Europe is a very small place.
No, truly, I mean it. A flight from one country to another — not even a neighbouring one geographically — takes a paltry two and a half hours. You've barely taken off and it's already time to land. Though it's never quite that simple...
— Has she written anything? — Hermione was far too interested in whether anything had happened in England while we were in the air.
Given that the only source of information available was mine — and only in the form of a notebook with Protean Charms — it was me she kept pestering at intervals.
— Yes.
— What? Has something happened?
— Yes.
— Hector, don't keep me in suspense, for heaven's sake — this is important.
— Agreed, — I nodded gravely and closed the notebook, considering in passing whether to put it in the rucksack that was invisible to everyone, or not. — Today...
Hermione sat up straight.
— ...they were served wonderful seafood at lunch.
My little sister blinked, processed this information, and punished me with a fist to the shoulder.
— You're an idiot, honestly. So clever, and such an idiot.
— My opinion of you is exactly the same. And in all seriousness — what do you expect when you ask questions like that?
— Ideally nothing. No news in a situation like this is good news in itself.
And so the flight went on. Hermione eventually resigned herself to the absence of any news, and only asked once more about new information just before we began our descent. Naturally, I had nothing new to tell her.
The landing itself, the transfer to the terminal, and all the associated bureaucracy had nothing of note to offer. I will say one thing, though — Fiumicino Airport is terrifyingly enormous. Having seen its layout and the road interchange from the air, I can say with confidence: you'd need half a bottle just to make sense of it.
Father, however, appeared to navigate it rather competently — both inside the building and out, knowing precisely what went where and how. We all simply followed him. In doing so I also came to understand that it wasn't so much the airport itself that was vast — though that was part of it — as its infrastructure and logistics. There was even an underground station right on the grounds.
Stepping out into the blazing July sun, we surveyed the rows of service vehicles, the people, the buildings.
— I'll remind everyone, — I said, — that we have a car.
— But it doesn't have plates, — Father shook his head. — Local ones. And the steering wheel's on the right.
— The steering wheel bothers you?
— Not in the slightest. But the plates...
— A bit of magic and no one will give the plates a second thought, — I shrugged.
Though of course Hermione couldn't let that pass without comment.
— That is completely illegal on absolutely every level, — she objected mildly. Largely for form's sake.
Her luggage was considerable, yet she stubbornly refused to make use of her abilities. I, having fitted everything I owned into my rucksack and currently walking entirely unencumbered in just a t-shirt, was demonstratively flourishing said rucksack at her, making pointed suggestions about her questionable choices. Father, for his part, had no such scruples — he'd offloaded his suitcases onto me without hesitation and was now playing the gallant knight, wheeling Mum's case along beside her.
— As if I care, — I waved the objection away. — Or are you suggesting we throw money at what would be quite an expensive taxi to Rome? I don't mind the expense, but just because I earn money easily doesn't mean I intend to throw it around without thinking. Especially when the alternative is simply to take the car out of the rucksack, get in, and drive.
— And the police? — she persisted. — I imagine they'd take an interest in an SUV with English plates.
— Magic, — I repeated.
The brief debate concluded with the decision not to waste money, not to cram into the underground, and generally to take up my suggestion. Under magical cover, I retrieved our car from the rucksack, enlarged it, settled the family inside, and Father drove confidently through all the interchange infrastructure of the airport and onto the motorway to Rome. Only then did I fully dissolve the concealment charms, leaving only a Notice-Me-Not on the plates.
— And... how long is the drive? — Hermione asked from the back seat, where she was sitting with Mum.
We'd all opened the windows at Father's suggestion. His reasoning: yes, it was hot outside, but we'd be moving constantly, and it was better to have warm air flowing through than cold air from the air conditioning. We'd acclimatise faster, and there'd be no temperature shock. So we drove along in what I personally found a rather pleasant atmosphere — and most importantly, nothing like England.
— About half an hour, — Father answered, raising his voice slightly over the wind through the open windows. — Assuming they haven't rerouted the roads or something. Why?
— I'm sure my little sister simply wants to stop committing such flagrant violations of the law as soon as possible.
— Indeed, what terrible people we are, — Father shook his head with a smile. — But truly, this magic of yours is remarkable. And useful.
