper at her, and when Ginny made a move to punish her, the girl’s heavy-set mother chased Ginny down the gift shop area.
She was appalled!
“Bloody Muggles,” she cursed, shooting a glare at a boy who smiled at her. “I can’t understand why Dad likes them so much.”
Spotting a woman in a uniform, donned with blue and gold, Ginny waved her over like an overexcited maniac. “Miss, excuse me!” she yelled over the loud raucous. She sprinted over and gritted her teeth as she tripped over her luggage. Ron refused to help her – he was rather standoffish and quite cruel – so she had to do everything on her own. Fred and George had work to finish at the joke shop, Charlie traveled back to Romania, Percy still hasn’t looked her in the eye, her mother and father were taking their daily visit off to Healer Fall, and Bill was busy trying to stop the upper part of the house from falling to the ground.
“Miss!” she screamed even louder, irritated at the blonde who continued to snub her. Her curly, long tresses streamed down her back, hiding almost half of her bum. Ginny growled, exhausted and drained. The stress of last night and this morning was too much to bear, so naturally, all she wanted to do was crawl into a corner and die. “If you don’t turn around …” Ginny threatened, just behind the woman.
She quickly turned around and had the audacity to throw Ginny a cheery smile. “Good evening, Miss!” she chirped, her voice infuriatingly high. “Is there something you’d like?”
“I’d like for you to tell me where I have to go,” Ginny replied coldly, shoving the ticket in the woman’s face. “I’m lost in this mausoleum of an airport and I’d really love it if you could point me in the right direction,” she glanced at the woman’s nametag, “Patricia.” Her voice was icy and the glare in her eyes was unmistakable.
Patricia grinned weakly and muttered, “Right this way, Ma’am.”
Shadowing the dim woman, Ginny occasionally observed her surroundings, sometimes awing at the beautiful skylights above them. Most of her bags were placed in what Ron called the sock pit. She had no idea what he was talking about, but he callously assured her that her things would be in Tuscany when she arrived. Her lips turned down into a frown as she remembered him leaving her there, driving off without a second glance. Her heart broke a little more when she realized that her decision would never better the situation for him.
“You’re already boarding, Miss, so there will be no problems in waiting. Your ticket is first class, so you’re taken in first,” explained Patricia, obviously trying to make up for her awful behavior just a few minutes before.
Ginny jutted her chin and sauntered away towards another woman in uniform – except this time, she seemed more inviting. “Hello there, Miss, can I please see your ticket?”
Ginny handed her the thin sheet of paper, adjusting the strap of her bag to fit perfectly on her shoulder. She took a deep breath and bit her lip. She’s never ridden on a flying Muggle contraption, aside from Ron’s and Miss Gioia’s automobile, let alone an airplane.
“Have you checked in with security?” asked the woman warmly.
Ginny nodded. “If you’re referring to the huge men in the dark clothing, then yes. They went through all my belongings and even stole many of my things!” she exclaimed, fuming at the memory.
She chuckled. “Just go right through the hall and find your seat. Have a safe flight!”
“Thank you,” Ginny mumbled, hoping that ‘safe’ would be the only word to describe it.
Entering the tiny entryway, Ginny skipped into the entrance of the airplane – a rather large, white door, adorned with large metal shavings on the corners. Looking down, Ginny’s eyes widened at the sight of the silver handle – it was enormous! “How could one person close this door?” she asked herself, ducking down to get inside.
Once in the frightening machine, Ginny felt her worry ease as she glanced around. It was a beautiful section – the walls were lined with violet velvet and the carpet looked comfy enough to sleep on. Each chair was ten feet away from it’s adjacent, and what Ginny thought were servants, were running to and fro the aisles.
“Would you like me to seat you, Miss?” inquired a voice.
Ginny twirled around and shook her head. “No, I’m quite fine. I’m sure you have more important things to do,” she responded softly, suddenly feeling guilty. These people worked for their money, for their families, and here she was, cursing them all to oblivion.
Licking her lips, Ginny’s eyes brightened as she found her seat – 12F. Cheering silently, she hefted her luggage and hauled them into the compartment above her seat. Charlie made each emergency hazard clear and Ginny was sure to follow it.
“You don’t want your stuff lying around so someone can trip on them, Gin. You need to be considerate and place it on top of your seat.”
“What? I have to sleep with luggage on my head?” Ginny asked, horrified.
Charlie laughed. “No! Of course not! There’s a small cubicle at the top where you place your things. Just put everything up there.”
Pushing her red hair back, Ginny shut the compartment door and collapsed in her seat, fatigued. Her brain pulsed even harder when she realized that she had to learn a few, quick Italian phrases. Her mother had bought her a secondhand Italian phrase and translation book. The bind was already crumbling, but Ginny had managed to charm it back to its original state. Taking the small book out of her pocket, Ginny scanned the first page and took a deep breath.
“Ciao,” she started, “mi chiamo Ginny.”
“Perché, ciao lí, Ginny,” interrupted a fluent voice.
Ginny squeaked and jumped up, the small book falling out of her hands. She slowly looked up and found herself staring into the sky. Phoenix met ocean as Ginny gazed into the woman’s eyes. Her caramel complexion clashed horribly with the color, and the brown in her hair contrasted with all of her features. But Ginny thought it to be her meek face that made up for everything – that kind smile that she shared with her, almost as if they were friends.
“Lei è italiano?” she asked, eyes open with curiosity.
Ginny gulped and bent down to fetch her book. She hastily flipped through the pages to find out what this woman was saying. “Non p-posso par-par – oh, bloody hell - lare l'italiano anche b-bene,” Ginny answered, fumbling with the pronunciation of each word. She cursed herself for sounding like such a bumbling fool, when she faced such a cultured girl. She felt like she was four again – facing the high and mighty Miss Gioia, wearing only a worn sundress. This wasn’t the first time she felt like a commoner.
“You sound like you speak Italian just well,” she stated, smiling gladly. “My name is Ayano, Ayano Fucelli.” Her hand sprang forward and enveloped Ginny’s in a soft handshake.
“I’m Ginny, Ginny Weasley,” she replied, also grinning. “Are you on your way back home?”
Ayano laughed. “No, no. My home is not in Italy. I am visiting my mother, yes, but my home is in Japan. Are you visiting family?”
As she spoke, she gracefully perched herself into the seat beside Ginny’s, her manicured nails resting on the arm of the seat. Her dazzling white teeth were blinding her, and Ginny unconsciously ran her tongue over her teeth to check for anything. Oh, how the rich live, she thought wryly.
Ginny shook her head, tendrils and tendrils of curls falling into her face. “I’m on my way to Italy for a job. I’m the new personal assistant for Signa Insinuante,” she responded proudly.
Ayano squealed. “Signa Insinuante?” she asked, amazed. “Lucky girl! She is one of the best designers in Italy! She designs the clothing for the dance company I am with! She is brilliante!”
“Really?” Ginny inquired, sincerely interested. “I’ve only heard little things about her. All I know is that she is a designer in Tuscany and has three children. She also lives in a cottage just by her family’s vineyard. Have you ever been there?”
“My partner, Davidov, and I once danced for her in her home. It was her daughter’s fifth birthday and she wished to see The Nutcracker – how do I say - nella persona? In person? Our entire dance company performed one night only for her daughter. It was perfezionare. She was happy about our performance.”
A wistful beam was evident on Ayano’s face and Ginny couldn’t help but feel distressed at the thought of her never dancing again. She had experienced what Ayano has – the exhilaration one felt when dancing before a crowd. She recalled her heart racing as she and Ron used to, the pound of her feet on the floor as she performed piqué passé and the swish of her wrist as she combined the développé and batterie.
“Anyway!” Ayano clapped her hands together when she sensed a foreboding cloud surround Ginny. “Will you allow me to help you with your Italiano?”
Ginny sighed and threw her the book. “It’s your funeral,” she joked nonchalantly.
Ayano laughed. “Okay, let us start with this - Buon giorno,” she stated. “It means good morning.”
Ginny nodded her head and repeated, “Buon giorno.”
“Good, very good!” praised Ayano. “Now, it is the same as good evening, but instead of giorno, it is sera. So, ripetere after me – Buon sera!”
“Buon sera.”
Ginny’s tongue rested dryly in her mouth after Ayano finally drifted off into sleep. For more than – well, she didn’t even know how long - Ginny recited what she now dubbed as the Language That Never Will Never Die. Her head was pounding with phrases that were now indented into her brain. “Noioso!” she muttered. Her head tipped back in thought. “I just said tiresome, didn’t I?” she asked herself. She smiled. “Ayano is fairly well in this language business.”
Speaking of Ayano, the teacher was safely buckled into her seat, book dangling off her right hand. She snored lightly, surprising Ginny, for she never thought someone so beautiful could be so noisy. Her pointed nose curved upwards, defining her profile. Ginny wondered how a girl of her young age could be filled with so much edification. The way she spoke was so smooth, so casual. Thankful for her help, Ginny unbuckled her belt and stood up shakily, moaning at the numbness in her legs.