— Well, obviously, — I shrugged. — Though plenty of it is completely pointless. You'd better tell me what the plan is.
— Today we'll just get settled in a small hotel, — Father answered, glancing at me briefly before turning back to the road. — Perhaps some restaurants and an evening stroll. The sightseeing and proper tourist business starts tomorrow and the day after.
— Right. And what about your friends? The ones who got us stuck in that traffic jam.
— We'll go to them on the fourth day, — Father was momentarily thoughtful, though something on his face — not a young face — suggested a degree of relief. — At least there's no problem with transport, it seems. Hm...
— What? — I caught something in his expression — the look of a man doing a practical calculation.
— Can you make petrol out of thin air as well? Or failing that, wine from water?
— Dad! We're in Rome! — Hermione objected from the back seat, though she was smiling. — You can't make that sort of association here.
— Well, technically, we're not in Rome yet, — I answered on Father's behalf. — And secondly, even an idiot would notice the striking resemblance between the miracles of Jesus and what wizards can do at the most basic level. I find myself genuinely curious about what was actually going on back then.
— And you celebrate Christmas too, — Father added.
— Two days, then, — I thought. — Are we going to the Vatican?
— If it's no trouble.
Countryside, countryside, a small suburb, countryside again. A familiar, legible picture. Remarkable, actually, how different everything looks — and I don't mean the climate. Everything somehow makes more sense. Perhaps it's the right-hand traffic? Perhaps I've never properly adjusted to the left-hand English system? Though how would I have, spending almost all my time at Hogwarts?
Talking periodically about everything and nothing in particular, we made our way into Rome, and I experienced a certain dissonance once again. On the one hand, the roads and streets here seemed even narrower than London's, yet they gave the impression of considerably more room to manoeuvre. I thought I'd been here in a past life — a vivid mental image of countless tiny cars parked on every corner, in every available space. But that particular misery with space wasn't present now; nowhere near as many cars, and those that were there were all of a middling size.
— Do you actually know where you're going? — Mum asked, leaning forward from the back seat. — It feels like we keep going round the same places.
— It always feels that way here, — Father smiled. — But yes, I know. A few things have changed, though not so much I'd get lost.
— Dad, — now Hermione leaned forward as well. — You never mentioned you'd been to Rome before.
— I've been to a great many places.
Before long, threading through Rome's winding streets, we arrived at a small, outwardly unremarkable six-storey building with not a single sign to suggest it was anything resembling a hotel — yet it was. If I remembered rightly, Rome had relatively few hotels and establishments of that kind that were enormous and shouted about themselves. Oh, they existed, of course — but the prices there were simply outrageous.
The building was situated, one might say, in the centre — about twenty minutes' walk from the Colosseum and the other most iconic landmarks, which were all clustered in roughly the same area. And notably, the vast majority of buildings and structures in central Rome were finished in sandy tones — a sort of beige-pink — and that was genuinely wonderful for one simple reason: they didn't jar the eye when they appeared in your field of vision while you were looking at some ancient building or monument. That shared colour palette was a very fine thing.
Parking the car took some effort — the road was narrow, space extremely scarce, and our Range Rover was not what anyone would call compact. We left the luggage in the car for now, went inside without it through the front entrance, beside which was a small, neat sign bearing the name of the establishment.
No sooner had we entered the modern yet modest, spotlessly gleaming lobby — where a small reception desk, decorative potted plants in the corners, and general good taste all managed to coexist harmoniously — than we came into the line of sight of a rather stout lady of perhaps fifty or sixty. Theoretically, she might have been somewhat older than my parents, who were no longer young themselves. The lady was standing behind the desk, giving a thorough dressing-down to a young girl in what was clearly a strict but comfortable staff uniform. Seeing us, she immediately broke into a broad smile.
— Va, it's Robbie! — she exclaimed, throwing her hands up with delight, speaking in quite passable English, though with a very pronounced Italian accent. — What a surprise, Mamma mia!
Turning towards one of the slightly ajar doors — clearly a staff door — the woman raised her voice considerably:
— Luigi, pigrone, vieni subito qui! Robbie e la sua famiglia sono arrivati!
It was only then, hearing those rather expressive words, that it truly struck me — the Roman Holiday, it seemed, was beginning.
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