Stretching, Ginny yawned and fetched the book, once again pocketing it. She knew every essential word and phrase to survive in Italy for her time there.
Thinking about her stay, Ginny stiffened, realizing that she had no idea how long she would be there. She searched her mind for any sort of information, but she came out empty handed. “Merda,” she cursed. “I don’t even know when I’ll be going home.”
Panicking, Ginny stared out the window and gasped loudly at what she saw.
Morning was dawning over the beautiful city of Tuscany. She could spot little children playing over a field, just slightly to her left. The guide book she read did no justice in explaining the sheer splendor that seemed to envelope the place. Overwhelmed, Ginny peered closer into the window, her excited breaths fogging up the glass. Her eyes widened as she spotted the airport, surrounded by what she could only imagine were large trees, covered with flowers. The airport wasn’t large like the one was back at home – it was smaller, quainter. It meshed perfectly well with its environment and Ginny couldn’t help but feel the urge to live here forever. She bit her lip as she felt the plane quake.
“Good morning, passengers!” bellowed a friendly voice. “We are now entering the International Airport of Tuscany. Please return to your seats and buckle your seatbelts. The plane will soon be landing.”
Thrilled, Ginny hopped up and leapt into her seat, her hands hurriedly coming up to put on her seatbelt. She was gushing ecstatically, eager to explore a territory she’d only dreamt of.
Before she knew it, the plane took an unanticipated dive, alerting her. Her stomach did an indefinite total of flips and unable to control herself –
Ginny shrieked.
“Miss, you’re going to be just fine!” assuaged a voice.
Ginny inhaled sharply and untangled herself from her seat, trying to muster up any dignity she had left. Ayano was standing just next to her, worried out of her mind. Every occupant in the plane stared at her dumbly, wondering why she was screaming.
They had landed, albeit a little shakily, but safely, embarrassing Ginny into another fit of shame. She laughed nervously, standing up and announcing, “I’m okay!”
Ayano giggled, shaking her head at the crazy girl. “Lei è molto diverso, Ginny,” she mumbled to herself, signaling to the stewardess that her friend was alright.
Licking her lips, Ginny avoided every pair of eyes in the room. “Can we grab our things and leave now -” she added softly, “per favore?”
Chuckling, Ayano nodded. “Andiamo.”
After saying a very long goodbye and exchanging contact information with Ayano, Ginny found her way through the mounds of overly strident people, occasionally slipping on her own trousers. She was currently searching for something called ‘baggage claim’ and since everything was written in Italian, Ginny had no luck whatsoever.
“Illusions,” she sneered, gripping onto her handbag and turning right.
She was so mesmerized by Tuscany’s vivid magnificence that she entirely forgot that in order to reach that point of beauty, she needed to get through the not so beautiful parts of it. Although the airport seemed picturesque, it was certainly everything but. The walls were covered in paintings – horrid depictions of deformed people swirled in grotesque versions of blue, yellow, red, etc. Ginny grimaced at the sight of a little boy, playing with his food on the floor. His mother was yelling at his father, and from what Ginny could hear, she was screeching about his infidelity.
Aghast, Ginny kept trudging on, her wild crimson hair following her. She felt odd surrounded by all these people – these people she had nothing in common with. While many of the women were dressed in heels, skirts, and blazers, Ginny was in a simple yellow blouse, black trousers, and black shoes. Her freckles stood out more than the rest of her body, and she blushed when she remembered that she didn’t even think to brush her hair. Biting her lip, she seriously began to reconsider ever accepting this job.
“Ginevra Weasley,” stated a brusque voice.
Ginny looked up and found herself staring at a tall man, decked in what Samson, Miss Gioia’s driver, usually wore. His uniform was the epitome of clean and his stature, well, it was intimidating if anything.
His lips thinned at the sight of the small, fragile girl before him. “I’m Vincenzo. I shall drive you to Insinuante Cottage,” he explained, seizing her bag and walking away.
It took Ginny one full minute to realize that he was stealing her things. She quickly caught up with him and snatched her bag back. “Now, you wait one second!” she snapped, livid. “You can’t just expect me to believe you! You could be a thief for all I know!”
He rolled his eyes. “If I was a mugger, I would not have known your name, no? If I was to want your belongings, I would not know Signa Insinunate’s name, too, no?”
Mortified, Ginny handed him the bag and muttered, “Sono spiacente.”
He nodded and began walking once more. “Your Italiano is better than your manners,” he pointed out.
“I-I didn’t mean to offend you, Signore, I was just trying to be careful,” she clarified, skipping faster as they approached the exit. She glanced around in confusion. “Aren’t we supposed to find my luggage in baggage claim?”
“I have done everything, Miss Weasley. There is no need for worries. I have put everything in the vehicle and we will be heading to the cottage soon,” he answered, striding forward to what Miss Gioia said was a limousine. He opened the last door for her and motioned for her to enter. “It will take more than few minutes, but you have no prior engagements scheduled for today. Would you like tour?”
“Ringraziarla, Vincenzo,” she said gratefully, throwing him a smile before entering the car.
He smiled back and shut the door.
Taking a deep breath, Ginny surveyed her setting and suppressed a giggle. A large Muggle television was perched right in front of her, alongside it a box with a handle. Curious, Ginny opened it and peered inside. It was fairly colder than in the automobile and little cans were laying there untouched. She shrugged her shoulders and shut the tiny door.
The automobile started moving and Ginny immediately darted for the seatbelt. As childish as it seemed, Bill left her horrified after explaining what Muggle car accidents were. Her family never ceased to amaze her with all this Muggle business.
Her reverie was soon broken for the large, tinted window separating her from the front seats slowly slid down, revealing a driving Vincenzo. He glanced at her in the rear view mirror and declared, “I shall give you a viste.”
Ginny’s eyes brightened. “I’d love that, Vincenzo!”
He chuckled, amused. “Do you see that large building, there, standing alto?” he asked, taking his left hand and pointing.
Her gaze followed the trail his finger and her pulse raced. It was the most glorious building she had ever seen. The structure was old, vintage, but the apparent renovation that was done made it even seem more beautiful. Long, cathedral-looking windows covered most of the outside, giving Ginny a peek of its inner world. The door was colossal – and Ginny snorted at the thought of all the Weasleys fitting through.
“That is the Scuola di Teatro di Toscana,” he informed, slightly pausing just in front of it. “In other words, it is the Tuscany Theatre School.” He made a left and circled the parking lot, just right of the building. “You see the studios, Miss Weasley?” he asked.
Ginny nodded, fascinated.
“They are used for the attori, ballerini, and cantanti,” he explained. “Do you act, dance, or sing?”
“I used to dance,” Ginny replied sadly, watching with envious eyes as a girl her age entered the building, her dance bag slung on her shoulders.
Vincenzo saw the change in expression on her face and quickly changed the subject. “Are you interested in musei? Art?”
“Oh, yes! Sì, sì!” she responded, the vivacity in her grin back. She leaned forward in her seat, her hands clasped together. “È magnifico?”
“Sì, bambina, it is fantastic,” he replied.
“Will we go, Vincenzo? Are we allowed?” she inquired, the eagerness inside of her racing out.
Vincenzo gazed at the girl in the back seat and felt his heart pain. She was young once, too – like his daughter. Miss Weasley’s innocence and child-like heart took him back to when he first saw his child. She was four years old and she was visiting Insinuante Cottage. Her guiltless face was covered in makeup and her little fingers donning gold. “Figlia,” he mumbled, anguished.
“Vincenzo? Will we go?” Ginny repeated, perplexed by his sudden stillness.
He stared at her again and smiled apologetically. “My apologies, Miss Weasley, but it is time to go to cottage for Signa Insinuante would want you to settle your things, no?”
“Alright,” Ginny agreed dejectedly.
“But, we visit tomorrow, sì?”
Her eyes brightened again. “Sì, Vincenzo!”
“Buono! Let us go now.”
When they first reached the cottage, Ginny found it hard to breathe the scent of luxurious beauty emitting from every inch of the estate. The road they were currently on stretched out far to the front of the cottage, which didn’t even fit the category of a cottage at all. It was large – larger than any home Ginny had ever seen. The trees around her produced ripe, plump peaches and turning to inquire why, Vincenzo sensed her confusion and said simply, “The youngest of the bambini enjoys peaches.”
Ginny smiled, picturing a small, beautiful little girl, picking idly at the peaches. “I see,” she whispered, her eyes straying farther down the land. Trees occupied most of the ground and the faint light of morning peeked through each branch. Rays and rays of glorious sun shed its radiance on the grass and each of the flowers absorbed it greedily.
As Vincenzo sped up faster, the cottage, or mansion, as Ginny saw it, came into view, and it took all her strength to grasp the idea of her staying there. Made of pure granite, the home stood mockingly above her, clearly ridiculing the poor state of her appearance. The stain glass windows looked fragile enough to break with just a pointing finger. Unable to revel in the unmistakable aura that was rich, Ginny tore her eyes away and fisted her hands.
What am I doing? she asked herself. What was I thinking coming here?
“I’ll have Helena take your bags, Signorina Weasley,” interjected Vincenzo from her thoughts. He parked just outside – before the steps and a stone door. Perched just in the middle of it was the doorknocker. It was shaped as a cluster of grapes, the vines crawling out to surround it. Ginny swore she saw the last grape sway and immediately shook her head. “I’m going bonkers,” she mumbled to herself.
Vincenzo opened the front door of the limousine and trekked back down the long car. Ginny paid no mind to him and swung the door open herself, feeling the rush of air hit her in the face. “Oh, mio, even the breezes are gorgeous here!”
Stopping midway, Vincenzo stared as Ginny opened her arms and welcomed the coming winds. “You are a special one, caro,” he stated to himself, shutting her door and walking up the steps. He pressed the small, white button of the intercom and ordered, “Helena, Signorina Ginny has arrived. I’ve placed her things outside on the steps. Please escort her to her rooms and give her a quick giro of the cottage.” Vincenzo skipped back down the steps, pulled out his wand, and muttered, “Locomotor.”
Soon enough, every last bag of Ginny’s luggage flew out of the back of the vehicle, landing just directly on the first step. Vincenzo pocketed his wand and gestured to the lanky woman just exiting the house. “This is Helena, Signorina Ginny. She is keeper of the house,” he informed, bowing slightly before Ginny and walking back to the limousine.
“Vincenzo, where are you off to?” asked Ginny curiously.
“I must fetch Signora Insinuante from her meetings,” he answered, getting into the car.
Jogging off the road and onto the walkway, Ginny looked up and Helena and smiled. “Buon giorno, Helena, I’m Ginny. Come sta?”
“Ciao, Signorina Ginny. Piacere,” she responded kindly. She slowly descended the steps and picked up Ginny’s belongings with shaky hands. Her veins protruded harshly from beneath her skin and Ginny instantly remembered her manners.
“No, no, Helena!” she protested. “I’ll take these. Don’t bother with them!”
Helena lifted a hand. “I portare these,” she said slowly, her thick accent almost making her words unintelligible.
Ginny snorted and filched a bag from her. “My grandmum always says daft things like that! You won’t carry a bloody thing, Helena. Give me my luggage,” Ginny ordered, holding out her hand.
Helena threw her hands up, muttering. “La ragazza stupida, stupida!”
Ginny gasped in outrage. “I am not stupid, Helena! I’m just considerate enough to let you walk up the steps without all these borse!”
“Farò il lavoro per lei! Lasciarme l'aiuta!” she exclaimed.
Ginny sighed and placed a soft hand on Helena’s shoulder. “There’s no need for urlare,” she said, her voice quiet, “Helena, posso fare queste cose.”
“You are stubborn,” Helena informed Ginny, “dunque testardo.”
“Oh, well, I was born that way!” Ginny huffed. “Anyways, I’ll warn you ahead of time that I fumble with most of my Italiano and it isn’t a pretty sight.”
Helena chuckled lightly. She motioned for Ginny to hand over the luggage, but Ginny shook her head and gestured her nose towards the house. “All you have to do is lead, Helena. I’ll follow.”
Huffing indignantly, Helena muttered something like “too independent”, and Ginny giggled at the incensed woman in front of her. Spinning around, Helena glared at her. Ginny swallowed. “Um … I … shall we?” she asked nervously.
Helena led Ginny through the heavy, wide door and into the large foyer. Paintings donned the olive-colored walls and she spotted candles hovering above them. The light glow from the dim lights above and through the colored windows was just enough to give the inside of the mansion a gorgeous joie de vivre. Walking brusquely ahead of her, Helena waved her hands at the moving paintings and explained that some were from Signa Insinunate’s side of the family and the other was her late husband’s.
As Ginny meandered on by, some paintings leered at her, others wiggled their eyebrows appreciatively, and one strange-looking painting called out, “It’s a Weasley!”
Stopping before it, Ginny tilted her head in contemplation. She grinned. “Why, hello, there,” she greeted, amused.
The woman in the painting huffed. “I do not like your tone of voice, young lady. Why, I remember many a nights where I’ve caught you sneaking out to meet a certain Dean Thomas!”
Ginny blushed. “I was not out to meet Dean Thomas!” she protested. “I snuck out to see Ron, who wouldn’t leave me alone after he graduated. He thought I’d cause trouble, that one.” She shook her head at the memory of him Flooing in with a bag of protection items – one large sock, (“To protect you from those evil cats they’ve got running around here, Gin! Blimey, ‘Mione’s already caused enough trouble with Crookshanks.”) an extremely tiny mirror, (“This is just incase you’ve got a face blemish. ‘Mione sent it over.) and last, but not least, a small needle (“This, Gin, is for a bunch of dolls I’ve got back at the Burrow. Any bloke tries to date you; this is going in his bloody eye.”).
The former painting for Gryffindor tower rolled her eyes and turned the other way to speak to another painting just adjacent to her. “We’ve got to look out for this one, Dania, she’s loads of rebellion.” She threw Ginny a pointed look. “I hear she’s even got her own insurgent army.”
“Oh, shut your gob,” Ginny retorted. “You’re over exaggerating.”
“Signorina Ginny, you come?” asked Helena, already at the top of the marble, winding staircase.
Ginny pointed a finger at the Fat Lady and declared, “This isn’t over.” Grabbing her things once more, she headed for the steps, rushing after Helena. She paused just where Helena was and glanced around. “Where did she –“
“Signorina Ginny, le sue stanze,” she announced from at the end of the wide hall.
Following her voice, Ginny slowly sauntered towards the sight of her arm, just outside of a door. Eager, she walked even quicker, the bottom of her shoes clicking after her. “Helena? Where are you?”
“You roomza,” Helena repeated, this time in broken English, by now in Ginny’s line of sight. She motioned to the room she was currently in and moved aside.
“Circe,” she whispered, dropping everything she was holding with a thud. She was surprised that she was still breathing, for the only thing she could even focus on was the gloriously decorated bedroom in front of her. It was the size of her kitchen, living room, and garden combined. A large, Victorian bed stood high at the top of three golden steps. Rich, lush drapes encircled it, almost shielding it from sight. Her vanity was way across, just beside another door, silver handle included. The mirrors were big enough to show the reflections of her entire family and the cosmetic objects on the table made her mouth drop. Shifting her attention to the large wardrobe, Ginny was momentarily blinded by the amount of engravings on the doors. Her eyes were too besieged to even function properly. The floors were dark velvet and the ground surrounding the bed was black tile. She could only imagine how long it’d take her just to reach the other side, which from her angle, seemed so far away.
Beginning to think she was hallucinating, Ginny willed herself to calm down. How could someone like her live in a place like this? She was surely not as soft as the duvet, or golden as each door handle. Her eyes weren’t as vibrant as the honey-colored curtains and her lips were certainly not as red as the silk dress awaiting her on the lone chair in the corner.
Her eyes snapped open. Wait – dress?
“This is what you wear in morning when you present to Signa Insinuante, understand?” Helena asked, lifting up the dress and holding it out. She smoothed out non-existent wrinkles and smiled. “It is magnifico, yes?”
Ginny looked perplexed. “But, I don’t understand. Why would I wear a dress like – that – to work? Isn’t it a bit … revealing?”
“It is her design,” Helena said simply, as if that one phrase answered everything. “You will wear what she orders you to wear.”
Eyes transfixed on the dress, Ginny bit her lip. “Wear what – what she wants me to wear? What do you mean?” she inquired.
Helena smiled warmly. “You look like lost child,” she commented. Carefully placing the dress back onto the elegant chair, she scurried over to a wooden desk, hidden behind one of the walls in the room. She snatched up sheets of papers and shuffled them in order. “This is your itinerario.”
She handed the papers to Ginny. “But, this doesn’t make any sense. This is an extensive list on what I have to wear and how I must,” she shuddered, “prep myself in the morning.”
“That is correct,” she agreed.
“I-I don’t understand. Isn’t an itinerary a list of things to do and perform in a day or week?”
Walking over to the desk again, Helena came back to Ginny with another pile of parchment. “This is work itinerary. If you do not comply with wishes on first itinerary – do not present yourself to Signa Insinuante. What you look like is a reflection on her,” she explained, struggling with her words. “You do these things?”
Ginny nodded, juggling both piles in her hands. “Sì, sì, of course.”
“Scusa, Signorina Ginny, but I must keep house. You will be okay?”
Observing the room once more and the sights just outside her window, Ginny smiled and whispered, “Sì, Helena, I’ll be just fine.”
It was when she was five years old did Ginny Weasley become nosy. She heard bizarre noises coming from Bill’s bedroom one night back at home – and George urged her to peek inside and tell them what was transpiring. Very petite and slim, the clueless girl popped her head through the door and spotted Bill on top of a girl. She was making noises and she kept on thrashing on the bed. Ginny thought this to be an attack on Bill’s part, so she screamed for her parents and barged in – her toy wand in the air.
For three whole months, Bill was detained only in his room and as punishment – he was to tend to the garden with his mother, wearing his winter clothes in layers in the hot sun.
Many would think that after that incident, Ginny would steer away from trouble – treating it as if it were a contagious disease that everyone was afraid of contracting. But, with Fred and George as older brothers and the Weasley blood flowing proudly in her veins, it’s only plausible that she would scurry her nosy nose in everyone’s business – it was just uncontrollable.
“Even the moon is beautiful in Italy,” she breathed, staring up into the crescent-shaped object of exquisiteness.
She was standing on the vast terrace, dressed only in her nightgown, crimson curls blowing gently in the wind. The land before her was over-filled with rows and rows of grapes – each row a different type and color. Helena promised her that within the next week, on Ginny and Helena’s day off, they would tour the vineyard.
Naturally, Ginny couldn’t wait.
Turning her head and staring at the endless sum of windows, Ginny bit her lip and hoped that no one was awake, or, Merlin forbid, watching her prod into things that were definitely not her concern.
“Are you lost?” interjected a timid voice. Ginny stiffened.
This was it, she thought. She was going to be sent home on the first day she arrived. They were going to ship her back to her six brothers, one of which is livid with her and the other simply doesn’t acknowledge her existence anymore. She will come home empty-handed with nothing to offer her father – a man who’s risked his life for her more times than she can remember. Ashamed, Ginny began to ramble.
“Scusa, I didn’t know that I couldn’t be here. I was just admiring the view. I don’t normally do this!” Okay, that was a lie. “And I won’t do it ever again!”
The girl behind her laughed – she laughed!
“Okay, this is it,” Ginny whispered to herself, shutting her eyes. “She’s going to laugh at my stupidity and send me home.”
“There isn’t a need for apologies,” she explained, her voice oozing with British.
Ginny’s eyes popped open. Wait.
Spinning around, Ginny found herself face-to-face with a wide-eyed girl. Her kind, amethyst eyes searched Ginny’s chocolate ones frantically. “Are you alright? You almost gave me a fright standing there all eerie-looking!”
Staring at her dumbly, Ginny felt a memory trigger at her mind. She’d seen this girl before – somewhere back in Hogwarts. That long, straight black hair and the lips she possessed were all features Ginny vaguely recalled. It was those eyes – those eyes that should have held contempt, but held nothing more than sincerity. Her olive skin looked almost like honey in the night and Ginny suddenly felt another wave of insecurity wash over her.
“You’re not Italian,” Ginny pointed out lamely.
She laughed again – that small, gentle sound. “No, I’m not. I’m here on an internship with Signa Insinuante. Are you Ginny Weasley, her new assistant?” she asked.
“Yes, yes, I am,” Ginny responded, holding out her hand. “And you are?”
“I’m Ofelia, Ofelia Black,” she introduced, shaking Ginny’s hand. “You were admiring the vineyard?”
Everything said after her surname disintegrated into thin air. “Black? Are you related to-“
“Sirius Black?” she interrupted, smiling. “Yes, I was.”
“We all were, weren’t we?” Ginny whispered, a moment of silence passing between them. She was never one for talking about his death, especially when Harry was around. She’d seen him mope for about nearly a year and she hated seeing the pain in his eyes when Sirius’ name was mentioned. It was exactly the same look in those violet eyes of Ofelia.
Ginny lowered her eyes, saddened, until they spotted Ofelia’s legs. “Why on earth are you legs purple?” she inquired stridently, shocked. “Are you hurt?”
Ofelia peered down. “Oh! No, I’m not hurt. I was stomping on the grapes,” she explained.
Confounded, Ginny stared.
Ofelia blushed heavily. “You-you know stomping, right? It’s how you get the juice from the grapes. Grapes are placed in a huge bucket,” she pointed to the barn, “It’s over there. And people stomp on them with their feet – they’d be clean of course! And the juice would be squeezed out and made into wine.”
“Oh,” was all that managed to come out of Ginny’s mouth.
“Would you like me to show you?”
“That could work,” Ginny mumbled, but loud enough for both to hear.
“Alright, Ginny – can I call you Ginny?”
Ginny nodded. “Yes, of course.”
Ofelia led Ginny down the sandstone steps of the terrace and onto a dirty walkway, lined with tiger lilies and white roses. The scent of flowers reminded her so much of her garden and her family. I’ll have to owl them tonight, she thought to herself.
They walked in silence, infrequently commenting on the environment surrounding them. The moon was still out and Ginny bit her lip from crying out in joy when a lake came into view. There was nothing this home didn’t include and a stab of envy tore at her heart. She quickly suppressed it, mortified at even thinking thoughts such as those.
Ginny glanced at Ofelia.
She assessed the girl in a rapid manor, coming to one conclusion: she was very shy. The blushing way she lowered her lashes, the tight way in which her hands were clasped, and the nervous glint in her eyes gave away all aspects of Ofelia. Ginny watched as Ofelia fixed a folded sleeve on her wrist, tugging it into its rightful place. She’s insecure – we could be twins, Ginny thought wryly.
Ginny took initiative. “What internship were you speaking about earlier?”
Ofelia squeaked and blushed, again. “Oh – um – well – my Grandparents, they’re leaving me their company and Signa Insinuante took me under her wing to teach me the ways of owning and ruling it.”
“That sounds like a lot for a chit to handle,” Ginny said, placing a gentle hand on Ofelia’s shoulder, stopping their walking. “Are you okay?”
Ofelia stepped back immediately and nodded, looking anywhere but Ginny. “I’m good. Should we keep going?”
“My mother used to tell me that bottling up my feelings would cause an explosion. You shouldn’t isolate yourself like that. I know we’ve just met, but you can tell me what’s wrong,” Ginny persuaded softly. She’d had her share of dealing with seclusion, especially from Hermione, who usually went into depression after Ron did something unbelievably dense.
“I’m sorry,” Ofelia finally said. “It’s just – I’ve had a very horrible day is all.”
Spotting a bench just a few feet away, Ginny tugged Ofelia towards it and both girls sat down.
“Tell me,” Ginny stated, determined to find out what was wrong.
Ofelia glanced up and took a deep breath. “There’s this one girl,” she started, her voice miserable, “She’s also learning from Signa Insinuante. She’s – she’s vicious.” Ofelia brought her hands up to wipe the falling tears from her cheeks. “I just – I don’t-“
Ginny embraced her hastily and asked softly, “What’d she do, Ofelia?”
Ofelia sobbed. “She – she passed out fliers throughout this class that we take for Signa Insinuante. She – she wrote that I was a-“
“A what?”
“A bastard child,” Ofelia answered, her voice barely intelligible. She started to pull back, to do anything but cry like a child to someone she hardly knew, but Ginny held her tighter, showing her that she had support.
“We don’t have to see the vineyards tonight, Ofelia. We can just go back inside, eat some goodies and make up horrible names for this bint,” she suggested.
Ofelia lifted her head and gave Ginny a watery smile. “I think I can live with that.”
After spending a long night laughing with Ofelia, Ginny sleepily trudged her way to her rooms. She’d gotten lost at least six times and bumped into a very livid Fat Lady. Too tired to even row with her, Ginny continued with her journey to her room and rejoiced when she finally reached it.
Straining to stay awake, Ginny grabbed a quill and parchment from her luggage and wrote a quick note to her family.
Mum, Dad, Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, and Mr. Indifference,
Everything is settled here in Italy. You all don’t have to worry. I arrived safely just this morning. I’m sorry that this letter is short, but it’s already nightfall here and I’ve got work tomorrow.
I love you all,
Ginny
Folding the parchment in quarters and wrapping a thin, red ribbon around it, Ginny made a move to call her owl and stopped short. “Oh, bloody hell. I didn’t even think to bring Pig,” she moaned, banging her head straight into the top of the desk.
As if someone knew what she was saying, a large, tawny owl appeared at the pane beside her bed. It spread its wings and hooted quietly.
Approaching it, Ginny found a note attached to its leg. She untied it and read:
Signorina Weasley,
I noteesed tat you have no owla. Here.
Helena
Deciding that she was going to have to teach Helena how to write proper English, Ginny tied her letter to the owl’s leg and ordered, “Bring this to the Burrow.” The owl zoomed away, its flying form becoming a speck as it carried on with its destination.
Closing the silk curtains, Ginny collapsed onto her bed, not even bothering to brush her hair through and thought before she fell asleep, I wonder what tomorrow will bring.
To Be Continued.
Cheeseandgreen is the author of 5 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 15 members. Members who liked Love's Personal Assistant also liked 619 other stories.
This story is a favorite of 15 members. Members who liked Love's Personal Assistant also liked 619 other stories.
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